Animal, Vegetable, Miracle

by Barbara Kingsolver

  Symptomatic of this rural-urban identity crisis is our eager embrace of a recently imposed divide: the Red States and the Blue States. That color map comes to us with the suggestion that both coasts are populated by educated civil libertarians, while the vast middle and south are crisscrossed with the studded tracks of ATVs leaving a trail of flying beer cans and rebel yells. Okay, I’m exaggerating a little. But I certainly sense a bit of that when urban friends ask me how I can stand living here, “so far from everything?” (When I hear this question over the phone, I’m usually looking out the window at a forest, a running creek, and a vegetable garden, thinking: Define everything.) Otherwise sensitive coastal-dwelling folk may refer to the whole chunk of our continent lying between the Cascades and the Hudson River as “the Interior.” I gather this is now a common designation. It’s hard for me to see the usefulness of lumping Minneapolis, Atlanta, my little hometown in Kentucky, Yellowstone Park, and so forth, into a single category that does not include New York and California. “Going into the Interior” sounds like an endeavor that might require machetes to hack through the tangled vines.

  In fact, the politics of rural regions are no more predictable than those in cities. “Conservative” is a reasonable position for a farmer who can lose home and livelihood all in one year by taking a risk on a new crop. But that’s conservative as in, “eager to conserve what we have, reluctant to change the rules overnight,” and unrelated to how the term is currently (often incomprehensibly) applied in party politics. The farm county where I grew up had so few Republicans, they all registered Democrat so they could vote in the only local primary. My earliest understanding of radical, class-conscious politics came from miners’ strikes in one of the most rural parts of my state, and of our nation.

  The only useful generalization I’d hazard about rural politics is that they tend to break on the line of “insider” vs. “outsider.” When my country neighbors sit down with a new social group, the first question they ask one another is not “What do you do?” but rather, “Who are your people?” Commonly we will spend more than the first ten minutes of a new acquaintance tracing how our families might be related. If not by blood, then by marriage. Failing that, by identifying someone significant we have known in common. Only after this ritual of familial placing does the conversation comfortably move on to other subjects. I am blessed with an ancestor who was the physician in this county from about 1910 into the 1940s. From older people I’ll often hear of some memorably dire birth or farm accident to which my great-uncle was called; lucky for me he was skilled and Hippocratic. But even a criminal ancestor will get you insider status, among the forgiving. Not so lucky are those who move here with no identifiable family ties. Such a dark horse is likely to remain “the new fellow” for the rest of his natural life, even if he arrived in his prime and lives to be a hundred.

  The country tradition of mistrusting outsiders may be unfairly applied, but it’s not hard to understand. For much of U.S. history, rural regions have been treated essentially as colonial property of the cities. The carpetbaggers of the reconstruction era were not the first or the last opportunists to capitalize on an extractive economy. When urban-headquartered companies come to the country with a big plan—whether their game is coal, timber, or industrial agriculture—the plan is to take out the good stuff, ship it to the population centers, make a fortune, and leave behind a mess.

  Given this history, one might expect the so-called Red States to vote consistently for candidates supporting working-class values. In fact, our nation in almost every region is divided in a near dead heat between two parties that apparently don’t distinguish themselves clearly along class lines. If every state were visually represented with the exact blend of red and blue it earned in recent elections, we’d have ourselves a big purple country. The tidy divide is a media just-so story.

  Our uneasy relationship between heartland and coasts, farm and factory, country and town, is certainly real. But it is both more rudimentary and more subtle than most political analysts make it out to be. It’s about loyalties, perceived communities, and the things each side understands to be important because of the ground, literally, upon which we stand. Wendell Berry summed it up much better than “blue and red” in one line of dialogue from his novel Jayber Crow, which is peopled by farmers struggling to survive on what the modern, mostly urban market will pay for food. After watching nearly all the farms in the county go bankrupt, one of these men comments: “I’ve wished sometimes that the sons of bitches would starve. And now I’m getting afraid they actually will.”

  In high summer, about the time I was seeing red in my kitchen, the same thing was happening to some of our county’s tomato farmers. They had learned organic methods, put away the chemicals, and done everything right to grow a product consumers claimed to want. They’d waited the three years for certification. They’d watered, weeded, and picked, they’d sorted the round from the misshapen, producing the perfect organic tomatoes ordered by grocery chains. And then suddenly, when the farmers were finally bringing in these tomatoes by the truckload and hoping for a decent payout, some grocery buyers backtracked. “Not this week,” one store offered without warning, and then another. Not the next week either, nor the next. A tomato is not a thing that can be put on hold. Mountains of ripe fruits piled up behind the packing house and turned to orange sludge, swarming with clouds of fruit flies.

  These tomatoes were perfect, and buyers were hungry. Agreements had been made. But pallets of organic tomatoes from California had begun coming in just a few dollars cheaper. It’s hard to believe, given the amount of truck fuel involved, but transportation is tax-deductible for the corporations, so we taxpayers paid for that shipping. The California growers only needed the economics of scale on their side, a cheap army of pickers, and customers who would reliably opt for the lower price.

