Hovering, and Wishing For Only the Best

There are now "helicopter parents" -- the 21st-century pattern of dubious child-rearing best characterized by teenager who complains that "mother hovers over me like a helicopter."  Teachers and school administrators are too-well acquainted with these types; classrooms and Principal's offices having become veritable helipads for the landing of overly zealous parents who have taken "child advocacy" to steroidal levels, determined to spare their child any speck of dust, any discouraging word, any ripple in their pond.  Hovering, whirring up an almost tornadic sandstorm of affection, concern, paranoia and smothering, finally landing with hand sanitizer at the ready.

Suddenly, however, I understand. 

It has been our intention, ever since moving to Taproot Garden, to "put up" the excess the harvest.  Arranging the household, we established a canning kitchen in the lower level, equipped with shelving, countertops, a utility sink and a stove.  Along the way we have accumulated books on the subject, attended seminars, and more recently purchased supplies.  All we lacked was the harvest.  That, however, we were confident was only a matter of time.

But then we panicked.  We had never canned before; and we were going to learn on our own precious harvest?  The tomatoes and peppers and cucumbers and the rest that we had labored over, weeded around, sprinkled around and sung to since seed cells in the greenhouse?  Our...horticultural children?  Horrors!  What if (as was completely likely) we screwed it up?    Absolutely not!  What we needed, we declared, was some practice. 

We had ordered jars online, though they hadn't yet been delivered.  Target, however, had them on sale.  Shortly before closing time on Saturday we hurried through the Downtown Farmer's Market and snatched up discounted boxes of "ugly" tomatoes, Serrano peppers and garlic.  Heading home we detoured by Costco to procure large containers of strawberries plus the essential water bath pot for the canning, and headed home.

Looking back, the rest of the weekend is something of a blur of sanitizing, boiling, chopping, mashing, simmering, filling, lowering, raising, rereading instructions, and listening in the end for that almost musical telltale "pop" that signals the lid has miraculously sealed.  And sampling...with a satisfied smile. 

The result? 

• 18 pints of strawberry preserves (half spiced, half traditional)
• 18 pints of tomato sauce
• 8 pints of salsa

This, from the practice session.  Meanwhile, looking ahead, there is still the produce ripening in our own garden.   Assuming, that is, we can actually bear the thought of picking it, chopping it, and submerging its jars beneath the roiling boil of the canner.

Because I now recognize that we have become...
"helicopter gardeners."