What Endures - Sept 24 2021

What Endures

Sept 24 2021

A rogue wave out at sea.

Killer frost in late spring.

That freak blizzard in early fall

when summer was still in the air.

When the old tree was in full leaf,

and left the lawn littered

with broken branches and shattered limbs;

wet gloppy snow

too much weight

for it to bear.

Which is the nature of weather

and helps keep life interesting.

But didn't kill the tree,

its deep network of roots untouched

lifeblood intact.

So next season

its remaining branches would cast shade

provide habitat

and drop a mess of bruised apples

that will brown and rot,

attracting nuisance bears

who will lumber in, as usual

stoking up their winter fat.

We've come to expect sudden change,

mercurial weather

unpredictable storms.

And so are grateful for the things that persist,

crab-apple jelly

apple butter

apple sauce.

And the whole house

redolent of apple pie

that turned out a little sour,

cooling on the counter

in a golden fall.

Once again, the “First Person” essay in the Globe inspired a poem. I give full credit to the author not only for the image of the snow laden tree and its recovery, but her pleasing litany of crab-apple jelly / apple butter / apple sauce.

FIRST PERSON Michelle Christopher’s passion for making jam has seen her through personal grief and a global pandemic

• The Globe and Mail (Ontario Edition)

• 24 Sep 2021

• Michelle Christopher writes Michelle Christopher lives in Calgary.

ILLUSTRATION BY APRIL DELA NOCHE MILNE

When I hear those lids ‘popping’ on the cooling jars, I know I’ll feel as accomplished as I did on the first try.

Almost no one I know makes jam, but it keeps my friends happy, anticipating, so I keep making it. And I give it all, or nearly all, away.

or the first time since before the pandemic, I meet a friend for brunch. I furtively text “en route,” knowing I would be late again. It’s a running joke. My friends are used to meeting me at “ish” time – 12ish, 7ish, whatever. They are very patient with my pathological tardiness, but to be fair, I always reward them with jam.

This time, it’s strawberry-rhubarb and blackberry-gin. “My mom’s rhubarb,” I tell him.

“Oh, your mom’s.” My friend emphasizes the last word. He hugs me again.

I can’t remember the first time I made jam, but it was at least 30 years ago.

That long-ago spring, with two small kids in tow, as my husband and I unpacked and set up in our new house, the tree in front bloomed overnight. Later on, we were delighted to find the blankets of flowers had turned into crab apples. A gift! Waste not, want not, my mother had always told me.

That fall, I stood in the overgrown grass and plucked off the apples, which by then had turned a gorgeous crimson, kissed by the late September sun. There were a lot of apples. For the first time, I borrowed my grandmother’s blue-speckled canner and splurged on a flat of jars. I started with crab-apple jelly. Then apple butter. Then apple sauce. I felt oddly accomplished when I heard the little “pop” of the canning lids settling into the cooling jars. Good, I thought. This will last the winter.

For years, I repeated this back-to-school ritual. As the kids settled into lessons and music and dance and sports, I picked crab apples, and I made a lot of jelly. And apple butter. And apple sauce. I gave it all, or nearly all, away.

Later on, I added other jellies and jams to my repertoire. Some years, I did up pickles and beets. At Christmas time, antipasto. But the favourite is always crab-apple jelly, which I have perfected to a crystalline, stained-glass ruby red. Not cloudy. Not runny. Perfectly wobbly. Just like grandma used to make, my friends tell me.

It’s a quirky, old-time hobby. Almost no one I know makes jam, but it keeps my friends happy, anticipating, so I keep making it. And I give it all, or nearly all, away.

After my mother died, it finally occurred to me that all that jam and jelly making was important to me, too.

Her death was sudden. A blood clot, then she’s gone. It was the first of September. The summer had been hot, but not too hot. The crab apples were still green, fat from the late August rains. On the day of the funeral, it was unusually cold and then it began to snow. A freak snowstorm descended: full-on, blowing, whiteout snow. Heavy and wet, the crab-apple tree was still fully leafed-out and laden with fruit. The branches snapped and broke with the weight of the snow. It was as if the rage and sorrow I felt turned into weather. It was awful. The tree was broken, and so was I. And so I hibernated. I grieved. I did not make jelly. I did not make jam.

When the pandemic hit, I grieved anew. It felt like another death. Life as we know it is suddenly snatched away. Kids, far away, can’t come home. Work turns virtual and we are cut off from our colleagues. We can’t see our friends. Even grocery stores are daunting.

With reports of an impending lock-down, I drove to my mother’s small Prairie hometown. I visited her grave and stopped at a nearby marker dedicated to the memory of those who perished in the influenza pandemic between 1916 and 1926. Ten years, a pandemic! Ten years! I can’t bear the thought. I think of my grandmother, who lost two babies in one year back then. And yet, she lived. More children arrived, including my mother. Life went on. Life goes on. And so, defiant, I resume making jam.

Citrus fruits, the first gift of winter, provide lemon curd, then, marmalade. A stroke of luck brings Seville oranges to my local market. For many years, I could not find them. Somehow 2020 brings me Seville oranges, not from Spain, but California. They will have to do. I look, but cannot find my mother’s recipe for Seville orange marmalade. The internet recipe will have to do. I make the marmalade. It is spectacular.

Next is strawberry jam, then raspberry, then rhubarb, with or without the strawberry. The vibrant scarlet hues of these fruits evoke a never-forgotten trip to Paris in springtime, where the menu of our Left Bank bistro was entirely devoted to les fruits rouges. Incroyable!

Blackberries begin to feature prominently in late spring and early summer. In the first pandemic midsummer, I decide we all deserve boozy jam, so I experiment, pairing fruit with gin, Cointreau, Grand Marnier, even rum. For the big kids only. This year’s blackberry-gin is sensational; nuanced, complex. A big kids’ treat. No one says no to these jars.

July is cherry month, also the month when my daughter was born. I smile, remembering how I stood sideways next to the cherry bins in the supermarket, far too pregnant to reach the cherries any other way. It’s her favourite, not surprisingly.

July and August bring the stone fruits: pear, peach, apricot, plum. The recipe for peach-pear jam was handed down to me, along with one for rose-petal jelly, from a beloved friend’s mom, no longer with us.

“Use fragrant roses” I read, trying to decipher the spidery handwritten notes. “Remember to leave ½ cup chopped petals for the tops of the jars” texts my friend.

When we talk about where to find the most fragrant roses, we pause. I know my friend misses her mom more than she can say. I do, too.

This year, I make the rose-petal jelly myself for the first time. It’s not as good as Vera’s. How could it be? My mom, always approving, would have loved it anyway. I make a second batch with roses from my son-in-law’s childhood garden down the road, hoping it will cheer us up, distract us all from missing the now-adult kids too much.

Meanwhile, as the pandemic wanes, the crab apples grow and ripen on the tree outside the front window. The house, aging, like us, needs a renovation. Perhaps we do too, but this September, we will start the jam cycle again. When the crab apples are ripe and beautifully red, I will again stand in the overgrown grass and pluck off the apples.

And when I hear the lids “popping” on the cooling jars, I will feel as accomplished as I did on the first try. Then, I’ll give it all, or nearly all, away. Life goes on.

First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers