quince jelly

I appreciate the element of uncertainty in the kitchen. This might make me an inferior food writer.  But I've never been particularly good at faking it.



I did, after all, promise you jelly.
Last year, I made a tiny batch of quince jelly--4 perfect half-cup jars. They were firm like tough jello- barely spreadable, but I was proud of the chemistry of that superhero pectin that lay within my beloved quince.
This year, the jelly was soft, just short of dripping off the knife.
You never know where the jelly's going to go.  At least I don't. And although some might say I'm here to tell you what will work every time, when it comes to jelly, I promise to tell you when I figure it out. Until then, I'm wringing my hands, fiddling with my thermometer, and taking little plates in and out of the freezer.



I love making jelly.


 I find deep satisfaction in the rough chopping of a whole piece of fruit, core and all. I like the process of coaxing the essence out of the fruit. And in this rare circumstance, I love not knowing if it's going to work.


There is, of course, always the cocktail option if you "fail". But when there are cocktails involved, you have simply not failed.


 So, in the last chapter of our quince romance for the year (perhaps, although I'd never promise that), for those of you who don't mind a bit of hand-wringing in the service of these perfect pink jars, I offer you quince jelly. And, understanding that we are just over a mere week before Thanksgiving, I promise that I will shift into the more reliable and useful foods that you might be searching for this week. I've got a tart on deck that I'm pretty excited about, and we'll do the usual brussells sprouts roundups, too. But first, the perfume, the gentle stickiness, and the pink.



Quince Jelly Recipe
(makes about 11 cups)

7 pounds quinces
1 vanilla bean, split
8 cardamom pods
1/4 cup fresh lemon juice
8 cups sugar

1. Wash the pubescence (the slight furriness) off the quinces. Roughly chop the fruit. Leave the skins on, and roughly chop the cores as well. Put the chopped quince into a large pot along with the vanilla bean and cardamom pods. Just barely cover with water. Cover, bring to a boil, and reduce the heat to a simmer. Cook, stirring occasionally, for 1 1/2 hours, or until the fruit is so soft that it starts to fall apart.

2. Set up a jelly bag, or rig your own with a pot, a colander, and a length of cheese cloth. Let the fruit drain (without smushing or poking!) for at least 3 hours, but up to overnight if that's convenient.

3. You should end up with about 12 cups of juice. Combine the juice, sugar, and lemon in a large pot and stir to dissolve the sugar. Bring the mixture to a boil, and keep it at a rolling boil until it registers 225 degrees on a candy thermometer OR (if you're thermometer-phobic) it makes a nice jelled drop when you put a bit on a plate that you have been storing in the freezer. This will take between 10 and 20 minutes of rapid boiling (and hand wringing).

4. Decant into sterilized jars and process for 10 minutes in a hot water bath. If you're new to canning, hop over here first!

what to do when the jelly doesn't set

It seems that although jam making is on the rise, jelly making is making a slower comeback.
Perhaps it is the sweetness that puts people off? The slight jello-ness that undermines its sophistication? Or for some, perhaps, it is the fear that the jelly won't set.

I have always used pectin in my jams, and I never feel the need to experiment outside of my beloved Pomona's Pectin. This gives the jam a good set with minimal sugar, and I don't have to think too hard about it. But when I get my hands on a basket of really high pectin fruit, I can't help but envision a delicate and clear jelly, and these are the few times in my canning career that I mess with gel points and thermometers.  Last year, I made quince jelly, and the fruit was so high in pectin that it hardened as if thickened with gelatine. It was pink and smelled like flowers, and I hoarded my few little jars of it all winter. This year I made red currant jelly, and the little bit of precious juice overflowed onto the stove when I boiled it with sugar. I ended up with one prized burgundy jar, and it was perfect.


I thought that we'd go through the jelly making process here, in case it is a new one to you. Except this time- with this recipe, I didn't end up making jelly at all. I had to confront the moment and figure out what to do when my jelly didn't set. The day comes for us all, and all we can do is be prepared.


The process of making jelly starts with the process of making juice.  The fruit must be clean, because you will use every bit of it. Pectin, that magical stuff that makes the jelly gel, is more densely in the skin, core, and seeds of the fruit. So cut the fruit roughly, and throw it all into the pot. Then we add water, and cook it all until it it is soft.

 
 You might have a special tool called a jelly strainer- this is basically a mesh bag suspended over a plate. You can rig up your own with a piece of cheese cloth. I tie it to opposite ends of a colander, and then put the colander over a bowl to catch the juice. The key is to suspend the cloth- this will get you clearer and more wonderful juice.


