Tag Archives: canning

Healing my Secondary Friend-Drama-Trauma by Canning Peach Preserves

*Originally written in 2012; re-running due to a stellar Oklahoma peach season — RDK

During the past twelve months I’ve supervised three therapists who have staffed a variety of cases in session, some of which were clients who began treatment because of extramarital affairs.  I keep a caseload of only two or three couples per week, but generally one of the three is an “affair” case.  I’ve had three friends who have experienced family and marital turmoil this past year because of affairs, and two friends whose marriages suffered a great deal because one of them within the marriage was involved in an “online affair.”

I realized in June of this year that the secondary and tertiary trauma of all these affairs was getting to me.  I came to this realization as I stood: bare feet on our hard Terracotta tile kitchen floor, knife in my hand, covered in juice up to my elbows, peach peelings piling high…with peach pits, boiling water, mixing bowls and sparkling glass jars on every side of me.

I was right in the middle of putting up the early crop of peaches my husband had so eagerly given me earlier that day.  He knew I am a sucker for fresh Oklahoma grown peaches and had schemed with our next door neighbor to get me a box when he was out in Eastern Oklahoma on a business trip.  Some women get flowers.  I get a crate of peaches. But believe me, the scent of preserves or pies made from the frozen fruit I put away “blooms” all year long.

My friend Cathy has a saying that she uses when telling me stories.  She says, “So there I was, see, (fill in with the story of the day).”  I had one of those moments right in the middle of making peach preserves.  So there I was, see, going through the process of preparing the fruit.  You have to perform this task quickly while keeping the peaches bright and unoxidized before putting them into the sugar mixture.  Allow me to provide a guided tour…

First you gently drop three or four peaches into a vat of boiling water.  Within approximately 15 seconds they need to be scooped out with a slotted spoon and dumped into a vat of ice water.  They can rest there for a few minutes until you’re either ready to slip off the peach skins or put more fruit into the boiling water.  Boil, ice, skin…then I cut the peach in half, take out the pit, quickly cube up the fruit into bite sized pieces and repeat the process.  All the way to the bottom of the box.

So there I was, see, about a third of the way down through the box of those heavenly smelling peaches when my body sort of went into “automatic peach prepping mode” and my mind began to wander.  It took a left turn and began to dwell on something that I wasn’t really in the mood to think about, but obviously needed to because it had popped into my head.  I was hurting for my friends who were experiencing an affair.

After all the affairs I had heard about, treated, staffed or consulted over this year I had finally reached my limit.  On a cognitive level I knew that almost every couple goes through the same cycle of shock, disbelief, paranoia, feelings of abandonment and fear that it will happen again, rejection…I knew this.  I know what to tell couples to expect and that people can get through these situations.  I know that they don’t believe they will ever be able to touch each other or be intimate again.  I know that there is pain where children are involved, pain with employers if they get involved and pain with anyone who is involved in any close way.

I know this.  I know this, and I KNEW this as I tossed three more peaches into the boiling water and thought, “That’s what hearing about an affair feels like.  And that’s what telling a spouse that you’ve had an affair is like.  It’s like being scalded.”

I lifted up the peaches and put them into the cold water and thought, “That’s what they experience, what their family experiences.  It’s like shock…like an ice-cold shock to their lives.”

I pulled the peaches out of the water, taking the skins off and thought about this scene in C.S. Lewis’ book “The Voyage of the Dawn Treader.”  Aslan, the lion, walks up to Eustace who had turned into a dragon (his knobbly skinned appearance resembled his dark leathery heart).  Aslan lifts his sharp claw and slits open the boy’s skin all the way to the ground and his knobbly, dark self falls away.  It stung Eustace, but his brand new self – clean and fresh – was revealed.  I knew that peeling off the layers of hurt, wounding, lies, harmful behaviors…layer by layer…would sting, but there would also be the hope of a new marriage or life underneath for those couples who could get through the process.

