Why I Can

The response I get most often when people hear I’m a canner is that it sounds like an awful lot of work. And it’s true, but its work in the same way cooking dinner is, making a piece of art, or planting a garden. The fact is that most things in life are work. It’s only unpleasant if you dislike the process or the outcome. When it comes to canning I adore both. Not enough to do it every day, or even weekly, but often and intensely enough to satisfy a creative need.

I make a lot of jam, partially because I really like good jam (Smuckers anyone? I don’t think so) and because of the process itself. Anyone who’s ever stood over a pot of bubbling jam knows what I’m talking about here. From choosing fruit - if you’re really lucky, harvesting your own - through labeling and storing your jars, there isn’t a step that doesn’t involve the senses and require mindfulness. You can’t rush any step along the way. Jam gels at a certain temperature and not a moment before. Hurrying through filling jars just makes a mess; there’s enough clean up to do while the water bath is boiling your jars without having to wipe up sticky jam from the counter too.

It’s been almost six years since I started canning. I’d made freezer jam a few times, but was a daunted by actual canning. It seemed complicated and kind of scary. Then I read a blog post about dilly beans and something clicked. I could do this. One thing led to another and my pantry is now full of jam, dill pickles, tomatoes, peaches, brandied cherries, applesauce, pickled beets, conserves, and my beloved dilly beans. I’ve moved on to pressure canning; that was a big investment and I had to step up my game.

I like putting food on the table that I can trace back to my garden or the farm around the corner. Some produce comes from the 130 year old farm stand in town that tempts me to spend way too much money on far too much fruit. It’s important to know not only what’s in those jars, but also what isn’t. There’s not a hint of preservative, high fructose corn syrup, or food coloring. My hands were on every piece of produce, washing and checking for blemishes and ripeness. But the end product is only part of the reason I can. It’s the process I love most.

I love the meditative quality of canning. Everything in order and in its time. The smell and color of cooking fruit. The absolute sense of accomplishment when I pull the last jar from the water bath. The beauty of jewel-toned jars cooling on the table.

Yes, it’s work, but aren’t some things worth working for?

Bay Rum Aftershave

Grand ideas sometimes come out of nowhere. Or maybe it just seems like it, when actually they’ve been hovering just over our shoulder, nagging for attention. This week I stopped in my tracks to listen and good things happened.

In the past week I’ve made a batch of soap, a dozen or more herb filled microwave heating pads, worked on some mixed media projects, and started two batches of Bay Rum Aftershave. Each project is worth a post of its own, but today’s is about the aftershave. My husband likes the refreshing feel and scent, and especially that he doesn’t feel perfumed. I love the way it, and he, smells.

I first learned about Bay Rum probably thirty years ago when I took a class given by Rosemary Gladstar, but didn’t get around to making it until last year. Turns out it’s simple to make and requires only ingredients most of us have in our kitchens already. The hardest part is being patient while it steeps long enough for the fragrance to develop.

After poking around the internet for recipes, I found most of them to be the same. The one I chose was repeated most often; I like a stronger bay scent, so I added more bay leaves and let it steep for much longer.

Here’s the basic formula:

Bay Rum Aftershave

½ cup Vodka

2 Tbs. Jamaican Rum

2 dried bay leaves

¼ tsp. whole allspice

1 cinnamon stick

Zest of one small orange

Put all ingredients in a jar, close the lid and place it in a dark place for at least two weeks. Strain through cheesecloth and pour into a clean bottle. Give it to a man you love.

 

Wishing and Hoping

Every year, when the dandelions go to seed, I can’t help but want to make wishes on each one that floats by. When I was a kid we called them fairies, chasing and then catching them with both hands so they couldn’t escape before we’d whispered our wishes to them.

I still make wishes on dandelions and stars and birthday candles. I also know that wishes don’t always come true, and when they do, they often look differently than we’d imagined. And sometimes the wish itself needs a little adjusting – kind of like the dandelion seed in the picture. It’s a little ragged.

That doesn’t mean we should stop making wishes, or be afraid of what we wish for. We need our wishes. They help us live well.

So go ahead … close your eyes, make a wish, hold it gently, let it go.

Not So Perfect

Almost forty years ago I made this little cup. It’s been packed up and moved with me at least a dozen times, and never, not once, have I thought about throwing it out. It was the first thing I ever made.

It’s supposed to be a Japanese tea cup, a beautiful thing for a graceful ceremony. I was nine; grace and beauty weren’t within my reach then – and often aren’t now – but I tried anyway.

The cup is too shallow, the rim too wide, the glaze drips down the side without pattern, my little fingertips left indents where there should have been a smooth surface. I compared my cup to those made by my classmates and came up short; I may have cried.

It now sits on the china hutch where everyone can see it. I keep it because it reminds me that something doesn’t have to be perfect to be precious. It’s a good lesson about the other parts of life too.

In the last few years I’ve ventured into making things again. Sometimes they’re beautiful and sometimes they’re kind of pathetic. There probably isn’t an artistic masterpiece in my future and it doesn’t matter a bit. What I love is dropping into a meditative state when I’m mid-project, the sense of curiosity about where I’m being led, the satisfaction of having done my best.

If, in the end, I’ve made a thing of beauty, that’s an extra gift.