Nature vs Nurture
I've noticed something in my old age: my body is hardwired for autumn. I can feel the stirrings of the earth beginning to pull itself to warmth and safety. The subtle change of vibrant leafy greens to the dull, yellow brown of drying chlorophyll. The fleeting breath of winter to come in early morning stillness.
The changes aren't as dramatic in middle Georgia as they are in northern Minnesota. They're slower to come while basking in the still warm rays of late summer sun. But they're there just below the surface and waiting to blaze forth.
It's the colors I miss most. And the length of the season, of course. Fall in Minnesota is a bright blur of colorful golds, reds, yellows, browns and greens. A day long fire burning in the woods without scorching heat to fan the blaze. Aching memories of warmth slip in between breezes while the rustle of falling leaves magically transforms sleeping grass into a quilted mosaic. Cold winds begin to nip at noses and rip at barren branches in their rush toward a harsh winter.
A Georgia fall quietly saunters in and sits at the edge of winter. Dull yellow and faded orange leaves resist lazy yet persistent breezes begging like a petulant child to strip trees and shrubbery of their covering. Warmth continues through October and sometimes into late November with some trees stubbornly holding on to dry, cracked leaves until spring.
Outdoor activity does not dwindle in Georgia as it does up north during the transition. Oh, no. In Georgia Fall has the audacity to entice residents into the open without care for sunscreen nor sweaters. It's porch-sittin' weather. Mild days may call for shorts and Ts while a more brisk afternoon may beg for jeans and close-toed shoes.
I long for the days of warm socks and the layered feel of turtlenecks and sweatshirts. My body craves the pile of sweaters and 3/4 length sleeved tops jammed in the back of the closet. Alas, they won't see the light of day until December rolls around and only then until the middle of February at best.
Fall conjures the smell of Elmer's glue and Mead writing pads. It harbors the memories of vinegar and dill wafting through mom's kitchen window into the yard where we played with kites and rode our bikes. It brings the thought of fresh baked cookies, breads and pies straight from the oven to my tastebuds. Is screams "HOME!" to my ears.
Along with the sights, sounds and memories come time-honored urges. Like salmon swimming up stream to spawn, so am I drawn to the kitchen to can, blanch and freeze. Mom always called it "squirrelling away" and although I laughed, I laugh no more as I find myself shuffling to the basement in mid August to begin retrieving the black enamel canner, can lifters, funnels, industrial sized strainer, sieves, ricers, cheesecloth, jars, lids and rings.
Our kitchen becomes a staging and storage area for the myriad of supplies, jugs of vinegar, jars of spices, bags upon bags of sugar, boxes of Sure-Jell and bottles of pectin. I find myself on the hunt for canning jars at Big Lots, K-Mart, Wal-Mart and Kroger. I'm on the lookout for Mrs. Wages spaghetti sauce mix. I scour the aisles for pickling salt. I'm buying lemons and garlic more often than milk and bread.
Neal begins the race to locate produce. First with 20 pounds of fresh okra. These I put up in quart jars. It's easy once I get in the rhythm of pulling hot jars out of the oven (where I keep them after they've been sterilized in the dishwasher) then stuffing them full of fresh okra and garlic. Pouring the salty dilled brine is fast followed by capping and finally a 15-minute boiling water bath to destroy bacteria and seal.
Next come the figs. Harder to find and quicker to spoil, we employ the help of my in-laws to locate a source. These are preserved whole in sugar syrup with a touch of lemon juice and thin slices of lemon. A bit stickier and slower, these little gems we seal in pint jars after their 15-minute bath.
This year we discovered large wild muscadines all along our roadway. We inverted a beach umbrella under the vines that cling to high branches. With a firm grip, Neal tugged on the vine which shook the branch and ultimately dropped the ripe grapes into the umbrella or there abouts. Nearly 5 gallons later, we were crushing the tough hulls with a potato masher and simmering the remains with a splash of water over a low flame. After simmering for 10 minutes, I let them cool before running through a ricer to squeeze the tantalizingly fragrant juice from the pulp. SEVERAL cheesecloth strainings later, I mixed the juice half-and-half with concord grape juice and began making jelly. A beautiful deep purple concoction glistens in dozens of half-pint jelly jars.
During our muscadine adventure, we stumbled across hawthorne berries that were huge and ready for picking. Within 30 minutes, the Girlz had loosened over 3 gallons of berries from the tree and I have since made three quarts of juice from them. Jelly making will ensue over the weekend.
Currently waiting in the wings are two 5-gallon buckets of pears waiting to be peeled. I'm not sure if I'll make pear jam, pear preserves or pear chutney with them yet. I need to consult the Ball Blue Book for guidance.
With all of these fall activities, my mind wanders to mom's kitchen and the ritual of canning and preserving fruits, vegetables and nuts for the winter. Although we don't have the abundance of edibles in the wild in Georgia as we did in Minnesota, we still manage to put away a great many items to share. This year, we plan to sell some at the local farmer's market!
Not to worry. As the fruits fade from the vine and the vegetables exhaust themselves in the garden, pecans and black walnuts begin to shove themselves from their branches toward the earth where we will wait, umbrellas upturned, for the bounty.
