Hot and Steamy

This week, my daughter Ashley (the chef, see her blog) made some peach and raspberry preserves. Sweating away in the kitchen over a steaming pot, made me remember summer kitchens of my childhood -- and a poem I had written a while ago about that experience.

 

Peaches for Ashley

Come back with me to twelve, my lovely one,

roll out of bed, knowing Dad is on his way back

from the Buffalo market, car and trunk loaded

with five bushels of ripe peaches. Knowing we

have missed the ride that started at 4 a.m. and the

egg salad sandwiches and Tang in the cooler.

But we will not miss the kitchen, still cool and clean.

We will not miss hearing Mom tell us to eat breakfast

quick and wash those jars. You’d count with me

till we got close to one hundred and wonder

how we would fill these all in one day. How we

would eat these all in one winter.

                                                                        Then push

your hand into the cavity of the canning jar, swish

the soapy water, call it clean. Again and again. Watch

Mom rinse the jars with boiling water. Feel the heat.

Feel the heat that will get sticky and sweet with peaches.

If you were there then you would know, Ashley,

how it would go, and you would ache to do the next

job—I know it seems silly to you, that I’d want to do

more than just measure the cup of sugar, slide it

smoothly to the bottom of each jar. Maybe you’d

understand my private glee at my brother’s absence

when I got to layer peach halves in the jars,

nesting one orange semiglobe on top of another.

I’d let you pour the water into the filled jars, and

then I’d screw on the canning ring and lid.

But here are the peaches. Here is the pot of boiling water.

Here the colander to dip the peaches, scald them half

a minute. Then paring knife them naked, dig out their pits.

Those are jobs for Mom and Dad, my fingers much too

tender for such hot work. I can only watch

and fill my jars, and sneak a peach or two from the bowl

of imperfects next to mother’s station. These we

will savor at night on shortcake with whipped cream.

But now, even without sugar, they are honey, they

are nectar. And the steam of boiling pots of water

tears down the side of my face. I mop my cheeks, sticky hands,

and my sweat is sweet and salty. As yours would be.

Later we two would carry the jars that have been submerged

in a boiling bath of water, these cooled and orange filled

jars, to the basement and shelve them. We would know

we had stored sun for dark winter suppers, desserts of peach

cobbler, peach shortcake, peaches in a bowl. And we would

remember hot July, sweet sweaty canning days,

stomachs bloated with too many peach pieces.