The Work of Our Hands

We live in the city - I mean a major metropolitan center.  Yes, we live on a residential street, and the diversity of our neighborhood may be a bit limited, but still this is urban living.  We walk to the grocery store and the drug store and the coffee shop and occasionally Dick's drive-in for a $1.40 cheeseburger.  We have four bus routes within easy walking distance that can get us downtown, to the suburbs, or to the university.

Now the thing about living in the city with all these local perks is that it's easy to disconnect from the country.  Even the farmer's market here has high quality and high cost organic produce.  There are no Ford pick-ups backed up to the gate selling greens or potatoes by the bushel.  From our mother-in-law apartment the only gardening we can do is a few plants in planters rearranged to catch some sun.  Opportunities to hike, swim, and cycle are abundant, but it is a different world from that place where I grew up where the abundant things were space and dirt, and opportunities for physical labor.

Knowing me, you'll not be surprised to learn that in my small urban kitchen, I set out to create ways to work with my hands.  Saturday was salsa canning day.  Jamie and I walked to a local produce market where tomatoes not good enough to make it to the produce section of the grocery store were selling for $.79 a pound, less than half the price at our local Safeway.  We brought out the canner and here's what happened:

These six jars join a couple jars of tomato sauce, several jars of strawberry-rhubarb jelly, and a batch of raspberry blueberry jelly, all sitting atop our kitchen cabinets (in the absence of the ever-coveted kitchen pantry). 

And, so you know, this whole project wasn't just to fulfill my nostalgic country cravings.  There are at least four reasons for such activity in my life.  First, Jamie and I got to do something together.  We embodied our relationship with our shared preparation of our food.  What better way to nourish our relationship that spending time together in the nourishment of our bodies?  Second, it's just plain cheaper to can our own salsa.  Even if we buy (instead of grow) the tomatoes, minus the one-time investment in the canner and jars, we are saving money on salsa for the next three months or so: six pints for less than $15 (plus that tomato sauce).   Third, our homemade salsa tastes better than the store brand.  Maybe next year we'll try for more fancy recipes in our continuously expanding repertoire.  And fourth, doing this meaningful, enjoyable work connects us to our food.  Eating is more than a filler activity three times a day, more than a chance to satisfy this or that craving.  Food is one basic need, a building block of our very existence.  When we attend to our food with intentionality and care, we acknowledge this connection.  Canning is a chance to slow down and appreciate this often overlooked fact, to say with our actions that we notice what this life is all about.