The Fear of Canning

Yes, I've been missing in action yet again.  It seems the summer just drags on and even though this is technically the last day of it, we're still in the nineties.  There's been no rain for us in six weeks, but we drag the hose dutifully to the beds and water thoroughly so we get the lovely butter beans, green beans and squash even this late.  The collards are planted and promise to do well if the guineas don't kill them first. 

This morning we picked butter beans and greenbeans and they will be delicious on our plates for supper.  Mac planted six more tomato plants on August 24th in the growtainers and we have tomatoes on them already.  Do you think he'll mind if I say I am heartily sick of canning tomatoes? 

They've gotten so tall that he's having to extend the rings to accommodate their rapid growth. 

Thursday  is the first day of fall.  This Sunday past I came home from church and started canning the peaches (a bushel of them) and finished the pears.  I know that this winter we will be so happy that the pantry if loaded with all the bounty from the garden but I will tell you this: I have yet to use the pressure canner this year. 

Our family grew up with Aunt's and Great Aunt's as well as Grandparents lending a hand in the rearing of myriad children in the family circle.  They had their own methods of correction and reward, instruction and playtime.  One of the Aunt's spent most of the summer canning garden goods, chicken and dumplings, meats and the like.  Her favorite was Spaghetti Sauce.  For most of the garden goods she used the cold pack canner but for anything containing meats or fish she used the pressure canner.  As young as 5 I knew that the sudden screech and the soft explosion meant Aunt Dale was canning Spaghetti Sauce.  And that the pressure gauge had passed into the red line.  The boy cousins would spend half a day cleaning the ceiling at least three times each summer,  Then, one summer Aunt Dale had an idea.  She would pay one of us a nickel if we sat in a chair in front of the range and kept an eye on the pressure gauge.  We were to yell out if it began to rise from the amount of pressure the canner book indicated.  She would run in and turn down the burner the canner was on.  We dared not leave it a second to long, and if we did we ran out the kitchen door onto the screen porch screaming for help as we ran.  We really wanted that nickel, so we were mostly eagle eyed.  Aunt Dale had to many other things going on to watch it herself which is why she had so many catastrophes in the kitchen. 

When I became the proud owner of my very own pressure canner, it was in my possession for 2years before I got up the nerve to use it.  I had read the instruction booklet at least fifty times.  Maybe more.  I would tell myself that the next day would be canning day and then chicken out and use the cold pack canner instead.  But one day, the first day of my vacation, I took the plunge.  I got out the canner, the jars, the book and decided that I would can the bushel of pears that I had been gifted with by a neighbor.  I peeled, I  seeded, I added citric acid to avoid browning, then I prepared the jars.  They had to be hot, so I also had the cold pack canner out to heat them and placed the jar caps and lids in a small pan of boiling water.  I located the jar lifter and set to work.  I used apple juice as the canning solution in the jars to avoid sugar.  I packed the hot jars in the canner, added the water, adjusted the lids and put the top on the canner.  7 jars rested snugly within.  After placing the pressure gauge atop the canner,   I turned on the burner and put my chair in front of the range so I could take up my post. I had offered the requisite nickel to my sons to do this, but had no takers.  They simply laughed and walked away.  Mac came in and seeing me sitting in the chair asked me what on earth I was doing.  "Avoiding disaster, " I replied,  "Our ceiling isn't as high as Aunt Dale's was, I'm afraid the whole affair would go through the roof!"  So, if you should ever walk into the kitchen and see me sitting in a chair in front of the stove, you'll know what I'm doing.  And believe me when I tell you that this winter it will have been worth every worrisome moment of it.  And I'll pay myself a nickel for the privilege.