The Canning Pot

I lived a wonderful childhood in the Lowcountry of South Carolina. It was filled with three generations of beautiful ladies tending their gardens and their sewing. Stirring their pots.

One pot, and one lady in particular, was the most magical. It was Mama and her canning pot. As a young man, my heart would skip a beat when the big black kettle was placed on the stove. Colorful vegetables from the garden would line the kitchen counters and dozens upon dozens of clear glass jars would catch the early morning light. Canning was an all day adventure.

Soon, the water in the great dark stockpot would begin to boil, and cotton candy steam would issue from under its lid. It was then that Mama, in her long skirts and sandals, would set about her humble work. Swaying to the music only she could hear, her dark dark hair curling in the humid kitchen, she would chop her vegetables, boil her fruits with sugar and pectin, and fill the jars with little jewels.

The pot itself is one of our heirlooms, an old thing used by many of the women of my tribe. I know I'm getting older because I realize it for what it is: a precious, dented, chipped, enameled vessel, the metal of which has absorbed the love from so many ladies' fingertips. Their spoons have stirred a sort of life into that pot, a heartbeat. Everything it gives birth to is delicious.

I know I'm getting older because Mama let me borrow that pot, and gave me a box of mason jars to go along with it. Over coffee that morning on her deck-looking out on the garden we tended together for nearly twenty years, which is beyond verdant now-I copied a recipe for pickled okra from her ancient copy of Charleston Reciepts.

If you're not from the South, that's the gold standard of Carolina cooking. The oldest copies of this text will tell you not only how to cook, but how to cure your family's ills, make sick-room candles from newspaper and tallow, and use dirt as dye. Its a woman's grimoire, a collection of wisdom that ranges from Benne wafers to bridal cakes.

So, with that old pot and those jars and that heirloom recipe, I found my joy. My own old house in the midlands (so very near to the Line of Suspicion, you know...) was full of the sounds I always associated with the canning pot, the clinking of glass in its night-black confines, the bubbling of water, the hiss of steam. The smells: moisture, vinegar, sugar, the green-bright smell of fresh vegetables. Armed with memories (so near to tears) and pinot grigio, I enacted the rituals she taught me.

It didn't stop with pickling the okra. I made pickled green beans and peach jam. I made chutney and relish and dill pickles. Daniel got caught up in the memories and the wine and the great love affair I was living, and set himself up to can as well. In his kitchen, we wore blue eyeshadow and aprons and drank much more expensive wine. Hearts were light that night.

When it was time for me to return the canning pot, I drove down into the Lowcountry-my favorite place of all, even for all of my runnings around this world-down to that place of moss-hung live oaks and salt air. I spent last weekend with my Mama in her old house, filled with amber Depression glass and surrounded by centuries old trees.

She set the pot to boiling on her stove and I was small again, a slight boy with white blonde hair, tugging at her skirts. My decade of culinary experience went right out the window and I became her helper. We made beautiful things: amethyst plum jam and pepper jelly (which is a South Carolina staple, served over cream cheese with good crackers). We delighted ourselves as the metal lids sang out their songs, going "pop, pop, pop!" as they sealed on the counter. We exhausted ourselves in the kitchen and laughed ourselves to tears. It was exquisite.

Lowcountry Pickled Okra
3.5 lbs fresh okra
7 cloves garlic
7 hot peppers
1 qt water
2 C apple cider vinegar
1/3 C pickling salt
2 tsp dill seeds


-Sterilize seven jars, lids, and rims for ten minutes in boiling water.
-Combine dill seeds, salt, vinegar, and water. Bring to a boil.
-Pack hot jars tightly with okra, add one clove of garlic and one pepper to each.
-Pour the hot brine over the okra, leaving 1/2 inch headspace in the jar.
-Cap the jars with lids and rims, return to the boiling water and process for ten minutes.
-Remove the jars from the boiling water, arrange on a towel.
-You will hear the lids go "pop!" as they seal.
-Store in a dark place, enjoy as soon as a week after canning.