Autumn Yard Care (© Magi Nams)
This morning, while darkness still blackened the world beyond my kitchen windows, I sliced cucumbers, onions, and a red pepper. I placed the veggies in a glass bowl, sprinkled pickling salt over them, set a plate weighted by bags of lentils on top of them, and set the bowl in the fridge to chill until evening, when I would transform the salted veggies into bread and butter pickles.
Then my computer claimed me – blog posts from the long weekend and novel – until late afternoon, at which time I began the process of putting my flowerbeds to rest for the winter. I deadheaded flowers, dug out weeds, and removed old growth, throwing all the botanical refuse into a wheelbarrow to wheel it to the compost pile out back. My Peace rose still bloomed, and one pale pink hollyhock bud remained unopened. I left it, offering the survivor its chance to blossom. Other colours not of flowers captivated me – the burgundy of evening primrose leaves, the bronzed green of peony leaves, the streaked yellow-and-green of blazing star, the chestnut seed heads of purple coneflower. The leaves of shasta daisies remained darkly green, while those of pink-flowering astilbe and a green-leaved hosta complemented the others with shades of yellow. Each season brings so much beauty to the yard – the thrusting new greens and vibrant shades of spring, the flamboyant excesses of summer, the earthy richness of autumn, the minimalistic austerity of winter.
After supper, while a pot of beets destined to become pickled beets cooked on our wood stove, I cooked up a sweet/sour sauce for the bread and butter pickles, scalded the drained and rinsed cucs/onions/pepper in it, and bottled the resulting pickles for processing in a hot water bath. While that processing progressed, I peeled and sliced the cooked beets and added them to a different sweet/sour concoction, boiling the bright purple potful before bottling the beets.
All the while, I thought of two things – the beauty those jars of purple and green pickles would add to my pantry collection of preserves, and the strong connection to my mother I always feel when preserving food. Ninety-four, frail, and forgetful now, she tended a huge garden and, along with my father, raised nine children on less than a shoestring budget. Each fall I recall how she bustled around the old farmhouse kitchen, freezing vegetables, canning rhubarb with prunes and raisins, saskatoonberries, store-bought peaches and pears, and making pickles. That kitchen was redolent with the sweet scents of fruits and jams and the vinegary, nose-clearing pungency of pickles. Now I carry on the tradition, a little of my mother still bustling about that kitchen in me.
