In my memories, I hold the vivid images of my grandmother "Grammie" and my mom canning together on warm summer days. I would sit among them and help as much a child can, snapping beans and cutting vegetables, but mostly I took in the wonderous smells and cautiously staring at the pressure cooker rocking back and forth.
Now as a mother, I have begun to crave the art of the canning of our harvest. I want my children to have the skills and memories that I so cherish. So these past two weeks have found my children and myself climbing ladders and filling baskets full of tart apples & large cherry-like crapapples.
Our kitchen and home smell of autumn harvest as we make jellies, apple butter and apple pie filling. Our basement deep pantry shelves are being lined with colorful, glass jars and I already imagine standing before it on a cold January day and selecting one of these. A taste of warmer days and the work of my children and myself.
My heart also longs to have my Grammie here in the kitchen. I know my children would have adored her. I glance across to my diningroom where her hutch sits, I wear her watch and don an apron to honor her and all those who once put their harvest away in my farmgirl legacy.