Then I split open the peaches revealing the pit.  The core.  Some were clean, easy to pull out, ready to reshape into a new product for my family.  Others had cores that were dark.  I knew that some of the couples I was carrying in my head would have to work extremely hard and get right down to the core.  Right down to the very essence of everything they were together.  They might have to redo things.  They might have to rebuild their lives completely.  But if they allowed themselves to go all the way to the core it was possible.

There I was, see, standing there on the hard tile floor and I was crying.

I was sick of affairs.  I hated that couples had to experience them.  I hated that I knew all the steps every couple would have to take yet it was brand new and horrible to every single one of them.  I was thinking words like “hated, mad, horrible” and I realized that none of what I was thinking was happening to me.  It was only my clients, or the clients of my supervisees.  Or my friends.  But it didn’t matter.  Secondary trauma is real.  Tertiary trauma is real.  The impact of an affair travels past the two involved, through any children that exist, through any extended family or workplaces that are involved and through any friends who care about those dear souls who are hurting…through their heads and hearts and it comes right out into the peaches they are putting up in June.

I felt tired.  I worked a long time, probably longer than it would have taken me normally, to finish preparing my peaches.  I thought, “And couples have to work really hard, and be persistent, and get right down to the very last peach that needs to be skinned before they’re ready to make something new.”  The breaking down process is tedious work.  The building trust process is tedious and time-consuming.  It takes patience on the part of everyone involved.  I put my peaches into a large kettle, measured the sugar and began making the preserves.

As the mixture began to bubble and the sugar began to melt a warm, sweet, peachy, fresh smell filled the kitchen.  I was re-energized by this beautiful aroma and began lining up my jars for filling.  Once the preserves are ready, the process goes very quickly.  I called Mick in to help me.  Fill, wipe, put the lid on, put the ring on.  Repeat.  Again.  And again.

Nineteen jars.  Done.

I turned off the gas flames and sat down to drink a glass of iced tea.

So there I was, see, sitting in my armchair drinking my tea when I heard a metallic “ping!”  Then two more.  The jars were beginning to seal.  They were officially preparing themselves for the long haul.  They were a new product that could be used for all kinds of purposes.  A beautiful product – golden, sweet and ready for their new lives: to be used for fresh bread, to top someone’s ice cream, to stir into someone’s yogurt, to be the “jelly” in a PBJ.  Nineteen jars would last a long time, or go a long way for gifts to friends.

So there I was see, listening to the jars seal one after another, and I thought to myself, “Maybe I should write this down and give a jar of peach preserves to my friends for encouragement.”  That was in June.  I wasn’t ready to write my thoughts then, but now I am.  It’s time to begin giving my preserves away.  I had to take time to make sure that I was okay, and that my family was okay, before I began to give things away again.  We had to eat some of our own preserves…or, perhaps we needed (and I needed) to store up my emotional reserves.

We did.  I am.  It’s time.

So there’ll I’ll be, see, bringing a jar to my friends or to my supervisees…with a copy of this essay, letting them know that sometimes tearing everything down is the only chance to build something brand new again.  And when they do, the very best thing they can do is share their renewal with others who will need it from them someday…passing along the peaches.

So there they’ll be, see, passing along the hope.

At least, that is my hope.

My Little Victory Garden: Dance of the Misty Canning Faery Sprites

This afternoon I was canning.  Nothing out of the ordinary was going on.  A rote, repetitive “chop, chop, peel, peel, stuff, stuff, garlic…salt and lid” process was taking place at my kitchen island. Over and over, nine half-pints full.

I was on auto-pilot.

But as I started the hot water bath, the natural science of heat transfer, water evaporation, and magic woke my numb mind up.  I had forgotten about the Misty Canning Faery Sprites.  But there they were; steam flickers dancing across every gleaming tin lid of every clattering jar.

They didn’t stay for long. Quickly appearing in a different form every time, they would flirt with me then disappear as fast as they came.  I had forgotten about them and was dull, but the faeries reminded me of the kitchen magic waiting to be rediscovered every time I cook.

