Real Soup

On the Harvest

The seasonal drift has begun. High summer is waning and deep in the brain we respond to the nuance of Autumn filtering into the morning air.

We wake up to cold cheeks and we want new slippers. We consider baking biscuits again.

Our internal clocks monitor the daylight slipping sooner and sooner into dusk. We contemplate soup and bread and good red wine.

We want more sleep. We might just get to the mending.

We find ourselves in a new tension, seeking out all the errant wool socks, cast asunder in June and still sequestered. Barrages of housepets storm the doorways in the morning. We all cease to shed.

Suddenly, if you never managed a tan, you are exonerated. If you bought a watermelon on the eve of the long rains, you may now throw it to the chickens.

If you forgot about baseball after the local stalwarts packed up their uniforms, you can still catch up with the national pennant race if baseball among strangers interests you.

If you forgot to plant a garden you can find glorious homegrown tomatoes in the markets and gorge yourself for a couple more weeks.

And if everything goes perfectly, the early frost will coincide with the first day of school and the window scraping crews will be alert well before noon, invigorated, and with a specific interest in timely departures.

Even with the likely return of a few hot days, we are marked. Our instincts are in the lead and our assessment of our well being begins to include sizing up the pantry, the chimney, the boot supply, anti-freeze, pencil boxes, thick, fringe novels, new clean paper.

We know what's coming and we blend irresistably with the rest of the natural world into the grand phenomenon of September.

The impulse to gather and store is among these fundamental tides.

Markets are full of tall fragrant bouquets of dill, cases of blueberries, gunny sacks of cucumbers and corn, enticing, sturdy wooden crates brimming with peaches and plums, apricots, pears, crisp blushing apples, and industrious householders caught in the spell, marching out to their cars in the wake of cheerful produce workers, laden with their bushels of fruit.

Having canned and otherwise put by a full, lush half acre Western Oregon garden, having stood by the stove into the wee hours, forsaken for sleep by my more moderate mate, near weeping, surrounded by mountains of ripe yield yet to be approached, I have learned the cost of my compulsions for noble self-sacrifice, for going overboard, for simple hoarding.

I have since pared my harvest agenda to a few easy items: plum jam, which is so beautiful, Bing cherries, which are so easy, applesauce, so homey, beets, rich and lovely, peaches, for cream, raspberry jam, king of the winter treasury, chutney once in awhile, and without fail, lots of pickles.

These I arrange prominently by color in my pantry and dole out like a miser, fanged and horrible, until Thanksgiving. Then we feast.

Then all the condiments and summer gifts come out on to the table as a personal expression of respect and acknowledgement of the blessings of abundance.

Bread and Butter Pickles are one of my stand-by favorites. If you have peanut butter and pickle people on your list, these will make them smile and smile.

Wash and slice thinly:

50 or so medium cucumbers

If you get large ones, it is better to grind, grate or finely chop them for relish, otherwise the recipe is the same.

Chop fine:

5-6 large white onions

3 large sweet peppers.

Combine all these in a large crockery bowl with:

1/2 C. pure pickling salt or sea salt with no additives.

Cover with a clean towel and allow to stand for three hours, then drain off accumulated liquid.

Combine in a large stainless steel kettle:

5 C. cider vinegar

3 1/2 C. honey

3 Tbsp. mustard seed

1 tsp. turmeric

1 tsp,whole cloves

Bring it to a boil. Add drained cukes, heat thoroughly but do not reboil.

Pack while hot into sterilized jars and seal at once, processing for 10-15 minutes for a sure seal.

And keep your ears attuned for the low sweet clinks the lids make, the seasonal music of settle and cool.