Canning the Good Times

Saturday, Kathryn and I took a road trip to Harrah, Oklahoma, with the intention of picking up a load of bulk fresh fruits and vegetables in the morning and taking in a modern dance concert in the evening in OKC, then hooking it back home to Neosho that evening.  

OK, got everything on the shopping list ordered, and found we couldn't order the dance concert tickets because they were for 2017 . . . not 2018.  What the heck, we haven't been on the road for a while (well not since we picked up the bus in Indiana a couple of weeks ago) and we could use some alone time in the car together.  No little people asking if we were there yet.

One of the two papayas.

So we got up early, put the coffee in thermos mugs and hit el camino.  Put a recorded book in the player (PD James' The Private Patient) and hurtled into the morning.  It was so much more refreshing to listen to English murder than American politics, but that's a topic for another day.

Hungry, we stopped at a backroad roadside service station/restaurant at a T-intersection.  The cook was in the walk-in cooler when we got there, so we stood and waited at the counter.  When the lady returned from the cooler, she very industriously  took care of everything  that needed doing . . . except us.  We stood there quietly, patiently, then replaced our menus on the counter and strode back to the car.  She got paid whether we got served or not.  Bless her heart.

The lone pineapple.

Still hungry, we rolled on into Harrah; it wasn't that much farther on, and we had a few minutes in hand before the groceries were distributed.  Kathryn likes to buy from a program called "Bountiful Baskets."  They are a food-buying co-op and have fresh(er) fruits and vegetables than you can get in the grocery stores, and the prices are better as well.  Not to mention they actually sell "organic," not "USDA Organic."  We can also get those organic baskets in larger quantities, like strawberries (which we did this episode). So we drove on into town, following the blue dot, looking for somewhere to get serious munchables.  No joy, Sailor.  But we did load up the Saturn with fresh produce; the organizers let us use their two-wheel dolly (I did mention larger quantities, did I not), and we asked where we could get a sandwich on the way back to the interstate. All that was available were a Subway and a Sonic.  Subway'll work.  We missed the Subway and got jalapeño poppers and a grilled cheese at the Sonic.  Figured we'd try to hold out till we got to Tulsa.  Saw the Subway on the way back to the road and U-turned for a tuna salad.  We would not have lasted to Tulsa.  And Sonic's jalapeño poppers don't really have all that much fire, anyway.

Twelve pints of blueberries.

Biologic fuel systems operating, emotional levels stable, we made it to Tulsa where Lady K picked up some super-duper knitting needles at "Get Stitchin'" at The Farm in Tulsa.  And the rain that had threatened all morning cut loose.  Got the wheels rolling again toward Missouri.  Stopped at The Arch on the I-44 for a frozen custard to stay awake with and a smashed penny to put on Kathryn's walking stick . . . my fellow Americans, those heartless dogs have switched out the smashed penny machine for a smashed quarter machine.  It's not the same folks; I needed to make another emotional adjustment.  Oh, the humanity!  Will these desecrations, these abandonments of childhood wonder never cease?  (OK; I'm better.)  Anyway, the custard was pretty much done for by the time we got back to the car.  The rain had not finished power-washing the car yet.  We were back in the house by half past four.  Interesting road trip.  Not as fulfilling as we had hoped, but we got home with the goods.

Six pounds of strawberries.

We both cratered for about an hour or so, then the unspoken married signals you read about in the paperbacks flew between us, and we tottered into the kitchen to start processing these fresh goodnesses.  You can't let them sit even overnight; they fall apart too quickly.  Slicing, dicing, paring, coring, boiling, simmering, hot-water-bath canning.  There is a rhythm, a dance, a music in canning together that has no intellectual way to articulate; it is totally a bodily communication, expression.  

So now we have pints of strawberry jam and syrup, more pints of blackberry jam and syrup, and pints of a tropical mix of pineapple and papaya and mangos.  It's evocative of Bradbury's Dandelion Wine.  The last four or five gallons of ice cream - Bluebell, of course, have been vanilla.  With our home-canned fruit syrups on them . . . even the little creamery in Brenham can't do better.

Today we feasted on homemade guacamole from the avocados in the basket with home-fried tortillas. Yesterday ended with baked potatoes and butter and salt and pepper - the simple ways of often the most satisfying.  And a homemade soup of chicken from the farmers' market in Joplin and potatoes, onions carrots, a beet, and I don't even remember what-all else. 

Home-cooking is the best.  When we bring in the foods from our own garden it's even a better best.

Thanks for reading.

And Life is Good, y'all.