The right tools for the job

August came, and right on schedule, so did the tomatoes. We've been waiting for this. Our cupboards were bare. But dishpans full of tomatoes to can every third day can be daunting.

Through a serendipitous occurrence a few years ago, we were forced to turn on the old gas range in the basement - the one that came with the house, the one I never anticipated turning on. Our kitchen remodeling was supposed to be done well before August. Instead, the kitchen was torn up throughout the entire month. And tomatoes don't wait.

Fortunately, we had that old stove. Fortunately, it worked. Now I see that the old stove in the basement is perfect for the canning task. Far better than the solid surface electric range in my kitchen. Also perfect are the pans I inherited a few years ago from my mother who canned hundreds (I'm not exaggerating) of quarts and pints of produce every summer for 60 years.

I've canned a couple of dozen jars of tomatoes and salsa each summer over the years, but I've always cobbled the process together from my regular kitchen pans. It all worked but it wasn't easy. Not like using Mom's pans, which all miraculously seem to be exactly the right size and perfectly suited for every canning task.

So now when I start to carry tomatoes into the house, I also pull out Mom's pans. I marvel how much easier having the right tool for the task makes things. When I use her pans, I feel as though Mom is right there with me helping.

That old stove, those old pans, Mom and me. Canning again. It's all just right.

Itchin to get my hands dirty

I've been off the farm for years, but I'm a farmer at heart. Every spring, I can't wait to get outside and get some dirt under my fingernails. Friday was the day.

Temperature almost 60. Sunshine. Mild breeze. I was on it.  I removed the dried remnants of coneflowers and black-eyed Susans, astilbe and meadow rue. I picked up twigs knocked from trees by winter snow and wind. And I walked around the prairie.

This is the second full summer for my prairie. The first following a summer where the flowers and grasses reached full size.  As promised, the prairie stood strong throughout the winter. And it stands strong now. New growth is beginning to show at ground level, but it will be a long time before this year's plants reach the height of last year's.

I'm curious how the new growth will replace the old. My husband volunteered to mow it off.  I declined. Prairies existed before lawn mowers and I presume every square inch wasn't tromped down by buffalo.  I could do a little tromping of my own, but I'm waiting. Impatiently as always.

Having spent my life making my gardens conform to my idea of beauty - tidy, weed free, contained - it remains a challenge to my sensibilities to just let it go. But I'm committed to trying with the prairie.

When I walked around the prairie and my hands were still itching to do something, I walked back to the gardens around the house to clean off more garden debris.  I'm still learning about prairies, but one thing I do know already - the prairie will do just fine without me.

The Bounty of the Moment

"Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got til it's gone ..." Joni Mitchell captured the universal truth in "Big Yellow Taxi."

I found myself humming the tune as I looked with longing at our plum tree. Last year loaded with plums. We ate them. We gave them away. I canned quart after quart. There were just too many. Or so I thought.

I did not know, as I blithely gave away bags of plums, that this year there would be none.

The winter was too cold. Plums only produce every other year. Who knows why? We are new to plum trees. This one was on the acreage when we moved here and we don't have enough experience to know its patterns, its rhythms. I just know we will not experience that luscious, purple fruit this year.

Every year, there are moments when I am swept away by the abundance of our garden. Colanders of green beans. Bushels of tomatoes. Quarts of raspberries. All fantastic, amazing, delicious. All requiring me to cook, to can, to freeze. Anything, so we do not lose, do not waste, such precious bounty. By the end of the summer, our shelves are lined with jars, our freezer packed with containers of produce - enough to last until the next summer.

As overwhelmed as I may be at the annual onslaught of produce, I count on the garden to 'do it again' each year. And the garden does not disappoint. But not so with plums, apparently.

One jar of plums remains in my pantry. I am hoarding it. For what special occasion, I am not sure. Truthfully, I did not know how much I would love the canned plums. But I do. Isn't that always the way? "You don't know what you've got til it's gone ..."

It seems I have to learn again and again to appreciate what I have, in the moment. This time, plums.

This essay was published in the Des Moines Register on July 12, 2009