Culturally, Labor Day marks the end of summer and the beginning of fall. Technically, fall is nearly two weeks away, at the solstice, but there is more to it than that. Although the nights are cooler at the moment, and the quality of the light is beginning to change; the scent of autumn in the air is not yet as prevalent as it was at this time last year. This could simply be because last year was very dry and this year has been quite wet. It could also be that my sense of smell, which had seemed to grow more acute as I aged, may not be what it was before my fall. I do hope this is not the case.
I would not object to the arrival of Autumn. I am tired of rampant growth. The blueberry bushes are turning red. I have been entranced with the browning of the oak leaf hydrangeas near the patio. Last year the blossoms on this shrub were white and green well into autumn; this year they turned brown before the end of July. The plants appear healthy but it has been an odd year for hydrangeas. It has been an odd year in many ways. Aside from blueberries and hydrangeas however, growth rather than decay seems to be the order of business.
Or perhaps I just feel that way because I have been out in the garden tackling the weeds. At least I have been weeding and mulching the small areas of the garden that I had already planted. What looks like lush greenery from the upstairs window, is actually an infestation of weeds. I admit I am happy for green, but I also admit defeat, admit that my back is not up to this. After two hours of weeding and spreading the mulch I had on hand, I spent most of the rest of Labor day sitting and reading, my back mostly in spasm.
I cannot do everything myself, and have hired help on the yard reclamation front. I am happy to have weeded that area next to the driveway, now cleared and mulched, and area I planted just before my fall in July. It is possible, and regrettable, that I lost some of those plants, but I found a few small delicate remnants hanging on. There is hope, but it will be spring once again, before I know whether this last-ditch effort was enough. I can beat myself up over it, my natural inclination is to be harder on myself than anyone else after all, or let it go. Letting go of self-recrimination seems to be an exercise in lifetime learning.
Admittedly I have also probably overdone it in the kitchen, as well as in my focused attempt to organize, shift everything around, and reorganize the house. Perhaps I am ready for a personal autumn of sorts, a slowing down and preparation for reflection, a letting go of heavy lifting and the mad overdrive of summer labors.
My first pressure canner arrived. Ordered in May, I did not expect it before mid-September. I find I am fascinated by a device that terrified my younger self. Truthfully, I always had a glass-topped stove, a stove that would not accommodate a pressure canner. But I also worried, worried that I was too easily distracted, too unfocused, worried that the combination of an absent-minded cook and pressure cooker was a recipe for disaster.
My fears were unfounded. Yes, during George’s final years my life was fairly chaotic, my ability to concentrate often limited, and I was often pulled in too many directions, but that does not mean I still have to be that addle-pated and distracted person. I feel like I have rediscovered my focus. I feel like I am settling into being this person who exists today, a person who does not need to limit herself by past fears. So I got to work, learned to use the canner, and canned a batch green chiles.
Why green chiles? They are widely available, or were widely available. At the moment it seems like nothing is always widely available. In this world, maintaining a larder feels like a good idea. Mild green chiles are something I use often; it may be the Texan in me. But truthfully I struggle to find them. I use them in strips, but usually only find diced chiles in local markets. I can easily spend an entire day looking for whole green chiles in small cans, whereas once they were available everywhere. I still find them when I am visiting family in Texas, but going to Texas for a case of green chiles is perhaps less practical than canning my own. The goal was to can several varieties, see what I like best, and perhaps grow my own next year.
In fact I have been thinking a lot about pantries and larders and storage. Not everything I put up is difficult to find. Tomatoes, for example, are commonly available, but fresh tomatoes, picked freshly off the vine taste nothing like grocery store tomatoes. And home canned tomatoes taste fresher than anything I can buy in a can in the store, although I did not really know that before I started. The tomatoes I used to buy now taste of chemicals and salt by comparison. I also feel virtuous because a small space in my yard produces food for the present and tomatoes for the year. I feel virtuous because canning jars are reusable. Although cans can be recycled, many tomato products come in cans that are lined with a plastic coating to prevent leaching from the metal into the acid of the tomato, and lined cans are not recyclable. I feel virtuous because I use the whole tomato: the flesh becomes crushed tomatoes or tomato sauce; the skin, pulp and seeds get dehydrated into tomato powder; the water that drains from the pulp becomes tomato water that gets used weekly in soups and stews. Very little is left as waste, and that goes into a compost pile to be returned to the earth. But mostly for me it is all about taste, and about some connection to the earth that provides sustenance for all of us.
I canned 13 quarts of stock over the weekend. I actually made 15 quarts, four quarts of beef stock and eleven quarts of chicken stock. Two of those went into a batch of soup, half of which was frozen for later. This happened mostly because the freezer was full, and when I was rustling through it I found 5 gallons of chicken bones and vegetable trimmings and another couple of gallons of beef bones. Apparently weeds were not the only thing that got out of control this weekend.
No wonder my back is sore.