 Pour all of the softened fruit (along with the liquid) through the cheesecloth. Let the whole thing drain for at least 3 hours, but up to a day.  Let it drain on its own without squeezing or poking it. I'm serious about that- one good squeeze will give you cloudy jelly.

 
When the fruit has finished draining, you now have juice. Combine the juice with the sugar in a pot, and boil until the mixture reaches 220 degrees F. You can also keep a plate in the freezer, and when a drop of the mixture solidifies on the frozen plate, you know that you have reached the gel point.  Then the jelly goes into jars, and sometime in the next day, it gels, and it doesn't slosh around in the jar when you nervously pick it up to see if it has turned firm and lovely.

Except when it does slosh around. And when and if this ever happens to you, you have 2 options. Crying and dumping out the contents of your jars is not one of these options. You don't have to. You can make this better!

The first option is to unseal your jars and re-cook the jelly.  Add more sugar, add some pectin, and you'll get your gel. Resterilize your jars, top with new lids, and process again.

I know. It sounds a little exhausting, right? If so, this is your path. When the jelly doesn't set, it's time to make cocktails.

In my case, I know exactly why it didn't set. I was living dangerously and laughing in the face of well-established science. One thing you might notice about jelly recipes is that they have so so much sugar. Enough sugar to make your teeth hurt when you eat it. And so every time I make jelly, I mess with the sugar. This time, I went too far. But sometimes the mistakes taste better than the goal. And so, I present you:

Apple Mint Syrup

Mixed with gin or vodka in a shaker with a little ice, this is pretty fantastic. And, (need I say it), paired with a ribbon and a little bottle of booze? It's a DIY apple-tini holiday gift bag.

makes ten 8-ounce jars

7 pounds apples
1 large bunch mint (stems and leaves)- I used a variety called apple mint that seemed quite fitting
6 cups sugar

Coarsely chop the apples without peeling or coring them. Put them into a large pot with the mint, and just barely cover with water. Cover, bring to a boil, and lower the heat to medium low. Continue to cook until the apples are very soft and breaking down, about 45 minutes.

Set up a large piece of cheese cloth over a colander and a large bowl. Pour the mixture through the cheese cloth and let it drain without poking or squeezing it. Let it drain for at least 3 hours, but up to a day.

You should have between 12 and 14 cups of juice. Combine the apple mint juice with the sugar in a large pot. Bring to a boil, stirring to dissolve the sugar. Let the mixture cook at a rapid boil for ten minutes. (If you want to make jelly instead of syrup, increase the sugar to 10 cups, and make sure that the mixture reaches 220 degrees F.)

Pour into sterilized jars, top with lids, and process in a water bath for 10 minutes.

gooseberry elderflower jam

 I have some memories that I know I never lived.  Some tastes that bring me back to places I've never been, and to people I've never met.

My great-grandmother on my father's side was a woman called Buckner Hollingsworth. I have heard that she was a woman of many talents, but the one by which she is remembered by the few people who find her books in a dusty and treasured corner of a used book store or who happen to be studying the history the areas where anthropology and flowers coincide is that she wrote about gardening and flowers.

To say "my father's side" still sticks a bit in my throat, and although the mention of sides at all seems to imply that there is half of me from one place and half of my from another, I am one of those people for whom that is just not true.

I was raised only by my mother, and she descended from Eastern European Jews on both sides. We were never religious, but there was a fair amount of Yiddish around, and every funeral to which we traveled was in some Jewish cemetery in New York. My last name growing up was Yost, changed at Ellis Island from Yoskowitz, and there was never any hesitation in my voice when I reported to anyone who asked that yes, I am Jewish. And besides my cousin Sharon the doctor who somehow surpassed the 5' 2" height limit of the women (and most men) in the family, I was always the tallest woman in the room at any family reunion. My blue eyes, my decidedly British nose, these features inspired family members to say (with just a bit of disdain), "you favor your father."

Those who met my father during the few years that he spent with my mother all seemed to speak of him with similar adjectives. He was charismatic (in a creepy way), self-centered, intelligent (though not always using his faculties to the best of his ability), and generally a bad match for my mother. As I grew up with this vision of him, my once every several years phone conversations confirmed it, and right around the time when my mother found me a new father (in my stepfather), I decided that I didn't have so much in common with the old one.  I was seventeen, and as I let go of my efforts to convince him that he (that is, my old father) really wanted to be a parent, I finally decided to seek out that side of my family through the two people who created my father, his parents.

