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| Blackberry morning |
Foraging is a kissing cousin of urban farming, so we set out yesterday morning to pick blackberries. Jeff had picked about five 64-ounce Nancy's yogurt tubs full the previous Sunday (I don't remember what I was doing...probably catching up on laundry from camping and wondering if I would ever get the smell of woodsmoke out of my hair). The goal this weekend was to pick enough to make a good-sized batch of blackberry jam.
I was game more in theory than in practice, especially once I felt the wrath of this one type of blackberry with intensely nasty thorns (but with berries that had a delicious, almost slightly lemony flavor). I stayed more on the fringes of the blackberry patch, while Jeff all but dove in. It's a miracle he wasn't maimed for life.
Anyway, we got our eight Nancyware tubs full, and the jam-making session was on!
In the midst of the canning frenzy (which was 98 percent Jeff's doing...I only pitched in a few times when four hands were better than two), Jeff's blackberry wild hair turned into a peach wild hair. No sooner were the seals locked on the last of the jars of blackberry jam, when he took off for Costco to see if they still had flats of the ripe-and-ready-to-go peaches that we'd picked up a single flat of during Saturday grocery shopping.
Me, I went for a long walk. And came home to peaches.
The canning went on long into the night, during which time I managed to lay claim to enough space to make some fabulous Cabernet-braised short ribs (served with boiled yellow potatoes and a tossed salad). Then I folded laundry and watched three episodes of "True Blood" while Jeff stayed in the canning zone. When he finished at 1 a.m. (truly, I'm not making that up), this was the result:
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| Home canning in one easy step: Let your husband do it. |
