I Can’t Believe I’m Going To Tell You!

 

I Can’t Believe I’m Going To Tell You! 

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Some stories should stay hidden and this might be one of that kind. It is ridiculous, embarrassing and impossible.

I have three lime trees in my yard. In the back yard, I first planted a key lime. After three naked years and lots of talks, including veiled threats, she began producing limes in profusion. So I planted a regular-type lime in the front yard. It made limes a mere toddler and hasn’t paused yet. So I planted another regular-style lime in back next to the key lime. I use a lot of limes.

This poor dear dangled a few limes when I planted her but nary a lime, year after year and another year. I cajoled, begged, pleaded, threatened. Nada.

We several women friends talk regularly via email. I said, “I’m close to digging her up and replacing her with a mango or a papaya or something flowery.”

Karen said, she really did say this, “Take a broomstick and whack the tree trunk in each of the four directions, north, south, east and west.”

“You are joking, right?”

“I did it with my lazy apple tree and that year my apples broke branches, the apples were so full and heavy."

I can’t believe I did it. I can’t believe I admit to you that I did it. I carefully scanned the yard, to make sure nobody could see me out in the back lawn holding my broom and looking guilty. My yard is enclosed by a tall brick wall grown up with all manner of bushes, trees and greenery. The only way anybody could see me would be with one of those flying spying things. I struck a nonchalant listening pose, just in case. Air above me was clear of all but birds and butterflies.

I explained to my lime tree that this would hurt me more than it would hurt her and that it was for her own good. Then I gave her a whack, once in each direction; north, south, east and west. I sneaked back to the house blowing my nose and propped my broom in the corner.

That was a couple months ago. I didn’t give my lime tree a lot of attention until the other day while gathering a handful of key limes. I glanced over and about lost my eyeballs. My lazy lime tree was full of limes in all phases of growth, big limes, little baby limes and middle-size limes. I had to circle her twice just to make sure it was real.

Magic? Of course not. She was ready, right? It was her time to bloom, right? I know it was a co-inkydinky. A whack with a broom will not make a tree bear fruit. But it was kind of a kick just to do it, sort of gave me more patience with my slow tree.

However, if you want real magic, I got a taste of the true stuff later the same day that I noticed my tree full of limes.

I had a bag of frozen mango I’d taken out to make a pie, but changed my mind. I also had a quarter of a fresh pineapple I needed to use soon. I’d been grating Mexican-type zucchini into my pancake batter and figured a mango-pina syrup would enhance pancakes like a charm.

I whizzed the fruit in the blender. Syrup is easy, right. Fruit and sugar and water. A pinch of salt to enhance the flavor. Heat, stir, and voila, syrup to spare and to share.

Ha! Anybody who has ever worked with chokecherries knows how difficult it is to make jelly. One must be precise in measurements, exact in standing over the heat and stirring, assiduous in testing for the jell stage, and nine times out of ten, instead of jam, one makes syrup. Just the way it is. Syrup is good, so we pour it into jars and process it. Yummy, drizzled or drenched over pancakes on those cold and snowy mornings.

Fruits with natural pectin are easier to jell, but still, without care, one makes syrup. This time I took no care, measured approximates, wanting and expecting syrup.

I poured my syrup into jars, one for the freezer, one for my immediate use, one to share with Lani and another to share with Janet. The syrup seemed kind of thick but it is easy to thin out to the right consistency.

The next morning, given a chance to cool, my beautiful jars of fruit syrup had jelled. No syrup. Just jelly. Now that is real magic.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

The almost end of September

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Winter Jelly

Like a fine wine
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Winter Jelly
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I woke in the night to the howl of the wind battering the west wall of my house. A Chinook wind, the warm wind. I snuggled beneath my quilts and went back to sleep with a smile on my face. The first sound I heard when I awoke was the call of a mourning dove, the first dove of the year. I stuck my head out the door. Yes, the thermometer actually registered above freezing. Then and there I underwent a definite change in mind, body and spirit. Spring fever flooded every iota of my being.



February’s mail had brought seed and garden catalogs. Lovingly, I spread them out on my dining table and began dreaming of the day, still months ahead, when I could be digging, once again, in the dirt. I read my new herb book, purchased from the library’s discard rack for twenty-five cents, and planned another herb bed, or maybe two. I was restless. I looked around the house. Spring cleaning might be in order. I quickly buried that thought.



I paced from front door to back door, stopping at window vistas. The snow-banks did not magically disappear. I yearned for spring, longed for summer. Then I had an idea. I would make a batch of jelly.



Few sights are more beautiful, more satisfying to me than rows of canning jars filled with summer bounty lining the shelves of my basement pantry. Now you must understand, I have put up a life-time supply of jelly. It doesn’t matter. I love making jelly. I give it away with abandon, knowing that each year I will make more. How much more depends on the summer’s yield of fruit. Last year I had abundance, more fruit than time, more fruit than jars, so I stored bags of apples, raspberries, rhubarb and June berries in my freezer, some for pies, some a hedge against a sparse harvest next year.



I poured a bag of June berries into my kettle. I chopped up some juicy apples from the bowl on the counter, remembered a nearly empty bag of raisins, tossed them in. I thought cranberries might add an interesting element. A couple of handfuls, not too many. Then I noticed, in the lost and found department of my freezer, a pint of choke cherry juice. In it went. I set the pot on the stove to simmer.



Jelly making is a lengthy process, but well worth the hours of preparation, the trips up and down stairs for jars, ingredients, tools and kettles, followed by boiling and stirring and pouring and filling and processing.



Now rows of jars cool atop towels spread over the garden catalogs. I set one jar aside for tasting and immediate use.



I lift the jar and turn it, watch the sun’s rays enhance the brilliant ruby jewel tones. I hold the jar to my nose and sniff the earthy fragrance, elegant and flowery, with an explosion of spring. I dip in a spoon and lift the rich jell, lively with a perfect rounded shimmer, smooth and vigorous, clear yet velvety, noble. I rest a taste on my tongue. I find the blend complex, mouth filling and robust. Fruity with full-bodied balance, a vibrant banquet in a jar. Oh, what jelly!



This jelly could stand next to the finest wines without embarrassment. This jelly deserves the Grand Prize Purple Ribbon. I generously slather a slice of toast and savor a fruity bouquet of summer.



Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

February 17, 2011
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