1996. My sister, my mother, my father and I descended into the cellar after Grandma Elizabeth died to see a tree trunk, about 10 inches diameter, holding up the house, wedged between the kitchen floor and the cellar dirt. In the darkness beyond, the shelves were lined with fruits and veggies my grandmother had canned, probably in the 1970s. I don’t remember what any of them were. I only remember my father warning me to keep my distance, because they could explode at any moment. The projectile bacterial goop would give us botulism and we would likely die. Botulism was a popular tactical topic in our arguments, as well as an endless source of jokes. My father took it the most seriously. Later it got worse, when he wandered away from physics and toward bioremediation, that is, cleaning up anthrax or other bad microbes for governments or hospitals, and learned a bunch of biochemistry that cannot have been good for his mental health. Worse for us, because there are few ways one can fight the kind of convincingly solid scientific evidence my father uses in his arguments about why we should not eat the toast that fell on the ground. “Hantavirus! Hantavirus!” he would yell, snatching the toast away. My preferred method is bravado. “I have an amazing immune system,” I’d reply, suggesting that if I died, science was welcome to name this new strain of the virus after me.
Hantavirus kategoldenii.
Nonetheless, my father successfully indoctrinated me and my sister with a fear of jars of food with handwritten labels, the year smudged, harboring who knows what. So it was with more than a little bravado, conjured from the past, that this week I ventured into Home Canning.
The first catalyst was that last week I moved into a cottage in the hills that sparks my domestic instincts. It is an adorable cabin, lots of trees, no roommates. I have also begun reading Walden.
The second catalyst was that my grocer was selling almost-overripe strawberries at 79c for a quart pack when usually they are at least $3.99. I bought six of them, congratulating myself for my frugality. And a pack of jars, and the Ball Blue Book on Preserves, which, at $1.79, seems to me an excellent deal for what (so it says on the back) has been the authority on home canning for the last 50 years.
The Ball Blue Book briefly explains the difference between conserves, jams, jellies, preserves, and butters. I have read it several times but I cannot keep it straight. The recipes for strawberry jam, preserves, heirloom preserves, and conserves, seem to me almost identical. I embarked on what was called “Heirloom Preserves,” mostly because it sounded expensive and prestigious and fancy, as opposed to “jam,” which just had another cup of sugar and no lemon juice. What I ended up with was delicious, but it tasted and looked an awful lot like jam.
In the end, it took me two days to get all the jam off the wall. I smashed the strawberries down to compact them, with some difficulty, into 12 cups. I had three pots going. The recipe said to boil “rapidly” until the sugar was clear and the stuff was a thick gel. Trouble began after about 10 minutes, when the stuff really did start to boil. Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble: the foam rose quicker than I could assuage it. I was lifting one pot, stirring another–wait, the third’s boiling over–now the second’s doing nothing, turn that up–fuck, it’s hot–is that my HAIR in the pot? The gel became messier as it thickened, but it never thickened to the point at which it would slide off a spoon in a sheet. And just what was that foam? A disgusting light pink scum that I couldn’t get rid of. After a few hours I stuck it in a big pot in my closet, where, according to the directions, it was to sit for 24 hours. A day later it was nearly solid. Amazing. Still covered with foam, though. What is that foam?
One month later. I light a candle and make a PBJ in honor of dear departed Grandma Elizabeth. As of yet, no apparent botulism.
