One of the sticky wickets of writing a blog that includes canning as its narrative hook, if you will, is that just about the time of year when hits spike and I get lots and lots of questions, I'm busy doing the same thing as my corespondents are doing and my posting level drops off dramatically. Like those of you who arrive here having searched for pickle or jam recipes or who are wondering how long to water bath your green beans (hint: don't - pressure can them instead) or want to know if you can use those ferny bits of the dill plant if you don't have any heads (hint: you can), know that this blog
is still active, I've just been doing the same things you're doing. A lot.
So much so, in fact, that I remarked to Brainiac that I feel as if I am running a small and spectacularly understaffed (not to mention fairly unprofitable, at least in the commonly understood sense) manufacturing concern. Not that I don't include the kids in the processes underway in my kitchen - they're both old enough now to shuck corn, trim beans and destem blueberries - but sometimes canning and other preserving requires nothing so much as brute force and many strong hands to chop, mash, twist and lift.
This past Sunday I stood in my friend's kitchen (not
My Girlfriend's Kitchen, but an honest-to-goodness girlfriend's kitchen) with three other women and had what I can only describe as a canning
bee, enjoying the benefits that eight strong, capable hands bring to bear on this whole canning business. We canned plain tomatoes, roasted tomato sauce, dill pickles, bread and butter pickles, brandied blackberries, peach/blackberry/strawberry jam, blueberry jam and something else that I can't remember. After five hours of companionable working, our husbands and children joined us for dinner. It was an altogether delightful day, reminding me how much easier long, intense projects can be when they're accomplished with friends. I never could have hoped to put up such a variety of foods in such a short time, but as our talk veered from Betty Ford to Brazilians (uh, not the people...the
other Brazilian) to being in the middle of parenting vs. caring for parents, the day passed quickly, companionably and productively.
Some time ago I read an essay by Amy Dacyzcyn, of Tightwad Gazette fame, bemoaning our tendency to live as household islands. When every house on every block has its own copy of the latest hit movie, its own 28 ft. ladder and its own canning kettle, the need for neighborly collaboration on the picking of apples (assuming apples are to be had in someone's backyard in the first place) and the making of sauce with liberal movie-watching breaks is minimal. But handling the job alone can seem too big to do alone so...the movie, ladder and kettle sit idle, waiting for some burst of energy to deal with it (and missing apple season in the process) or the realignment of our twin needs for in-
and inter-dependence that may never come. Dacyzcyn argued for the financial benefits that come from sharing tools and collaborating on work whereas my concerns have more to do with health and community. Still, the core of the matter is the same: used to be that every farm collaborated on the work for which, say, the shared thresher was required with no threat to any given farmer's need to feel "free and independent", as the Little House books so quaintly put it. How did we get from feeling little conflict between sharing tools and labor and our zeal for self-determination to a state where every house on the block needs to be outfitted for any eventuality as though no one were around for miles?
I suspect the reason could have something to do with no longer needing to cooperate with each other to see to basic survival. Or maybe it's issues relating to 20th century immigration patterns and difficulties in getting that blasted melting pot working or the increasing professional options open to women or...heck, I'll just be frank and lay it out there that I don't know. Haven't a clue. But while we wait for some erstwhile grad student to get a grant to study the problem I recommend grabbing a friend and a few pounds of blackberries and making some jam together. Even if you manage to leave Betty Ford
and Brazilians out of the conversation, both the process and the result are bound to be excellent.