My father's parents had divorced when he was a child, and in the same way that my mother came from Eastern European Jewish stock on both sides, he came from English blood on both sides. Both his mother and father were from good, highly educated, American families of British descent, and, true to the interpretation of my aunts and uncles and cousins, I looked exactly like them.



I only bring all this up because I've been thinking about those parts of our families that we will never know. In the last several years, I've learned a lot about those pieces of that that side of the family, the Hollingsworths and the Kirks and the Mortons, and I've sat down with my father's mother and father many times, and I am so happy to know them and count them as family. My grandfather in particular is kind enough to email a story to me here and there on a regular basis, and I think that it's through these stories that I do feel more one part my mother's family and one part my father's family (and one part my step father's family too, as luckily there's endless space for additional parts).



My grandfather's mother wrote these beautiful books on gardening and her experience in the garden, and through her writing, I've had the opportunity to find memories with her even though she died the year after I was born. Because you may never be able to find the book yourself, I feel like I have to give you at least a little taste from Gardening on Main Street.

 "Ghosts walk in gardens. Usually they are called up by sentiment. Every spring I carry a cluster         of pansies and lilies of the valley to the secretary of a friend of mine because, on her way to work, she often pauses by the fence to remark that her mother grew and loved pansies and lilies of the valley.
...My ghosts are less personal ones--a valued business acquaintance, three men I never saw, and a farmer-florist who, all unconsciously and because I provided him with an audience, stimulated my childhood interest in the flowering world. None of my family were gardeners, so I have no sentimental memories of my mother or grandmother bending over the plants they tended."



I love the way this woman writes. And I love knowing that in some small way, I come from her. And while I've never come across a mention of gooseberries or elderflowers in her books, I can't help but feel that my sighs over the tiny delicate and fragrant stars of the elderflower and my constant marveling over the striped and translucent rosiness of the tart and complex gooseberry come as a result of Buckie Hollingsworth's blood in my veins.  At least I like to think so. And I can't think of a lovelier and more welcome ghost in my garden.

I have written about both gooseberries and elderflowers before, but never in combination. In this case, the marriage comes about by gently cooking the gooseberries with the elderflowers lightly resting on top of the berries. The flowers are so delicate that they instantly blacken with the heat--then they are removed. The result is a jam that tastes like gooseberries (sweet and tart at once, with a green a grape-y overtone), but smells like elderflowers.


Gooseberries can be hard to come by, but they are coming back into fashion. Preparation of the berries takes forever-each berry has to be snipped at each end with a scissors to remove the stems, but the berries are so beautiful to work with that it is just okay. I recruited my sister to help with the job, and we stood there at the counter, quiet, snip, snip. Every so often, one of us would hold up a berry with a particularly striking hue and exclaim over its beauty.  These berries came from a friend's patch, as my little gooseberry bushes haven't yet started to bear fruit. They glowed in the colander, each and every one of them. I would wear those berries as jewelry if I could.

I took the last of the elderflowers from the top of my bushes, and they spread above my head like little starry umbrellas. Elderflowers grow wild in New England, and my bushes that I planted just a few years ago are the hardiest thing in our yard. If you have never seen an elderflower, seek out a bush when you can. I can't walk by without pausing over their geometric blossoms and sticking my nose in the center of one. They seem to belong to some other time an place altogether.

This jam is for my great grandmother, and the parts of me that come from her. And it's for you too, of course. There is plenty to share, and we'll spread it on toast and eat it in the garden.



Gooseberry Elderflower Jam
adapted from The River Cottage Preserves Handbook

Makes 8 to 9 cups

3 pounds gooseberries (can be ripe or slightly unripe)
8 elderflower heads
3 cups sugar

"Top and tail" the gooseberries (thanks to River Cottage for that apt description) with scissors, and put into a heavy pot with 2 1/2 cups water.  Bring to a low boil, then a gentle simmer. Make sure that the elderflowers are free from bugs and brown bits--then lay them on top of the berries as they cook. Cover the pot, and cook for 5 to 7 minutes, or until the berries are soft. Remove the elderflowers.

Add the sugar and stir gently to dissolve. Bring the mixture up to a rolling boil and let it cook for about 10 minutes, or until it registers 220 degrees on a candy thermometer or it gels a bit on the back of a wooden spoon. Transfer to sterilized jars and process in a water bath for 10 minutes.

