The Death Peaches Story

We've had a delightfully dry summer here at Woodhaven. Something like 80+ days with only one of them with measureable rain. I truly have never seen the landscape here so brown. Yet my inner Californian still gasps at all the green fir trees.

With that deliciously lingering sun came a garden more bountiful than any of our eight years here. Yes, folks, we actually grew enough RED tomatoes this year for me to make some salsa! And not just make salsa...can salsa. Yep, a couple of days ago I broke through the cobwebs in the garage and resuscitated my canner and Ball jars and rings and lids. Whoo hoo!

My kitchen covered in tomato peels and jalapenos seeds brought to mind one of the first "transplanted Californian attempts life on the farm" essays I ever wrote. In fact, when I wrote it I didn't really understand that I like to write. I didn't even know exactly why I was writing the piece at all. But when I was finished, I thought my friends I left behind in the San Francisco suburbs might get a giggle out of my experience so I emailed it off. Their supportive reaction eventually lead to the inception of Woodhaven Ramblings.

And so, in honor of my four successful pints of Hot Tomato-Pepper Salsa, I give you "The Death Peaches Story" written in September 2004.

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So we’re still adjusting to our new life in the country. The coyotes howling at night – almost on our front porch – will still take some getting used to, as will the sight of our mail carrier as she drives around in her personal car (an old maroon station wagon with a “US Mail” sign temporarily attached to the roof), steering with her left hand, reaching through her passenger window with her right to deliver the mail. The most amazing part is that she sits in the middle of the front seat as she drives. We haven’t quite figured out how she works the gas and brake pedals, and we can only hope she is not driving a manual transmission.

Another new discovery is the pervasiveness of canning. All the grocery stores, discount stores, and hardware stores have aisles dedicated to canning equipment. The newspaper has had a variety of articles about how and what to can, this being the season of many ripe fruits and vegetables. Everyone here, it seems, cans. Over the past two years, I’ve tiptoed into the World of Canning with a few friends. I’ve assisted in making salsa and blackberry jam. It was actually a lot of fun and, as an assistant, it was not nearly as hard as I imagined. So when my mom visited a few weeks ago and spoke wistfully of spiced peaches her grandmother used to can, I got inspired.

Much like a novice tennis player who can’t hit the ball to save her life but has an array of adorable little tennis outfits just perfect for the court, I immediately went out and got myself situated with all the necessary canning equipment. I got me a canner, a rack, a jar grabber, a lid lifter, a funnel, a bubble remover, a set of jars and lids, and, feeling optimistic that this would be a life-long hobby, a food mill for all those seedless creations I envisioned. I stopped short of getting the dehydrator, figuring I needed to leave something for Rob to get me for Christmas.

And, of course, I bought The Blue Book. The Blue Book is a recipe book put out by Ball Canning that has all the hints, tips, and recipes a hobbyist canner could want. And in The Blue Book was a recipe for Honey Spiced Peaches. Fabulous! What could be a better Christmas gift for Mom than homemade spiced peaches canned by her own suburban daughter? So, 8 pounds of peaches and the largest squeeze bottle of honey I’ve ever seen later, I was ready to embark on my Maiden Solo Voyage into The World of Canning.

I studied The Blue Book the night before, as if cramming for an exam. I planned out the sequence of events and assembled all my ingredients. The next morning, looking very domestic in my apron, I filled the canner (an enormous pot) with the directed amount of water and set it on the stove to get it simmering. I put the jars in the dishwasher to sterilize them and keep them warm. Following the directions, I was amazed by how relatively easy it was to peel the peaches. Turns out you do this thing called blanching, which up till now I thought only horrified faces did. The things you learn by reading cookbooks!

I made my syrup and got my spices all measured out and set aside. Everything seemed to be going just fine. I was feeling rather impressed with myself. I checked the recipe one more time. The next step was to pack the whole peaches into the warm jars and then pour the spices and syrup over them leaving a one-half inch head space. I referred to the diagram once again to remind myself what the heck a “one-half inch head space” is. From there I was to put the still-warm jars into the canner, making sure the water level was at least an inch above the tops of the jars, turn the heat up to medium-high, get the water boiling, and let the jars of peaches hang out in the boiling hot water for 25 minutes. Easy enough.

