Somebody needs to stop me. I started canning salsa two weeks ago and I cannot seem to stop. I keep buying more Anaheim and jalapeño peppers, more jars, more cilantro, onions and garlic, and yes, more tomatoes, straight from the fields. I’m on autopilot. The canning frenzy commenced with the onset of colder weather and shorter days. I canned through the federal budget impasse, the 6.3 earthquake in Afghanistan, and Kevin McCarthy getting booted as Speaker of the House. I had to stop last Saturday after Hamas’s deadly attack on Israel, too shocked to do anything, but this week when I heard Republican hard-liner Jim Jordan was angling to be the next Speaker of the House, I got busy again. Please, God, anyone but Jordan.
I’m on my fourth batch of salsa—that’s a record for me—and I suspect there’s some correlation between my frenzied productivity and the fact the world feels like it’s going up in flames. Life feels grim, random, and uncertain. People in my immediate family are ill and struggling; honestly, I’m gutted. But we have to take joy where we can find it. Here was a good moment:
On Thursday, I had one-on-one conferences with my writing students. It is always good to check in with them, to hear them talk about their writing, their lives, what comes next. They have their whole lives ahead of them—and I feel terrible that the world we’re leaving them is in such bad shape. The very first student I met with, Morgan, was telling me about her decision to change majors—from sports management to religion. Higher education has been full of turmoil for her, but now she thinks she’s finally on the right track. Life is rarely lived in a straight line, according to plan. There are lots of surprises along the way. Get used to it.
“No one has it figured it,” Morgan declared somberly. “People are just really good at pretending.” I took her words to heart. Can we get an amen?
I don’t have it figured out. I’m struggling and I’m tired. I’m 69 years old, I can’t find a matching pair of socks, and I could use a little lie-down. Sometimes it’s hard to get up in the mornings, hard to stay tender and open. But you and I both know how magical the world is, how it can bowl us over in a nano-second. The scarlet blaze of the maples, the harvest moon in the clouds, the sun-kissed smell of basil, the warmth of ripened tomatoes. Earlier this week, as I was driving through the park, I saw a man standing waist-deep in the middle of Buck Creek. He was fly-fishing, gracefully casting over the surface of the shimmering, sun-dappled water. I had to pull over and marvel at the sight. It was like he was conducting a symphony, a 4 p.m. symphony for an audience of one. And then four days ago, not far from where he was fishing, I got my ass handed to me on a grass-stained platter. Usually, the dog park is a peaceful place. Usually.
An exuberant, stocky blue heeler running at full speed barreled straight into me and sent me flying, clocking me hard. Cowabunga! I caught some air, then landed flat on my back. Not the end of the world, except that I have two bionic knees and neither is very flexible. My body went one way, and my right knee, in an agonizing, gravity-defying twerk, went another. I lay in the grass for about five seconds going “oof, oof, oof” and feeling sorry for myself. I saw stars and blinked back involuntary tears. Then it was time to get up. Somebody picked my cell phone out of the weeds and someone else handed me my sunglasses. I got up slowly, rolling over onto my knees, and with my butt in the air, slowly found my feet. It was not pretty. My dignity is still out there in the grass. But nothing is keeping me from the dog park. Ever.
So much is out of our control, but in my own house, in my funky farmhouse kitchen, I am trying to stave off a little of the craziness to come. The magic—chile magic—has worked in the past, in the dead of winter when the wind is howling and the snow is coming down hard. I’m trying to stockpile heat and endorphins, store them up for when I know I’m going to really need them. Salsa is more potent than Prozac’s mighty hand. It’s a flashlight in the dark, an antidote for the seasonal depression, a chemical game changer. With enough salsa this winter, I just might make it, even if Jim Jordan is in charge. Here’s a copy of the recipe I used:The Best Homemade Salsa for Canning
Nobody, as Morgan says, has got it figured out. But here’s what I do know: it’s time to call it quits with the salsa canning. Enough’s enough! Dozens and dozens of jars of salsa crowd my table. Seeing them filled with cilantro and slivers of garlic, chunks of roasted peppers, and tomatoes, I feel resourceful and temporarily in charge. Yes, the world is going to hell, and yes, I’m overwhelmed and worried, but this is some kick-ass salsa. Here’s to the last batch, wet and steamy from the hot-water bath, each jar sealing with a satisfying thock! The salsa is done, secure, safe, with lids that will hold. The harvest is in.
Just reading about it makes me happy!
Oh, you are going to live high this winter, girl! That's one beautiful photo at the end, with all those little jars just waiting to make you happy come the Jan./Feb. chill. Thanks for another witty, sparkling little essay to brighten up our dreary, rainy October days!