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it will be okay

I have often spoken about canning as an activity that should be done with others, and I still hold to that. Especially when there is too much fruit to handle, and when the number of jars to fill is so high that you find that every surface in the kitchen is covered with motley mason jars, extra hands to hull strawberries or pit cherries can be the difference between tears and utter satisfaction. But there is another reason why canning with friends is a good idea, especially in your first few years of it all.
I'm talking about reassurance.
Once upon a time (yes, here I go again idealizing bygone days- don't roll your eyes at me young lady!), canning was how people made sure that they had food for the winter. Everyone knew how to do it. But (and watch me oversimplify the century here) as the grocery store became the place where food comes from, something shifted. Sure, food procurement became a whole lot more convenient when we no longer had to pick the berries, cook them down with sugar, and can them ourselves. But as we didn't have to do any more, we stopped learning how. And, oddly enough, we became afraid of it.
Food safety is something to be taken seriously--don't get me wrong on that one. I will however, add a footnote to anything alarmist your have ever been told about canning at home:
Common sense will keep you safe.
Follow the simple rules. Use clean equipment. If it smells wrong or has something growing in it, don't eat it. If the top doesn't pop, refrigerate it and eat it sooner. Honestly, it will be okay.

So, today, in place or in addition to a friend to hang out with you while you are making your first batch of jam, a few simple guidelines... (feel free to jump in with more)

Before we begin, one piece of advice. Start small. Don't try to make more than 8 or 10 jars of jam at once. Trust me on this one. The first time I made jam, I made 45 jars of blueberry jam. I thought canning was the circle of hell that Dante forgot. Quantity was my mistake. I made it so that you don't have to.

Equipment:
You will need a canning set. These are cheap new, and cheaper from tag sales where they tend to be plentiful. A canning set consists of a large pot and a rack for the jars. You will also need a jar lifter, which you will probably use upside down a few times before you figure out why your jars are slipping out of it. You would also be quite happy to have a little tool that I am on a search for, a magnetic jar top grabber. If you find one of those, buy two, and then you don't have to decide what to get me for my birthday.

You also need jars. You can buy them from the hardware store, you can search through the nooks of the world for antique and perfect jars, or you can order fancy ones on the internet. It's entirely up to you, as is the size. I tend to do jam in pint or half pint jars, and applesauce and pickles in quart jars.

You need lids and lid bands. Although the jars can and should be reused, the lids should be new, although I have been known to break this rule in an 11 pm panic. You can find a box of lids and lid bands at the hardware store for next to nothing, or if you buy jars, they will come with lids.

You will need two pots in addition to your canning pot: one to make the jam and one to boil the lids. You will need a canning funnel, which is wider than a regular funnel. A pair of metal tongs will help you out, as will a liquid measuring cup for pouring jam into jars.

That's it.

Most jams need some pectin, and I favor Pamona's. It even comes with a handy little piece of paper with recipes, and these are the basis for the jam made by most people I know. You will need sugar, and maybe some lemon, and that is all.

It will always take longer than you think to boil all the water in your canning pot, so get that going first. When it is boiling, sterilize your jars. You can do this by tossing them in the boiling water for 10 minutes or you can run them in an extra hot dishwasher. Make sure that after you sterilize them, you don't touch the rim. Dip your jar lifter in the boiling water for a minute to sterilize it, and then use it to take the jars out of the boiling water. Put them on the counter close to the stove.
In the mean time, make your jam. Depending on what kind you're making, the recipe will shift a bit, but it won't take long to cook.
In a separate pot, boil your lids and bands. You can leave them in there until you are ready to use them.
Using your canning funnel, fill the sterilized jars with hot jam. Leave 1/2 inch of space from the top. Use a paper towel or clean rag to wipe excess jam off the jars.
Using metal tongs or your handy jar top magnet, take the lids out of the water and place one on each jar. Screw a band on as well, only about half as tight as you would normally close it. Place the jars into the rack, and lower it in to the hot water. You can probably fit 7 or 8 jars into your rack. Let the water come back to a boil, and from the moment, start timing. Most jams require 5 minutes of processing, but other recipes will have different times. When the time is up, remove the jars from the water. Put them on the counter and don't move them. Just perk up your ears and listen.
You will probably hear some jars pop right away. It is an incredibly satisfying sound. Some will take as many as 24 hours. If any have not popped in 24 hours, put them in the fridge and use them first. After 24 hours of sitting, you can move your jars. Check them all for depressed lids (that's what you want). Remove the bands from the jars. Using a wet cloth, wipe off any jam that has congealed on the outside of the jar. You can store the jar without the band, and save them for when you actually open the jar.

