Settle in. I have a little summer story for you.
I am not a good cook. You would not want to come to my dinner party because you would be served food that was beige. And not in a good way. I sincerely try to cook well, but my problem is I just lose interest somewhere around the second ingredient. I over-think it and become conquered if there are too many things happening on the stove at the same time. My head gets in the way of just enjoying the process.
I ’m German and come from a long line of women who knew their
way around the stockpot. One would think
I should kick ass in the kitchen. But
while I was in the middle of puberty, we lived near a bunch of satellite dishes
and I may have received some accidental radiation overspray. That stuff just mucks up your cooking gene.
I knew something was wrong when someone handed me a ziplock bag of Friendship Bread when I was 28. Raise your hand if you know what I mean. It’s a ‘goo’, with spores and yeast from all the way back to the Pilgrims. You babysit it for two weeks. You burp it on day one, shake it on day two, stare at it on day three, repeat. Then you make a parched loaf of bread from it, sending a bit of the uncooked dough off to your nextvictim friend, who starts the simple process over.
It is a liquid chain letter that will burden you, trust me. I followed the instructions and on day twelve, it turned black and developed a heartbeat and possibly teeth. It is designed to thrive with neglect and I still screwed it up. I was so irritated that I tossed it into the back yard and waited for the sink hole the next morning. So, I lay this evidence at your feet. This is why my husband stepped in by the third day of our marriage, because he saw things heading south pretty fast in terms of dinner.
Which brings me to the fantastic irony I’m about to tell you. Despite my failure in the kitchen, I have apparently nailed one thing. I can make homemade Santa Rosa Plum preserves. It has been said that it ‘tastes so good, it will make you leave your spouse.’ For some, it’s ‘A Swanky Las Vegas Night Club’ in a jar.
“Seriously?” I said.
“Yes,” they said.
I am not a good cook. You would not want to come to my dinner party because you would be served food that was beige. And not in a good way. I sincerely try to cook well, but my problem is I just lose interest somewhere around the second ingredient. I over-think it and become conquered if there are too many things happening on the stove at the same time. My head gets in the way of just enjoying the process.
I knew something was wrong when someone handed me a ziplock bag of Friendship Bread when I was 28. Raise your hand if you know what I mean. It’s a ‘goo’, with spores and yeast from all the way back to the Pilgrims. You babysit it for two weeks. You burp it on day one, shake it on day two, stare at it on day three, repeat. Then you make a parched loaf of bread from it, sending a bit of the uncooked dough off to your next
It is a liquid chain letter that will burden you, trust me. I followed the instructions and on day twelve, it turned black and developed a heartbeat and possibly teeth. It is designed to thrive with neglect and I still screwed it up. I was so irritated that I tossed it into the back yard and waited for the sink hole the next morning. So, I lay this evidence at your feet. This is why my husband stepped in by the third day of our marriage, because he saw things heading south pretty fast in terms of dinner.
Which brings me to the fantastic irony I’m about to tell you. Despite my failure in the kitchen, I have apparently nailed one thing. I can make homemade Santa Rosa Plum preserves. It has been said that it ‘tastes so good, it will make you leave your spouse.’ For some, it’s ‘A Swanky Las Vegas Night Club’ in a jar.
“Seriously?” I said.
“Yes,” they said.
Cool, thought Sheri.
‘They’ are my regulars, the ones who score a jar every year. I tell my regulars, “If you bring back the empty jar and leave it on my porch, I’ll refill it for y------“
‘They’ are my regulars, the ones who score a jar every year. I tell my regulars, “If you bring back the empty jar and leave it on my porch, I’ll refill it for y------“
And suddenly, there are empty jars on the porch, sucked dry
and turned upside down like drained shot glasses. They are not shy about refills.
For me, the taste is more like Jumping On Stage And Dancing
in the Dark With Bruce Springsteen. I
really don’t know why it’s so good.
Anyone could make it, but I truly think it is because of the tree they
come from (in the yard next door) and the mystical training I received.
My neighbor was a sweet old lady who looked like my
grandma. This woman poured her soul and
virtues and perhaps some gypsy magic into her yard. She planted those trees in the disco era
(when I was getting overspray from the satellite dishes, if you remember.) About 15 years ago, she decided to teach me
the humble art of canning and preserving.
She has since passed away, but I continue to can every year. I’d like to tell you it’s to honor her
memory, but the reality is, I despise it. I dread it and curse the grueling process, yet
I salivate at the chance to turn them into preserves. This leads me to believe I’ve got a tad of
the bipolar, but that’s another story. All
I know, is there is a force bigger than me which dictates it shall be
done.
I watch with a heavy heart as the plums start growing around
March. Little beady pellets of hell,
swelling through the spring so that they can suck up my most precious week of
summer and make me slack off on my laundry. I find myself planning vacations around that
week so I can be in town, even
as I fantasize about sneaking in at night to pinch their little blossoming lives off the
branch. This would be easier than
wasting ripe ones, easier to snuff them out before we had a chance to meet. But they weave a spell. One year, I fell off the 6 foot ladder while
picking them and landed face down on the hard ground. That happened to be the best batch of
preserves ever.
The new tree-owners are a young couple whom I adore, and
they too are under the same spell. We
watch in June as the sun does its final trick and turns the fruit into glowing rubies. We can’t bear the thought of a single one
wasted. We mine the internet for new
ways to quickly use up the plums, cheap and easy shortcuts to keep up with the
bumper crop. But the plums laugh at us…"We are best used as preserves," they say
condescendingly. Do they care that I
don’t really have 75 hours to go the long route? I think not.