  As simply as that, a year of planning and family labor turned to red mush.

  Our growers had been warned that this could happen—market buyers generally don’t sign a binding contract. So the farmers took a risk, and took a loss. Some of them will try again next year, though they will likely hedge their bets with Delicata squash and peas as well. Courage, practicality, and making the best of a bad situation are much of what farming is about. Before the tomatoes all rotted away, Appalachian Harvest found a way to donate and distribute the enormous excess of unpurchased produce to needy families. The poor of our county were rich in tomatoes that summer.

  “We were glad we could give it away,” one of the farmers told me. “We like to be generous and help others, that’s fine, that’s who we are. But a lot of us are barely making ends meet, ourselves. It seems like it’s always the people that have the least who end up giving the most. Why is that?”

  In Charlottesville, Asheville, Roanoke, and Knoxville, supermarket shoppers had no way of knowing how much heartache and betrayal might be wrapped up in those cellophane two-packs of California tomatoes. Maybe they noticed the other tomatoes were missing this week, those local ones with the “Healthy Farms, Close to Home” label. Or maybe they just saw “organic tomatoes,” picked them up, and dropped them into their carts on top of the cereal boxes and paper towels. Eaters must understand, how we eat determines how the world is used.

  They will or they won’t. And the happy grocery store music plays on.

  * * *

  Canning Season

  BY CAMILLE

  When I was a kid, summer was as long as a lifetime. A month could pass without me ever knowing what day of the week it was. Time seemed to stretch into one gigantic, lazy day of blackberry picking and crawdad hunting. My friends and I would pretty much spend our lives together, migrating back and forth between the town swimming pool and the woods, where we would pretend to be orphans left to our own devices in the wilderness. School was not on our minds. Our world was green grass, sunshine, and imagination.

  Then August would roll around: a tragedy every time. “Already? How can this be?” I would ask
, shattered by the terrible truth that I needed a three-ring binder and some #2 pencils. It’s not that school was a bad thing. Summer was just so much better.

  August is rarely announced to kids by a calendar. For some of my friends it was the shiny floors and fluorescent lights of the department stores with their back-to-school sales that brought the message. For me it was the bubbling canning bath and the smell of tomatoes. In my family the end of summer means the drone of our food-dehydrator is background music, and you can’t open the fridge without huge lumpy bags of produce falling out and clobbering your feet. Every spare half-hour goes into cutting up something to be preserved: the beans and corn to be blanched and frozen, the cucumbers sliced and pickled, the squash frozen or dehydrated or pawned off on a friend. And then there are the tomatoes. Pounds of them roll down from the garden each day, staining every one of our kitchen towels with their crimson juices. We slice little ones by the hundred and lay them out on the stackable trays of our food-drier. We can the medium-sized ones, listening afterward for each “ping” that tells us the jar lid has properly sealed. The rest go into big, bubbling pots of tomato sauce.

  I’m sure this sounds like a hassle and mess to those who have never done it. But for us it’s an important part of summer. Not only because the outcome is great meals for the rest of the year, but because the process is our way of saying good-bye to the sunshine and pace of summer, and reflecting on what the season gave us. August’s busy kitchen is our transition from the long, open-ended hours of summer outdoor work to the stricter routines of school and work in the fall. I like to think of it as an end-of-summer meditation.

  American culture doesn’t allow much room for slow reflection. I watch the working people who are supposed to be my role models getting pushed to go, go, go and take as little vacation time as possible. And then, often, vacations are full of endless activity too, so you might come back from your “break” feeling exhausted. Canning tomato sauce isn’t exactly a week at the spa, but it definitely forces a pause in the multitasking whirl of everyday life. It’s a “slow down and do one thing at a time” process: now chop vegetables, now stir them until the sauce thickens, now sterilize the jars, make sure each ring is tight. If you’re going to do anything else at the same time, it had better just be listening to your own thoughts. Anything else could cause you to blow the entire batch. Canning always puts me in a kind of trance. I reach a point where stirring the bubbling sauce is the world’s only task, and I could do it forever. Whether you prefer to sit on a rock in a peaceful place, or take a wooden spoon to a simmering pot, it does the body good to quiet down and tune in.

  The basic canning process is as simple as this: (1) tomatoes are dropped into boiling water and peeled, or else cooked down with other ingredients into sauce; (2) they are poured into sterilized mason jars (we take them straight from the dishwasher) and capped with two-part, screw-on lids; and (3) the filled jars are boiled for the number of minutes specified by the recipe, in a big pot of water. We use an enamelware canning kettle that handles ten quarts at a time.

  The following recipes are some personal favorites for storing our bounty of summer produce all year long. The family secret in our tomato sauce (which obviously won’t be, now) is cinnamon and nutmeg, usually thought of as dessert spices but used in savory tomato dishes in Greek and some Middle Eastern cuisines. The three-sauce recipe is adapted from The Busy Person’s Guide to Preserving Food by Janet Chadwick. Our green-bean Holy Mole was inspired by Recipes from a Kitchen Garden by Renee Shepherd and Fran Raboff—a helpful book for preparing meals based on fresh garden produce. The recipes are simple but very creative.