And that's really all. If you have a few quarts of berries, you can whip up a nice little shelf of jam in an hour or so. But with more? Invite friends, or me, or start a conversation with the other person buying jars at the store and try to combine forces. But trust me on this one, after a few batches, canning will just be something that you do. You won't look at the jars on your counter wondering if there is botulism inside, and you'll be able to go through the process without looking at the directions. Amazing how things just become something that you do, don't you think? I love that.

Did I leave anything out? Anyone have canning secrets to share? Let's just call this the section of the hardware store with the jars and lids--the best place to make a friend in my experience. Jump in!

the quince

Oh the quince! I have found you!
When Gourmet Magazine put a quince with its fine pubescence on the cover of the magazine last month, the girls could not stop asking about it.
What is this?!
A quince, like I said.
A quince! A quince! What is a quince?
A special fruit, I answered. That we cannot eat raw, that we can cook and it becomes pink and sweet. A fruit that has been around for ages.
I said these things with surety, but I confess to you now- I had never had a quince in all my life. I committed that sin of parenting: I pretended knowledge.
But now I know. Back to my now weekly canning party, and this week it was quinces.
Have you seen a quince? I bet your neighbor has a quince tree in their yard. I bet they don't even care. I bet they have never even eaten one of these marvelous fruit.
Quinces have been worshipped throughout history for their perfume and their loveliness. They are, perhaps, the most feminine fruit I have ever experienced, maybe even more than lychee nuts.

When I put quinces in to roast in my oven, the house began to smell like Morocco. My little ranch house smelled like an ancient Persian palace. The smell of a roasting quince is the opposite of antiseptic; it is full of earth and rooms that have been swept clean with lavender and nothing else. It is what happens when you use soap made of rose petals.
I would tell you to run out to the supermarket and grab yourself a couple pounds of these beauties. But you are in luck. It probably won't be that easy. You might not even be able to find these at the farmer's market. You might have to wander a bit, trespass, check out the trees. When you find a neglected quince tree, and you will, knock on the door of its owner and ask very nicely. Tell them you'll bring them back some chutney.

Today you get two recipes. Because when you find yourself a quince, I want to make sure that you have options.
The first is a chutney. We started off with a chutney recipe randomly found on the internet, but then we played and stretched it and warped it, and at our last canning morning when we tasted the end result, no one could say a word. I'm serious about this- as someone who knows her stuff put it, "It is so good I want to rub it on my ears."
The second is what you should have for dessert the moment you find your quinces.
So there you have it, quinces two ways.




Quince Chutney
makes about 6 cups

12 medium quinces, leaves removed
2 cups sugar
1 cup apple cider
2 Tablespoons minced ginger
1/2 teaspoon ground cayenne
1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
1/2 teaspoon ground coriander
the juice of two lemons

Roast the quinces on a baking sheet in a 350 degree oven for about 20 to 30 minutes, turning the fruit over midway for even cooking. Remove and let cool so that you can work with them. Remove the peels. Quarter them and remove the cores and surrounding pith. This will be a bit awkward, but with a good paring knife, you will be okay. Place the quince pieces in a large stock pot with the lemon juice, sugar, ginger and apple cider. Cook over medium heat, stirring frequently until the fruit mixture begins to boil. Then mash with a potato masher until it is chunky, but relatively uniform. Lower heat and cook for another twenty minutes, stirring frequently. Add spices and put into sterilized jars. For more canning details, go here.


Quince Poached in Vanilla Cardamom Syrup
adapted from Gourmet, September 2009

6-8 medium quinces
6 cups water
1 cup white wine
1 1/2 cups sugar
1 lemon, cut into slices
8 green cardamom pods, gently crushed
1 vanilla bean (you can use a spent vanilla bean that has already had its seeds removed if you have one, it will still do the job)

As above, roast quinces on a baking sheet in a 350 degree oven for 20 to 30 minutes, turning the fruit mid-way. Remove them from the oven. While they are cooling, combine all of the other ingredients in a pot and bring to a simmer, stirring to dissolve sugar.
Peel, quarter and core the quinces, removing the pith. Cut into 1/2 inch slices. Put into simmering syrup and weigh the quinces down with a round of parchment. Cook for about 30 minutes. Serve warm or store in the syrup, chilled, for up to two weeks.

caramel applesauce

Canning is not a solitary process. In fact, I think that two is even too few for a morning of canning. I think three is better, or four, or ten. The first time I canned I was with just one friend, and we cried together over the stove while the temperature of the August kitchen escalated past 120 degrees and the kids watched Mary Poppins one more time. I think more friends in the kitchen would have been a good thing.
So I've learned to can in big safe groups. And I've learned to can in the fall only. And slowly, I'm getting my canning legs. I think some day I'll be able to can alone. But I'm not going to push it.


