Real Food Has Curves

Near the opening of Toni Morrison's BELOVED, Sethe is trying to come to terms with her child, dead now these several years, a baby who is still haunting her house. Her other daughter, Denver, catches her mother praying--and sees the ghostly image of the little baby with its arms around Sethe. Rather than thinking anything's odd about a ghost in the house, Denver finds it curious that her mother is praying. She asks what it was all about, and Sethe says, "I was talking about time. It's so hard for me to believe in it."

I know what she means. Time is the craziest thing. People contact me on facebook, people I haven't even thought about in 35 years--glacial epochs, or so it feels, as if I once lived on another, forgotten land mass. Then guests come to our home in the country for a week and it seems as if they stay a couple days--although the calendar says otherwise. And there are the seasons, coming and going with shocking abandon.

I've finally finished the book, the seven-step plan to get off all processed food. In, done, over. About two hours ago, in fact. But time hasn't started moving again. Instead, I've been caught in a moment that doesn't flow. It's just here, static. I keep waiting for things to lurch into gear. But they haven't. Instead, I'm looking outside at the brown leaves, the last of the bare ruined choirs that were the trees. And waiting. For? No idea.

Real food preserved is like that. Waiting. Patiently, in fact. And outside of time. I know I blog a lot about preserving things. And maybe it's because I too don't believe in time anymore. Jams and jellies cast it into the void. December can be spring. A house with busy schedules and calendars, deadlines and bills to pay, can become that timeless thing: a home.

Here's how to make the most of the season's best. Start with ten pounds of crabapples. No need to peel or seed them. (In fact, the peels and stems will add the pectin that makes the jelly set.) Just stem them and cut them into chunks, then put them in a big pot with 3 cups of water.  Bring it to a boil, then reduce the heat to low, cover, and cook until the crabapples are mush like applesauce, stirring once in a while, about 2 hours.

Set up a jelly bag over a big pot, then ladle in that hot crabapple sauce. And go to bed. See, time is meaningless. The thing drips all night. You can't rush it.

The next day, put about ten pint jelly jars in a big pot of water and bring it to a simmer over high heat. Turn off the heat and cover. Do the same with the lids and rings for the jars.

Now throw out the solids in the jelly bag and measure how much juice you've got in the pot. For every 3 cups of juice, add 2 cups of sugar. You might have to do a little math at the end. Bring it all to a boil over high heat, stirring occasionally to make sure the sugar isn't sticking to the pot.

Stick a candy thermometer in the pot and keep boiling until the temperature reaches 222F. Timing here is really indefinite. It depends on how much juice the crabapples had and how much power your stove puts out. Just be patient in the moment. You're creating the future. What more do you want?

Once you hit the right temperature, ladle the mixture into the hot jars--if you don't have teflon fingers, use towels to hold on but be careful of that superhot jelly splashing everywhere--then wipe the rim with a clean kitchen towel, set the lid in place, burp it once to remove any air, and then screw on the ring loosely (just so it makes contact but not tight so that air will escape when the jars are processed).

And process. Bruce uses a steaming contraption, the jars set on a rack over burbling water. He steamed them for 10 minutes, then took them out and let them cool to room temperature before putting them on the shelf.

While I still watch the leaves. They shiver and shimmer in the afternoon glow. And I'm no longer Toni Morrison. I'm all Emily Dickinson: "Oh, Sumptuous moment/ Slower go/ That I may gloat on thee--"