So now I’m sharing them with you…tiny moments of the faery dance I saw on top of the lids of my canned peppers this afternoon.  I hope you enjoy it as much as I.

My “awakening” was unexpected, and crinkled the corners of my eyes…curled up my mouth and lifted my spirits.

Take care friends, Kelly

My Little Victory Garden: Canning With Fear, Friends, Fire and Frequency

The first crabapple tree I remember was growing beside my great-grandmother Porter's home in Missouri. Can you find it in the background? Yes, I'm the baby in this photo. Click on frame for larger view.

Four summers ago, my dear friend Cathy and I were in her neighbor’s crabapple tree throwing fruit to her daughter below.  Greta was running from one ground-level spot to another, doing her best to keep up with the showering fruit.  “Look out beloooooow! Hey, Greta – come over here!” Cathy and I yelled quadrant commands for about 45 minutes until Greta had had enough.

“Hey, when do I get to climb UP THERE and YOU catch the fruit down HERE??”

Okay, that was fair.  We switched places.  Cathy and Greta were now pummeling fruit and I was the fetcher.  In an hour, we had filled a 5-gallon bucket about 80% full of sweet smelling, warm and perfectly ripe crabapples.  We were going to make jam.  We loaded up our accoutrements (ladder, rake, other buckets, hats, gloves) and headed to her home.

I had not canned since living at home as a little girl. That was back in the day of pressure cookers and freaky stories about jars exploding. I was feeling pretty insecure and was scared I would do something wrong.  I didn’t know how to prep the jars. I didn’t have a sense of what a rolling boil was or how to skim the foam from jam.  I certainly didn’t know how to hold the jars or fill them correctly, how tightly to screw on the rings, or what the sealing process was all about.  I needed my security blanket and teacher – hence, I was hanging out with Cathy and learning. A whole bunch.

Crabapple jam is a rosy, golden-pink hue and the taste is like the best sweetness summer has to offer.  Continue reading My Little Victory Garden: Canning With Fear, Friends, Fire and Frequency

Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch….Garden Season 1

by Julie Allgyer

My husband Greg and I are celebrating our 6th successful year in the country.  The success is measured simply by the fact that we are still both alive and still married.

After two years of sharing a trailer with his father-in-law and four years getting our log cabin just the way we want it, I decided I didn’t have enough to do this summer.  Hence, our garden was born.

It is still unclear to me why a gal whose first salads consisted of only lettuce and French dressing would want to start a vegetable garden.  I even have a story of how, at an early age, I successfully hid Brussels sprouts in an air conditioner vent to avoid eating them.

The bottom line is that I didn’t do it for the food.  I did because I had two key elements:  time and space.
A fabulous garden was designed by yours truly that would not only be productive, but would also look like a work of art to any small plane traveling over our area.  (See graph below)

I filled the soil with all the goat and horse poop I could get my hands on, harvested directly out of our pasture. I planned, researched, and studied the Farmers’ Almanac, but nothing was happening. (Meaning, the plants were just sitting there.  So GROW, already!)

One Saturday morning I walked outside to find my beautiful plots of lettuce, peppers, and peas redesigned into rows! My husband Greg had been busy.

Note:  I do NOT have a graph to show the modified version of my garden.

Before I knew it, however, I had a crop.  As the summer progressed, we consumed all of the lettuce that survived.  Next, I gently added one cantaloupe, one watermelon, and cucumber plant.

Why only one of each, you ask?  Well, my pepper plants are filled with enough peppers to rival any Christmas tree look alike contest.  I can only make so many bacon-wrapped, filled with cream cheese poppers, and the tomato plants are speckled with green balls ready to ripen at any minute.

Selling some of my veggies seemed to be the next logical step.  I made a sign, put it out by the road, and waited.  As it turns out, however, the older clientele can’t really eat peppers.  Trust me.  I heard all about it.

Shortly after returning home from my “farmer’s market” trial excursion, it was back to the internet to explore another adventure:  canning.

As it turns out, canning really isn’t all that difficult if you’ve got two major elements: time and space.