Bringing old culture back into the kitchen is all the rage, I know. I just read about a series of workshops that fully encapsulated all of the trends. Make your own sour dough starter! Dig your own root cellar! Thresh your own wheat!
But you know, sometimes the trends have a point. For many reasons that we could go into at great length, the last half a century or so has eaten up the work that has fed people for a very long time. It turns out that some of the new methods of feeding ourselves are not quite as good as we thought. And canning? Quite simply, it's a cheap and fairly easy way to feed ourselves through the winter with the food that grew in the summer. Makes some sense, when you think about it.
That said, I still only can in groups. So when a friend of mine invited me over for an apple extravaganza, I was absolutely there. Apple sauce, apple butter, apple chutney; there were jars covering every surface of her kitchen. But I haven't even told you the best part. It turns out that last year, she burned her applesauce and it blew her mind. Afraid that she wouldn't be able to recreate the effect, she decided to add caramel to the applesauce this year. Caramel! Totally brilliant. She is quite generous, this friend of mine, because she said that I could share her secret with you. So now you've got it. Invite some friends over. Get yourself a caramel applesauce party. It will keep you going all winter.


There are a lot of different applesauce recipes out there, and the truth is, I haven't found a bad one yet. Here's a guideline:

When you find yourself in the possession of a large amount of apples, this is a good thing to do with them. Alternately, you can make a small batch and eat it for lunch.
Either way, cut the apples into chunks and core them. You can leave the skins on. Put them into a large pot with few inches of water. Bring to a boil, then cover and reduce heat, cooking until the apples are tender. From here, I offer you two options:
If you are lazy, making a little batch, or any combination of the two, you can use a hand blender here. Stick it in the pot, and blend away.
Or, if you're really going for it, you're going to have to strain. A foley food mill will do the trick, or if you find a friend with a squeezo strainer, count yourself blessed and hold that friendship sacred. If you are making a small batch, you can also patiently push your applesauce through a sieve. This will drive you to insanity but your applesauce will be very smooth.
Once you have sauced your apples, return them to the pot. You can add cinnamon or lemon, or in this case, you are adding the secret ingredient, so it's time to get working on that caramel.
The amount of caramel that you make obviously depends on how much applesauce you are making, but start by caramelizing a cup of sugar, add a bit judge for yourself. For instructions on making dry caramel, which is much easier than it sounds, go here.
When your applesauce is spiced to your liking, you can put it in the refrigerator and eat it within a week or so. You can also freeze it, and it will come back to life quite nicely whenever you need it. Or you can really go for it and fill up your pantry with rows of lovely jars. If canning is new to you, here are some good starters. Rare are the days now when we learn how to can from our mothers. My husband claims that he learned to shave from Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon 2. Ah well, thank God for the media.

Canning the Guilt

So I'm new to this whole putting up food for the winter idea. And although I am wildly enthusiastic about the process of food preservation, the reality is not always as perfect as I imagine. Warm, fabulous smelling kitchen, the rosy glow on my cheeks as my daughters and I stir jam together, then lining up the many colored jars with our own special sticker that we created together.
Maybe other people have this experience. But let me share my first jamming experience last summer: 40 pounds of quickly rotting blueberries needing to get canned right now, even though it is 105 degrees outside, the logistics of my kitchen preventing me from getting jars in and out of my canning pot, giving into my screaming children and letting them watch Mary Poppins...twice, well, let's just say that jam was extra salty from all of my tears.
So now I only can in other people's kitchens, and I made the very important purchase of a chest freezer. When I bought this freezer, I said, I will preserve everything.
Now it is September. And I am finding that I am having trouble keeping up with my own ambitions. But I keep on reminding myself that this is a process. Like gardening, I'll get more comfortable with it every year. So I'm trying really hard not to feel guilty that I have frozen no green beans! No corn! (yet). But I do have twenty or so jars of blueberry chili jam that I made with a friend in her spacious and beautiful kitchen far away from my children. I have a few bags of frozen peaches. And as of the last two days, I have roasted and frozen 25 lbs of tomatoes, and this makes me feel a lot better.