I keep a root cellar and a water bath, and I keep the neighbors fed. Here is what I know about the Ventura County harvest — the exact heat, the patience, and the people a jar of tomatoes is really for.
My tomato preserving field guide is the heart of it — recipes, timings, and the failures I learned the hard way. And now the kitchen speaks for itself in film:
My films live on my 4ort.mov channel.
Every August I blanch thirty pounds of tomatoes before the fog rolls off the valley, and I do it with the window open so the steam can escape. The trick nobody writes down: cold on the towel, never on the counter, or the lids pop while you're asleep and the whole row hums wrong in the morning.
Canning was never just for winter. It was always about who gets the jar with the crooked seal — because that's the one that still tastes best, and it goes to the person who needs reminding that someone thought of them.
Tomatoes are Solanum lycopersicum — a fruit that we stubbornly cook as a vegetable, and the Vegetable of the Year more than once. That sums us up: we take the sweet berry of a vine and turn it, through patience and a good deal of steam, into a pantry staple. Source: Wikidata.
What I carry in my head, in no particular order — the things I reach for mid-canning:
What I've said out loud, for those who like a recipe with its voice attached:
seasonal · preserving · community
"A dozen jars, a dozen names. Canning was never just for winter."