It shouldn’t be this hard for a teacher! I can read, right?
How did my ancestors, or even my mother do it? Making jam shouldn’t be such a challenge!
Spring arrived and suddenly I was surrounded by friends who were sharing their plans for planting, canning, and freeze-drying their produce just as I was beginning to write my second book about my teacher ancestors. I needed to build my knowledge: “write what you know,” and all that sage advice I’d given my students over the years. How would I best preserve my garden bounty?
I knew I’d never can the 80+ quarts of green beans or tomatoes, followed by roasted beef bones that two friends do. And I could barely even make a decent meatball to eat for supper tonight, much less hundreds to can for the future.
So I looked into the freeze drying method of preservation that another friend has started. Turns out that is one expensive investment, a huge freeze drying device, with bags and jars to purchase to boot. Probably not for me with my limited budget and counter space.
But I remembered with fondness the mint jelly I made years ago when my eldest was a fascinated toddler. Back when topping with paraffin was legal for home canners. And I could impress her with green jelly.
So with some degree of experience in my hip pocket and oral resources in my three kids who worked for the most famous canning company in the world— I mean, we do live in Muncie, Indiana,— I set out to try my hand. If for nothing else, so I could enter the canning conversation and write about it knowledgeably, too.
I started by sifting through my cookbooks to find something unusual. I figured that a jelly or jam could build on my long-ago successes, so I combed the books for an easy but exotic sounding recipe. Nothing pedestrian for this gal.
Fig jam! Oooh! That was it! My walking/coffee pal gave me her seal of approval.
That was it, until I tried to find enough figs for the recipe. Even at the international market, the figs were limited to dried ones squeezed together in a cheese-like wheel.
Nope.
Back to the cookbooks.
Turns out the one I’d used all those years ago is now contraband in the canning world because it includes the paraffin instructions. One of my kids ordered me to throw it out. Luckily, I had a couple more cookbooks, and, of course, the Internet is filled with possibilities.
Plum jam!
Now that sounded mildly exotic, and I do love the dark purple color of plums. If I could find the sufficient amount, that’s what I would make.If we couldn’t eat it, we could stare at its lovely color, right?
I bought a large bag of them at Costco, fully intending to make them soon. I ordered some cute jars.
And then I got busy. And the plums withered and wrinkled in the frig.
Truth was, I was nervous. I was stalling.
The recipe required me to water bath can the jam. “It’s simple,” my friends insisted. “You can do it!”
But they didn’t have the lasting childhood memories that I did of tomatoes all over the kitchen ceiling when their mom’s pressure cooker blew up.
Still, I was an adult. And I was determined. But how could I ensure my safety and my kitchen’s paint?
Abracadabra, Amazon! I ordered the Presto Digital Pressure Canner. It would do the work for me! And I could walk away and not be tethered to the kitchen!
It quickly arrived in a huge, heavy box… a box that set in the front hall for weeks. I even went on vacation, leaving it and the plums in the frig. I was still nervous.
But it was wrong to waste that money, my inner critic scolded, so when we returned from our trip, I forged ahead. I went to Walmart and bought more plums. I put them in the frig.
Almost a week later, on Sunday evening, I decided it was time to charge ahead. Small steps, I told myself. Read the directions! That’s a good starting place.
So I did. I wrangled the box into the family room, and Jerry used his pocket knife to slice the box open. I pulled out styrofoam and metal pieces as I examined the exploded drawing and familiarized myself with the steps for water bath and for pressure canning. There was even a quick guide that was helpful. It all seemed reasonable.
So why was I still nervous?
In a bit of self-encouragement, I fitted a Ball apron abandoned by one of the kids over my head. I can do this! I chanted to myself.
First step, wash all the parts. Disassemble the lid and carefully dry them. I did.
Now get the recipe started, it said.
This was the beginning of the tricky part- the part I hadn’t counted on: going back and forth between the instructional guide and the recipe on my phone. My phone that goes into screensaver mode after ten seconds of non-interaction. (Who set that up, anyway?)
So, I got the cute little jars in the canner, filling them halfway with hot water— and by the way, was that halfway to the top or the neck? And was that halfway by height or by volume? Was I overthinking this?
But it was also time to cut and cook the plums. Huh? I was supposed to do this at the same time? How long did those plums need to cook? I’d never cooked plums before. Shouldn’t they end up mushy?
And how long did the jars have to be heated? I followed the directions and got the jars locked down to heat. I stepped over to the stove and stirred the pot.