I got out my slotted spoon (another term learned from a cookbook), carefully retrieved a peach from the syrup, and moved it toward the perfectly warmed jar. I blanched. The mouth of the jar was too small. There was no way this or any of my other 19 carefully peeled peaches was going to fit into any of my 3 jars. Turns out there are “regular-mouthed” and “wide-mouthed” jars. Who knew?? (OK, yes, everyone else in my town knew.) And guess which one I had?

I stared at the peaches, all warming in syrup, and at my jars, all carefully cleaned, sterilized, and warm. From my careful study of The Blue Book, I understood the importance of temperature and cleanliness in canning to prevent spoilage…and death (the book was only a little subtle about trying not to kill yourself or loved ones with bacteria). There was no way I could run down to the hardware store to get the proper jars. And after so much effort (ever peeled 19 peaches??), there was no way I was going to trash everything and start over. So, I did the only thing I could think of and I got a knife and started cutting the peaches in half and taking out the pits.

Now, this seems like a pretty easy and logical solution. But have you ever read The Blue Book? Every few pages it seems, there’s another warning about not changing ANYTHING in the recipes. They make it quite clear that all of the recipes are carefully constructed to maintain proper pH levels and temperature and blah blah blah so as not to allow nasty things to grow in your preserved food. Change one thing, missy, and it will be death to you.

Tightening my apron, I closed The Blue Book with all its doomsaying and rather stickily crammed my cut and pitted peaches into my 3 jars. After filling up the jars with syrup and spices, I then had to remove all the air bubbles. I remembered The Blue Book arrogantly telling me I had to remove all the air bubbles trapped in the jars, even the ones I couldn’t see. Yeah, thanks, THAT’s a lot of help. But, I had some fancy bubble remover thing and went to work poking it around inside the jars.

Indeed, air bubbles did rise to the surface…and stayed there. Some of the bigger ones popped but others just divided into smaller ones. I spent a good 20 minutes trying to pop those silly bubbles. Around and around the jars. The more I poked, the more new bubbles appeared. Eventually I had a nice foam hat on the top of each set of peaches. I tried to get most of that out with my bubble popper but it was at the point that any movement in the jar created more bubbles. Deciding that a little air never killed anyone (fie on you, Blue Book!), I concluded I was done and put the lukewarm lids on the jars.

Of course, by the time I was done with this stage, the jars were no longer warm and the water in the canner was a bit too hot. Fine, whatever. I put the jars in the rack, lowered the rack into the canner, and discovered I needed to add about 5 more inches of water to the pot. Easy enough. Of course, adding 5 inches of water to a very large pot made the water temperature in the pot drop dramatically, so I threw to knob up to “High” and waited for the pot to boil. And waited. And waited. And waited. I even watched for a while. And waited some more. About an hour later, the pot was boiling and I was ready to set my timer for 25 minutes.

About this time, Rob returned home from his errands. He found me sticky and grumpy. The look on my face made it clear that, unlike in the jars, my bubble had burst. My dreams of making homemade canned fruits, vegetables, and sauces were over. I explained the jar fiasco to him and he said, “Yeah, I wondered about that this morning.” Yes, everyone in town…including my husband…knew.

It’s been a few days now and I have 3 jars of Honey Spiced Peaches on my shelf. They look harmless enough. I’m thinking I’ll wait a few months and then will open a jar and taste them. If I don’t die, I’ll give the other two jars to my mom and grandma for Christmas. In the meantime, I’m thinking I’ll try apple butter next. I get to use the food mill for that.


EPILOGUE:

Eight years later, I still have a jar of the peaches in my fridge. They are usually crammed in the back on the top shelf, typically unseen. The occasional houseguest, of the sort that knows me well enough to know the answer is likely worth the etiquette risk, will inquire what the heck they are and if they are toxic. Rob has asked a few times why they are still in there and if they will ever leave. All I can offer is that they make me smile. Smile at myself, smile at my novice kitchen skills, smile at my determination to assimilate into country living one of these days, and smile at the first hint of realizing that I actually love to write.