I spend a day retooling my entire house to get ready for
good old Plum Week. I am bitter at having
to put my life on hold for seven days, with an aching back and neglected family
in my near future. From my porch, I
watch the hanging scoundrels (the plums, not my family.) I look at
their color and size and the way they look in the sun, but I say, “Not
yet.”
Then one day, it’s The Day.
In my head, I hear, “Now.” I mutter and sigh as I take the claw/cage on
the end of a broomstick and head next door.
I pass the cage through the branches like the donation basket at
church. I get little satisfaction at the
jackpot the tree decides to drop in. I
remind you that at this point, I’m still full of resentment and dread at all
the work ahead of me. So much work for 5
bloody pints!
I hand pick certain ones
and I can’t put it into words, but they are the ones that have three months of
trapped sunshine in them. I can smell several
heady summer afternoons steaming from their skins. My hands always know which ones to grab. My husband is fascinated that I, a total screw-up
in the kitchen, can use the same set of instructions as anyone else, and yet
seem to create a one-of-a-kind orchestra in a jar. To tell you the truth, I’m
morbidly curious as well. He thinks,
gosh, she really looks like she knows what she’s doing. We both know I don’t know what I’m doing, and
yet, somehow, I’m doing it by feeling my way and listening to the plums.
When I get them home, I am lulled by the age-old process of
canning. I like the concentration it
forces upon me and suddenly I am multi-tasking.
I’ve got lids boiling here, the oven preheating there, the plums
bubbling, the jars getting rinsed, the sugar and pectin getting measured. All by little old me, pulling all the levers
and pulleys of a huge machine, not overthinking it. All that’s missing is a lit cigarette clenched
between my teeth. I do have my to-die-for
playlist going on my iPod, because I believe if you’re in a great mood when you
cook, you will produce things that taste fabulous and give joy to your guests. It's the first step to world peace.
For six hours, my kitchen looks like a butchery, complete with bloody floor
and clothes. There is red everywhere, even on my forehead and on the
ceiling. The kitchen is hot and the work
gets faster and more critical. I am
sweating like a blacksmith as my face
burns hot in front of the smelting pots.
We finally get to the crowd pleasing summit: the Pouring of the Boiling
Gem Liquid Into The Glass. I swaddle
each full jar in a cloth and carry it like a warm newborn to the waiting arms
of the cooling table.
Miraculously, I always seem to estimate it to the last perfect plum. I have just enough; not too much, not too
little. I attribute this to the good
karma from my grandma’s magic stockpot and ladle. I glance as my counter has two, then four,
then twenty pints of home-wrecker preserves.
Suddenly, I hear the PING!!!! of every lid as each jar gives me the
thumbs up that it has sealed the hatch.
I go from tired and depleted, to absolutely ready to propose.
That’s how the transformation happens…my cold and bitchy
heart starts to warm as these become like my offspring.
But it doesn’t stop there.
These glass children have a hold on me.
When I started giving them out during those first years, I jealously
hoarded them. As I sent them off into
the world of Texas, Arkansas and the East Coast, I had to check in on them to
see if they arrived safely. Were they
loved? I hoped they represented me well. One time, someone said, “Oops! I dropped it on
the porch.” Or this brutal confession:
“Darn! I forgot about it and it spoiled in the car.” My eyes narrowed, and I added their names to
the list of the No Longer Deserving.
Mistreat my jam, and you stab me in the heart. Wink, wink.
I look at the hours put in by me, the sun and God. I think, that
jar has my entire Sunday in it.
Made while listening to Van Halen, Prince and the Black Eyed Peas. There’s a lot of stuff going on in that jar,
and especially stuff that happened prior to that jar. Those could be jars of the epoch one day.
My husband said I could be the Plum Whisperer. But I think perhaps, the plums are taming
ME.
I wanted to tell you this story for two reasons. One is because a weight loss journey
sometimes has to be placed on ‘pause.’ This is so that you can have your hard-earned plum
jelly on fresh biscuits, to celebrate tree jewels and summer’s bounty.
Secondly, I wanted to tell you about one thing I’m
good at.
Because this month, it wasn’t weight loss.
Better bring some to Oxnard this year!! :)
ReplyDeleteI've been fortunate, never ever having a weight problem but I appreciate the feelings of frustration of those that do. Sheri's good writing skills and humor surely helps others deal with these problems.
ReplyDeleteFrom Thailand. June 26, 2012
I am your biggest fan. I can smell the plums bubbling in their juices. yum, yum and kudos to you for wanting to go through all of that just to make others happy, but of course, that's who you are.
ReplyDeleteLovely writing as always, Sheri. You see so many things in everyday moments that most of us miss. Thanks for showing us the view past the surface.
ReplyDeleteSuch a good post, Sheri, in a consistently beautifully written blog/ I was relieved to hear that this month hasn't been great for weight loss for you, yet you are still undaunted on your journey. I've slipped up, too, and was just thinking that when we're home from the beach house, where there's been wine and cheese platters and crackers every evening with the sunset, not to mention lots of Tom's wonderful guacamole, that I must get back on track. Your blog is inspiration ! P.S. I am trusting that your trusty PG ladies are all on the Good People List when it comes to Plum jam !
ReplyDeleteHmmm....wondering wildly (or was that wildly wondering) what would warrant Wanda's wandering onto above mentioned plum preserve list??? And why have I not heard about this before? lol This of course wouldn't assist in my own 50 by 50 endeavor, but I'm willing to make that sacrifice. Big of me, I know. Thanks for sharing little glances into the wonderful world of Sheri! And James. And Fred. And Ellis. :D
ReplyDeleteSheri, love your blog and the passion and humor in your writing! You are good at many things and I'm sure you will succeed in your 50x50 challenge. Thanks for bringing us along on the journey!
ReplyDelete