Preserving food–canning–is more science than art. The acidity, temperature and sterilization are all crucial to ensure that the end product, a jar of tomatoes or peaches or pickles, is safe to eat.
Fruits and vegetables must be at the peak of ripeness, with no bruising or mold. Sugar or acid, such as salt, lemon juice or vinegar, must be present in sufficient amounts. Food and liquid needs to come to a certain height in the jar, with headroom to allow expansion, but not to compromise the seal. The lids must be new, the jars must be free of nicks or cracks, clean and hot, and the water they are processed in must be be deep enough to cover the jars by an inch, boiling constantly for the prescribed amount of time to kill any bacteria in the food. The lids must seal, with their distinctive pop when the flexible middle of the lid pulls in as the contents cool, creating a suction that protects the food from outside air and contaminants.
There isn’t much room for creative interpretation of the instructions. The story of the unfortunate canner who erred in some crucial step, and paid dearly by dropping dead from one taste of a green bean from a contaminated jar keeps would-be experimenters in line.
Canning is not required for survival the way it once was. Before canned goods were readily available at the grocery store, preserving the harvest in warm months was essential to eating in the cold months when the garden was asleep beneath frozen earth. It still may be the best way to cope with a prolific garden, when there are more tomatoes or beets than can be reasonably consumed, but it is not a hungry winter that compels the modern-day canner.
For me, it is the desire to keep bounty from going to waste, and to preserve it for enjoyment later. There is romance to capturing the abundance of the season, whether from my garden, the farmers market, the neighbor’s fruit tree, or even the grocery store when produce is sweet and cheap. It is a way to reconnect with the values taken for granted by our great-grandparents–local, organic, in-season food prepared simply, so the natural flavors and nutrition are preserved and savored.
There is a wholeness to home-canned foods that is missing from grocery store cans. It isn’t big business, it’s personal. The peaches that grace the table in February were lugged home in August, peeled and pitted and snugged into jars, fitted with lids, carefully submerged in a boiling-water bath, then cleaned and dried an tucked away for the day when the only fruit the market has to offer is bananas from Ecuador and apples from Australia. The peaches in cans at the store can’t have been as lovingly prepared, and whether the taste is markedly different or not, the experience of serving and eating them is unique.
A home-canned jar, taken from the limited stores in the pantry, is like a gift. The gentle whoosh as the lid lifts, breaking the seal that kept summer ripeness safely locked inside, the glugging of the contents into a bowl or pan, and the aroma of the preserves recreate the ambiance of the hot kitchen at the peak of harvest.
The delight is not just in the serving, it’s also in the the storing. Rows of white pears, golden peaches, orange salsa, red tomatoes, ruby pickled beets, purple plums, brown cinnamon-spiced applesauce and green pickles line the pantry shelves, a rainbow of well-being.
As I survey my work, there’s a sense of fullness and readiness for the dormant season. As the cold months count down to spring, the jars are emptied and returned, and the color drains from the the shelves just as the the first blooms of forsythia, then lilac, begin to color the landscape and fill the air with a sweet scent; no fruit yet, but the promise is in the air.
Somewhere along the way, art mixes with science and the two are intertwined. The science of preserving food is necessary for the process, but the the labor and the sharing blend into the food to create something that feels more like art.
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