Ten years ago I went to Safeway and bought my first case of canning
jars and vacuum-seal lids. A woman at the check-out stand looked at the
canning equipment and said,"I didn't didn't realize they even made
this stuff anymore." I was initially drawn to home canning for its
novelty factor; this was one cooking frontier that my generation of food
lovers hadn't colonized yet. Canning also had a powerful nostalgic appeal
for me. My grandmother, Nammie, was an ardent home canner. As a child,
I loved being in her sunny kitchen when it was a fragrant hotbed of goodies
like rhubarb jam and plum conserve. Unfortunately, by the time I embarked
on home canning myself, Nammie (along with the rest of that last geneation
of hard-core canners) was no longer around to give me hands-on lessons.
I was on my own. Instead, my teacher was the Ball Jar Guide to Home Canning,
which was as serviceable and soporific as my eighth grade algebra teacher,
Mr. Angus.
As I began my climb up the learning curve I worked my way through jam
with the instant bonding power of Krazy Glue and jellies with the ooze
factor of Elmer's Glue. Aside from those early casualties, I discovered
that canning wasn't as hard as I had anticipated. I hunted down and cooked
up recipes for exotica like sour cherry pickles and rosemary marmalade.
I enjoyed the unpredictability of the results. Who would have guessed
that the recipe for marinated cantaloupe balls would yield lovely little
orbs that tasted like soggy, sweetened cotton balls? Or that the simple
recipe for pickled asparagus could have passed for an overpriced luxury
item from Dean and De Luca?
Even when my ratio of early successes to failures improved, I was still
hesitant to give any of my productions away. I was terrified I might inadvertently
poison friends and family. Even as I assiduously sterilized my half-pint
jars and double-checked the vacuum seals, I had visions of deadly botulism
spores silently de-camping in my chutneys and jams. I finally quelled
my paranoia by imagining the kind of encouraging words Nammie might have
offered: "In my fifty years of canning I never caused a single fatality,
dear, and neither will you."
My friends Nikki and Gary were my first guinea pigs. The day after I
gave them a jar of my apricot preserves, the phone rang. Even before I
answered it, I was sure this was the call I had been dreading. It would
be Nikki with some very bad news: Gary had been rushed to Alta Bates emergency
room after eating a poppyseed bagel topped with a fatal schmear
of my preserves. Yes, it turns out it was Nikki on the phone. No, Gary
felt fine. She had simply called to say that the preserves were so good
they were eating it straight out of the jar.
Praise is a powerful motivator. Soon I was bestowing my latest canned
goods on everyone I knew. Everyone was impressed. Rarely had I received
such gratification - and adulation - for so little effort. People assumed
canning was some long-forgotten rigourous pioneer-ish skill like converting
pig fat into candle tallow. Their ignorance is my bliss.
In the last few years home canning has made a glamourous comeback. A
stylish, new generation of canning books has overshadowed the stolid Ball
Canning Guide. (Check out my review of The Glass Pantry.) I no
longer feel like the lone canner. I have friends who have joined the ranks;
I can swap relish recipes with them and discuss the nuances of "jell
point". While my canned goods are still received with great enthusiasm
and appreciation, they no longer have the cachet of being novelties. Every
now and then I'm tempted to search out another culinary territory where
I can, once again, stand out. Who am I kidding? Canning is a calling.
Like Nammie, I love turning my kitchen into a fragrant hotbed of preserves
and jams and sharing the fruits of my labor with my friends and family.
As Nammie might say: those who can, do.
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