Memory

Canning is the harvest, distilled. A jar of rich golden jelly holds within it the warmth of the sun on the grapes, the stickiness of juice on the hands, the heat of the kitchen, and the perfection of a single day, captured and sealed in glass.

Most of us consume our preserves without this much ceremony, but today we chose to take a moment of reflection. Today, we opened a jar of jam we’ve been saving for a little over a year. On the day when the Columbard grapes were picked for this jam, the first golden days of autumn had passed, and the deep nights were just becoming slightly brisk. Our friend who picked the grapes had spent the morning with her daughter and sister, and spent the afternoon putting up the fruit as fast as she could — mainly to keep her daughter from eating the rest of the grapes before they could be preserved. Perhaps that night she marinated steaks at her husband’s request, and brought out an array of ice creams to round out his favored meal of steak and potatoes. It was, in all likelihood, another warm, beautiful day in their lives, like so many that had gone before; not worried over or clutched too tightly, but allowed to pass through open, grateful hands, as the days which would come after.

It was a day when the family was whole, and when they knew they loved each other. It was, because of this, a perfect day.

Canning is the perfect distillation of the harvest — a stop-motion snapshot of the sweetness of bright skies and golden sun, the sound of birdsong and jokes, the honest ache of working muscles and sweat-dampened foreheads. Today a spoonful of jam brings back the echo of memory, to which we say hail and farewell — and enjoy again the essential sweetness of a life well-lived.