Descartes said: ''I think, therefore I am.'' Shindler says: ''I can, therefore I am a canner.'' I have been a canner of fruits and vegetables, jams and jellies, preserves and conserves, marmalades and chutneys, since I was just out of my teens. And as a city slicker, I came to canning through some circuitous country roads. Let me tell you about them.
Many years ago, I took the long drive from Los Angeles, all the way up the bumpy spine of California, and over the Oregon border to the town of Ashland, wherein dwells the wondrous Ashland Shakespeare Festival.
For days, I lived quite well on a diet of Twelfth Night, King Lear and Timon of Athens (presented in modern dress). I ate cheese and bread on the village green, and after awhile, sated with the Bard, began to explore the surrounding countryside, in search of a bit of Americana. And one of the highlights of the region, I found, was the Harry & David factory in the sylvan burg of Medford, OR.
Harry & David (both long passed on to that apple orchard in the sky) are the plaid-shirted fellows in whose name the Fruit-of-the-Month Club ships thousands of packages of perfect pears, and ripe, lush peaches every month (depending on what's in season). You can go on a tour of the Harry & David plant, and watch ladies in hairnets wrap apples in tissue paper, then box them and send them on their way around the world.
Much more exciting than the tour, though, was the Harry & David store next door, which has sinced moved a little further away to 1314 Center Drive. In that store, you can buy cases of fruit for virtually nothing. What you're buying are the rejects – the fruit that isn't perfect enough to go in the gift boxes, but far better than anything you'll find in your local market.
In any case, that's how I came to arrive back in Los Angeles with around 200 pounds of peaches, pears and apples piled on the backseat of my fire engine red Volkswagen convertible. And, of course, every piece of fruit in each of those boxes was at the very peak of ripeness. I had never tried canning anything before in my life – nobody I knew had, though I did have a friend who made beer in his basement. But in this case, necessity had become the mother of preserves. And so, I threw myself into the process, heart, soul and ladle.
I spent many a hot, and often frustrating afternoon learning the hows and how nots of canning. I learned that preserves, jams and jellies use sugar at a rate that would make a dentist cringe. I learned that if you don't keep stirring, the sugar will caramelize on the bottom of whatever pot you're using, and nothing short of a nuclear blast will get it off. I learned not to re-use sealing caps – new ones are cheap, especially when the alternative is poisoning yourself. And I learned that pectin is a very confusing concept, and that the jellying point is even more confusing...and virtually impossible to achieve.
Over the years, I've continued to can things, though I'm more than aware of my inadequacies. I'm not too good at getting things to jell, and I don't like to have to blanch and peel. Still, I love spending a lazy summer afternoon sweating over a hot stove, putting up a couple of dozen jars of this and that, and then giving the results of my labors away come Christmas. For some, the sure sign of summer is a Dodger double-header. For me, it's a ladle, a pot, and a waterbath full of Mason jars.
– Merrill Shindler