I think I heard environmentalists cheering when Michelle Obama uprooted part of the White House lawn to plant a vegetable garden. One commented that the rest of us should be doing the same thing. Though stopping short of declaring lawns a public enemy, he did say that we should be “eating our view.” Doubtless the first lady’s project is inspiring backyard and community gardens, and that’s a good thing. But novice gardeners who plan to “eat their view” should know about “cooking their view.” I could tell them a thing or two.
My mom and dad, by default, were organic gardeners: They threw out seeds and planted saplings and hoped for the best. No pesticides, no fertilizer except coffee grounds and eggshells. They also shunned weeding and pruning. So insects, birds and squirrels got their share first, but we still had a bounty and it was enough to ruin my childhood summers.
Mom would gather up pockmarked pears, cherries, peaches – whatever the critters had left us – and begin “putting up.” It went on for days. I remember, and not fondly, becoming conscripted labor and peeling, slicing, stirring while steam roiled up from simmering pots. I got burned by splatters of hot fruit and paraffin wax and scalded by boiling water as jars were lowered into hot-water baths. I absolutely hated putting-up. Why cook up pear preserves when Welch’s Grape Jelly was waiting for you on a supermarket shelf? Foolishness.
Fast-forward to a June morning years later and a visit to a friend in northern Iowa. “Hey, let’s go strawberry picking!” she said and I agreed, reluctantly. Still, kneeling in the dirt at the U-Pick farm, scouring rows for the most succulent berries was fun. Soon, though, the afternoon sun turned into a fiery glare. Sweat dripped from under my hat as I swatted gnats swarming my face. Still we picked, seduced by the siren call of perfect berries. Finally, I asked, “Do you think we have enough?” Oh, yeah – 12 … 12 flats? I felt a pinprick of anxiety. What would we do with so many?
Back at her house, we found an emergency message that had her rushing to her injured brother in Nebraska. Now all the berries were mine. I loaded them into my Volkswagen Beetle and began the four-hour ride home.
As I drove in the sweltering heat, the aroma of strawberries intensified. Glancing back, I saw that the berries were … disappearing? Yes. The heat and weight of the berries on top were crushing those underneath. Juice was seeping out of the bottom of the containers, and my floorboards were awash in a red sea. I stopped the car and began tossing strawberry mush to the side of the road, my hands as red as if I had committed a murder. I raced home, determined to save what berries I could. They were fermenting – I was making wine back there. Soon I’d be driving under the influence. I stopped the car to again dump overripe cargo.
I arrived home at sunset and called my mom. In desperate circumstances, you need a veteran in the trenches with you. She arrived with her Mason jars and 20 pounds of sugar. We cleaned the survivors with the care usually reserved for microsurgery, measured equal parts fruit and sugar, and simmered the mixture in every pot I had, skimming pink foam from the surface until the berries thickened into a jewel-red fusion, the kitchen redolent with their lush fragrance.
I plunged jars into boiling water to sterilize them before ladling in the preserves. Mom held the hot jars with a dish towel while I screwed the lids tight. Finally, 22 pint jars of strawberry preserves, glimmering like rubies, lined my counter.
Sitting there with my hair limp and my blouse sticking to my back, I felt proud. I’d brought the harvest in (sort of), done battle with the elements (sort of), and produced nourishment. We took some nourishment right then: strawberry preserves warm and melting into vanilla ice cream. Heavenly. It beat the heck out of Welch’s Grape Jelly.
I learned a lesson that day about determination (as well as the staying power of strawberries). It is work, but how satisfying to have the pleasure of a close encounter with Mother Earth, and to be reminded that we are not so removed from the essentials that we can not call back our connection to them, huge supermarkets notwithstanding.
So I became a born-again putter-upper. I grow and can tomatoes to make marinara sauce. Cucumbers that trail along vines in my yard become the best bread and butter pickles as well as dill pickles so crisp they break in two rather than bend. Every autumn, I trek to Eckert’s to pick up 64 pounds of Jonathans to cook apple butter. And, of course, the strawberries. Every year.
I believe putting-up is worth it. My mother did it; I do it. And if Mrs. Obama wants to do it, I’d be happy to share my recipes.
Carol Jobe is a writing specialist at Meramec Community College and lives in Ballwin where she is toiling away to complete her first novel, hopefully before the arrival of apple butter season.
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This article appears in Aug 1-31, 2009.
