Real Soup

On the emblems of summer

Wildflowers, the ones which have agreed to move into my garden - it looks like home, most likely - are blooming in confusion everywhere.

The cooling, welcome afternoon breeze goes silver across the sagebrush, and the domestic greens fill with warm soft gold tones of the tended garden.

I like watering things. Standing in the yard with the rain in my hand, communing with leaves and blooms. It is like paying homage to the wondrous slow rush of summertime.

Everything is popping up and out, expanding individually within the eminent whole, displaying colors and illusions with the promising courtships of bees and butterflies and hummingbirds in mind.

Seeds of all kinds, with their little timers going off, are becoming available to portage by winds and favorable bugs. They float by, dig their way into your socks, travel by bird, wander past, tucked into the sweet night zephyrs.

We are all millions of times more alike than we are different.

Two stray snow geese make a slow U-turn overhead, creaking to each other in a dry, annoyed manner like a long married couple on a road trip.

Llamas loaf in the pasture. They could be big white sea birds pedaling on the ocean.

Squeaky cats flop under the porch furniture, dreaming of flight, twitching their paws and whiskers in belief.

The man-faced moon hangs in the sky like a coin from an abstract nation.

The human tourist, equally exotic, dressed up in determinedly casual garb, goes out from home on a similar mission, that of exploring and testing new ground.

In the markets, sweet, serene babies, catch you in their disarming gaze, causing you to stop your whole efficiency gambit with a near audible screech, just to look back and rest for an instant in those pools.

Over in produce, where all the glorious fruits of summer are piled in heaps and baskets, shopping becomes convivial, at times riotous. The giddying season of preserving is upon us.

Preparing for the first jam session of the year is an emotional adjustment to those who make good of the harvest.

We must motivate ourselves and then not talk ourselves out of such projects before we make the ultimate commitment of purchasing crates of deep shiny cherries to poke and can. So easy. Why not.

Apricots and peaches with their dusky coats, such a lovely light to bring into the cupboard. Such a tempting prospect for a long winter nignt.

Plums, the sunset color changers, and nectarines streaked with magenta, new young, tart Gravensteins holding the key to the finest applesauce, all await the home canner.

But we are tired. Let us admit that. We are not yet ambitious. We are innocent, full of warm mornings and our feet wish to stand in the garden and just curl into the soft earth with affection.

My advice here is to approach the blueberry bin. Be shrewd. Assess the entire batch for age and vigor.

If there are substantial numbers of shriveled berries, or if there is a general sense of fatigue among them, consider yourself reprieved and go home emptyhanded.

It is both savvy and acceptable to ask when the next shipment comes in.

When the time does come and commitment is unavoidable, when the berries are firm and their mood is easygoing and perky, and you can feel the dreaded enthusiasm ripening in your heart, I suggest making Blueberry Syrup. It is an opportunity to branch into the no-pectin school of thought without taking on the expectations of jam itself.

Be sure, incidentally, to buy enough extra to freeze whole for muffins and blueberry buckle a few times during the winter months. Keep them shapely by spreading them out still dry on cookie sheets and freeze them for about an hour before bagging them up. Wash before using.

With the great portion, try the following directions no recipe is required - really - and thus you can regulate the sugar content to suit your own ethics and blood analysis.

First, assemble a good book and your glasses if necessary. Some nonattentive stirring is required.

Next wash and sterilize jars and lids. I use the oven for sterilizing, inverting clean jars in a pan of water, baking them for 15 minutes at 225 degrees.

Wash the berries in cold water and taste them. If there is a faint but nasty chemical twang on the surface, I have found that warm water takes it off, and since you are going to cook them anyway, it won't ruin them for this purpose.

Now measure them into a large, heavy kettle, crushing the bottom layer gently.

Add:

1/2 C. water

Bring this to a boil, then reduce heat to a simmer until the berries are almost tender.

Measure, for each cup of berries:

1/2 C. sugar

Before you add this to the berries, consider heating it to lukewarm in the microwave if you have one. This seems fussy, but it reduces the overall cooking time of the berries.

If you want actual jam, incidentally, use a full cup of sugar to each cup of berries and the same method.

Honey can be substituted for sugar, using smaller amounts, but the long cooking does deplete its food value and it will scorch more readily.

Stir and cook over low heat until it begins to thicken. You can test this easily by dropping the syrup, by small amounts, onto a cold plate. This cools it quickly and allows you to see the actual consistency of your product.

In any case, you can read, here, for up to half an hour, whilst you stir. The time is determined by the quantity of berries, naturally and not the pace of your written material. I mention this by way of experience.

When you are satisfied with the thickness of the syrup, take out your hot jars and fill them to within 1/2" of the brim and seal. Remember to turn them over on their lids for ten minutes to insure a vacuum.

Remember also to defend your jars from predatory pancake eaters before the snow flies. This is a hoarder's rule, one I favor.