Preservation satisfaction

I originally wrote this poem four or so years ago, but as I delivered the lunches to the pile-packing posse this past Thursday, thinking about how I needed to can more grape juice when I got done, the words floated back into my mind. 

While we are not quite done chopping, by the time you read this, we may be. The kitchen is in full force with meals being delivered three times daily, and my canner is far from being on vacation with the abundance of apples this year. I can imagine some of these words resonate with many of you as well. Safe harvest and happy canning.

The week of sun was in our favor

Our corn chopping crew really gave ‘er.

My garden has quit growing, praise be,

It’s the cool nights, though the days are sunny.

10,000 plus tons of quality forage,

Packed down tight for winter storage.

Quart upon quart of delicious treasures

Filling the shelves with cold weather pleasures.

Months ago, they planted, fertilized and sprayed,

No doubt there were moments they even prayed.

All summer we planted, tilled, weeded and did our best to coax

I admit, would compare mine to other folk’s.

When the chopper hit the farm, kids were excited

“Can I ride in a truck?” Cora and Henry were delighted.

A carrot so long it was almost Cora’s height

Henry exclaimed, “Someone in China is taking a bite.”

Quality was good, the smell was fantastic

By Saturday night we were ready for plastic.

Beet and bean yield was high, we were impressed

Hot water bathing, pressure canning; I am slightly obsessed.

The roll of plastic unfurls like snow sliding on a tin roof

Tighten ‘er down, so the bunker becomes waterproof.

Everything washed, cut, hot and ready to go

I watched the canner carefully for fear she’ll blow.

Tires were thrown, from wall to wall

Wind snaps the loose spots; the air smells like fall.

Rings were tightened, jars heated for their time

Ah, that precious ping; food preserved at its prime.

They stand back, grimy hands on hips

“That’s our fastest time ever,” Peter quips.

I wipe my hands on my apron and admire

“These jars are so beautiful,” gazing at them, I never tire.

We’ll have ample haylage and corn silage it seems,

Harvest is almost done, fulfilling the farmer’s dreams.

Peaches, pie filling, pickles a plenty, tomatoes just right

Squash soup getting frozen for many a cold night.

High moisture corn, as we turn the calendar page

We’ll wait ‘til it’s right, checking the moisture gauge.

Apples in abundance, last in line for preservation,

Then my canners can take a needed vacation.

Soon the bunkers will be full and sit at the ready

To feed all the cows and hold their milk production steady.

Soon jars of all colors will be full and ready for bellies

From the sauces to the butters right down to the jellies.

Jacqui Davison and her family milk 800 cows and farm 1,200 acres in northeastern Vernon County, Wisconsin. Her children, Ira, Dane, Henry and Cora, help on the farm while her husband, Keith, works on a grain farm. If she’s not in the barn, she’s probably in the kitchen, trailing after little ones or sharing her passion of reading with someone. Her life is best described as organized chaos, and if it wasn’t, she’d be bored.