But the recipe had disappeared and left a black screen, so I toggled between my phone password and grabbing measuring cups and spoons and pectin and wooden stirrers.
Note: gather ALL the ingredients and supplies beforehand.
I dumped the ingredients in the pot, stirring away. I had opted for the stevia option in place of sugar. How much should I add? A friend said I could always cut the sugar in half for jelly and jam. Did that go for stevia, too?
Then the canner beeped. It was time to remove the jars and fill them!
Was the jam ready? Yuck. It had chunks of plums. And squares of plum skin. Maybe I could just use the immersion blender to puree it.
“Go for it!” my husband urged me when he heard my ongoing monologue.
So I stuck the stick into the thickening, boiling liquid and whirled away. It was smoothing! Maybe this would turn out all right.
My confidence boost overtook my common sense. I grabbed the new jar grabber tool and lifted one of the jars out and dumped the water back into the canner. I set it on the towel I’d carefully spread out for this purpose. But it was too far from the cooking pot filled with bubbling jam that must be ladled into the glass.
I moved the jar to the stove, and grabbed the cute red funnel.
“Check for headspace,” my husband advised.
What? How did he know that lingo? Had he done this before?
I stopped to open my phone. How much headspace? And was that measured from under the threaded part or from the tippy top? I checked the instruction booklet. No answer. How much is 1/4”?
“Maybe to the bottom of the funnel,” my coach suggested.
It didn’t look like a quarter inch to me.
“The books says it won’t seal if there’s too much air,” I groaned.
“Oh, well, we’ll just put it in the frig,” he shrugged.
Having been warned about only finger tightening the bands by one of the offspring experts, I carefully situated the lid making sure its Plastisol was perfectly positioned. Satisfied, I gingerly tightened the band.
Whew! I used the grabber thingy to load it back into the canner. Done with one!
I repeated the process. Done with two!
Maybe I am getting the hang of this. Maybe I CAN do this, I started to think.
Then I looked at the other side of the counter. What were all those other tools for?
Oh, crap! I was supposed to gently stir each jar of jam to release air bubbles. Then put on the lids!
I looked at the towels I’d so carefully arranged on the counter. Plum-colored rings stained them from where I’d set down the funnel. That funnel sure is messy, I think. Those towels are done. Oh, dang it!
I was supposed to carefully wipe the threaded top of the jars before finger-tightening the rings.
Three more to go.
I slowed down and forced myself into the groove, completing all the processes, and in order but making a huge plum-colored mess on the stove and counter and towels in the process.
But eventually all five jars were in the canner and processing in what I estimated to be one inch of water above their tops. I listened to the noisy water boiling and the steam escaping, feeling quite satisfied. I started loading the dishwasher, and finally sat down in the family room.
The timer beeped, and it was time to see the fruits of my labor. I consulted the booklet. “Remove the jars by lifting them straight up out of the water. Do not tilt them.”
I took the jar grabber and plunged it into the hot water and around the sides of the band of the first jar. It promptly tipped over on its side.
“What! I just ruined one!” I shouted. “Stupid thing!”
I abandoned the jar that was submerged on its side in the canner to study the other jars. I’d ruined one. How would I remove the others without tilting them?
I glanced at the tool and narrowed my eyes. Ohhhhh, maybe I used that thing upside down.
Yep. I’d been trying to grasp the jars with the rubber handles. Duh!
I reversed my grip, and hoisted the four remaining jars straight up and out of the canner and onto the remaining pristine towel. I fished out the other jar. It would probably have to go into the frig.
Now it was time to wait. Minimum 12 hours, maximum 24 hours. Then I would need to examine them. The lids should be concave on the jars, and then the bands could be removed. With luck, by morning, maybe I’d have a jar of plum jam for each of my friends! Finally, I could be part of the canning crowd!
I sat down to write about my experience and heard a pop!
“That’s a good sign,” the coach announced from his easy chair.
I smiled, satisfied that at least four of the five had a chance of being prepared properly and not infected with botulism, and I continued to write.
Then I heard his voice from the kitchen. “Well, three of them are fine.”
“What? Did you touch them?” I shrieked. “We’re not supposed to touch them for 12 hours!”
“Oops,” he said.
~Sigh~
“Look for the positive,” I told myself.
Even though there may be no popping of the lids, and my frig may be stocked with more plum jam than we can eat, I suspected my ancestors would be proud to know that I actually made plum jam for the first time… and while wearing my brand new summer dress that emerged perfectly clean.
So there!
As for edible plum jam to brag on, that remained to be seen…or heard.
