At her CruzTalking Two blog, the other DrC has a very charming recollection of her days helping with her family's home canning of fruit. Her mom, something of a force of nature, cajoled the neighborhood kids into helping. I think you'll enjoy her memories, I know I did.
She has me thinking about my days helping my own mom home can fruit, jam, and pickles. The fruit and jam were fine but I hated the way pickles and green tomato relish made the house smell. I don't like to eat either and I really hated the smell of hot vinegar, but I ground up bushels of green tomatoes.
Our family moved from LA to the country when I was in 3rd grade. Our place in Hollywood became freeway right-of-way and we moved to our weekend cabin one county up the coast.
That one room cabin sat in an orange orchard and so from about age 8 I grew up in the country, riding a big yellow bus to school. A couple of years later we expanded the cabin into a nice home where I lived until I went away to college. I made the money for my first car trapping gophers out of that orange orchard - left alone gophers kill the trees.
Our place there had formerly been an apricot orchard of which three old trees remained. We had all the 'cots we could eat, plus apricot pies. We canned dozens of quarts of 'cots and dozens of pints of apricot pineapple jam. We also canned boysenberry jam, apple butter, and occasionally plum jam.
Oddly, we never made marmalade. We grew Valencias - juice oranges - picked by braceros working for the Sunkist packing plant. Dad and I didn't drink much of the juice, but mom liked it.
In later years I’ve claimed to be the stereotypical Californian: “Born in Hollywood, and grew up in an orange orchard.” Every word of it true, too.
Mid-20th century California was an amazing place, a near-paradise. People had largely ruined it by century’s end. The other DrC and I no longer call it home, though we still visit non-urban areas where a bit of its former magic persists.
