Sweet Pickles

Every time I can something... Ahem... Both times I've canned something I've felt like the first woman ever to try to manage the whole hot water bath thing (and all that entails) all the while keeping the children out of the kitchen and entertained. I love the whole process: the cooking, jar washing, filling, measuring, submerging... followed by the satisfying POP of a sealed jar. That's all awesome. But when babies start crying, toddlers whining, and kindergardeners making bubbles in the bathroom sink, things can feel a bit hairy. Mama starts to sweat. (Why do these damn veggies need to be canned in JULY!?). Steam clouds my vision. And things blow up. Things like a slightly over filled jar of pickles. Things like my temper. Yikes. 

Everything starts off well. Jars and lids are sanitized. The brine is made, everything is ready to go. I'm literally cool as a cucumber.

The children are all engaged and busy. I'm SURE I have time to do this before calamity strikes!

Oh crap. No Lola! Don't cry... Where is that binky???

Shoo. That was close. OK. Step one, fill the jars. Step two pour in the brine...Mmmm. This looks good. I love pickles. Hope these are good...

Wait a second... why is it so quiet? Well, at least they're playing nicely.

Ooo. I just love the smell of dill... wait a second what's that noise? Kids???

The kids are in the bathroom where they have turned the sink into a water table and are gleefully dumping cups full of bubbles all over the bathroom floor.

There may have been bubbles overflowing the sink and spilling on to the floor before I put a stop to the fun. But, Smoochy doesn't need to know that because it wouldn't be good for his stress levels.

Meanwhile, an ominus popping noise can be heard from the kitchen.

I dash upstairs.

 One jar down...

But, don't the survivors look pretty?

Seriously, how did my grandmothers and their mothers, and grandmothers do this? You know those ladies spent the summer putting up massive amounts of food with like six kids hanging from their apron strings. I've seen my grandmother's cold cellar where shelves full of nearly prehistoric peaches and tomatoes floated in jars covered with dust and cobwebs like some forgotten science experiment. Those shelves were packed to bursting in their glory. And me. I get all proud and take pictures of my three jars of pickles, as though it is some culinary feat preiviously unknown to womanhood. Sheesh. My great-grandmothers are laughing at me in heaven.