  FRIJOLE-MOLE

  ½ pound trimmed green beans

  Steam until tender.

  1 coarsely chopped onion

  1 tablespoon olive oil

  Sauté onions over medium heat until they become slightly transparent.

  3 hard-boiled eggs

  2 cups fresh basil leaves

  1 tablespoon lemon juice (optional)

  Combine beans, cooked onions, eggs, basil, and lemon juice in food processor and blend into a coarse puree.

  Mayonnaise or yogurt

  Salt and pepper

  Remove puree to a bowl and combine with enough mayonnaise or yogurt to hold mixture together. Add salt and pepper to taste. This spread is fantastic served on crusty bread, crackers, or rice cakes.

  FAMILY SECRET TOMATO SAUCE

  The point of this recipe is to make a large amount at one time, when tomatoes are in season. If you’re canning it, stick closely to the recipe; adding additional fresh vegetables will change the pH so it’s unsafe for water-bath canning. If you’re freezing it, then it’s fine to throw in peppers, mushrooms, fresh garlic, whatever you want. This recipe makes 6–7 quarts—you can use a combination of pint and quart canning jars or freezer boxes.

  10 quarts tomato puree (about 30 pounds tomatoes)

  4 large onions, chopped

  1 cup dried basil

  ½ cup honey

  4 tablespoons dried oregano

  3 tablespoons salt

  2 tablespoons ground dried lemon peel

  2 tablespoons thyme

  2 tablespoons garlic powder (or more, to taste)

  2 tablespoons dried parsley

  2 teaspoons pepper

  2 teaspoons cinnamon

  ½ teaspoon nutmeg

  Soften onions in a heavy 3-gallon kettle—add a small amount of water if necessary but no oil if you are canning (very important!). Add pureed tomatoes and all seasonings, bring to a boil, and simmer on low heat for two to three hours until sauce has thickened to your liking. Stir frequently, especially toward the end, to avoid burning. Meanwhile, heat water in canner bath, sterilize jars in boiling water or dishwasher, and pour boiling water over jar lids.

  Bottled lemon juice or citric acid—NOT optional!

  Add 2 tablespoons of lemon juice OR ½ teaspoon citric acid to each quart jar (half that much to pint jars). This ensures that the sauce will be safely acidic. When the sauce is ready, ladle it into the jars, leaving ½-inch headspace. Cap jars, lower gently into canner and boil for 35 minutes. Remove, cool, check all seals, label, and store for winter.

  RELISH, SAUCE, AND CHUTNEY—ALL IN ONE DAY

  If you don’t have a garden, you can stock up on tomatoes, peaches, apples, and onions at the end of summer, when your farmers’ market will have these at the year’s best quality and price. Then, schedule a whole afternoon and a friend for this interesting project that gives you three different, delicious products to eat all winter.

  Canning jars and lids: 14 pint jars, 7 half-pint jars

  Start with a very large, heavy kettle. You will be adding different ingredients and canning different sauces as you go.

  4 quarts tomato puree

  24 apples

  7 cups chopped onions

  2 quarts cider vinegar

  6 cups sugar

  2/3 cup salt

  3 teaspoons ground cloves

  3 teaspoons cinnamon

  2 teaspoons paprika

  2 teaspoons mustard

  Puree tomatoes; core and coarsely chop apples; coarsely chop onions. Combine in large pot along with the vinegar, sugar, and seasonings. Bring to a boil and simmer for about 2 hours or until thick. Meanwhile, preheat water in a canner bath and sterilize jars and lids (in boiling water or dishwasher) and keep them hot until use. Fill 7 pint jars with some of the thickened Barbecue Relish, leaving ½ inch headspace in each jar. Put filled jars in canner with lids screwed on tightly and boil for ten minutes. Remove and cool.

  2 quarts sliced peaches

  6 cups sugar

  ½ cup water

  2 teaspoons garlic powder

  1 teaspoon Tabasco sauce

  In a separate pan, cook peaches and water for 10 minutes, until soft. Add sugar and bring slowly to boil, stirring until sugar dissolves. Boil until thick (15 minutes), stirring to prevent scorching.

  Add peach mixture to th
e remaining tomato mixture in the kettle and bring back up to a boil to make Sweet and Sour Sauce. Fill 7 pint jars, leaving ½ inch headspace; boil in canner for 10 minutes. Remove and cool.

  1 cup raisins

  1 cup walnuts

  Add these to the kettle, mix well, and bring it back to a boil to make Chutney. Fill 7 half-pint jars, leaving ½ inch headspace. Boil in canner for 10 minutes. Remove.

  As all the jars cool, make sure the jar lids pop their seals by creating a vacuum as contents cool. You’ll hear them go “ping.” To double-check, after they’re entirely cooled, push down on each lid’s center—it should feel firmly sucked down, not loose. (If a jar didn’t seal, refrigerate and use the contents soon.) The ring portion of the lid can be removed before storing; when processed properly, the dome lids will stay securely sealed until you open the jar with a can opener.

  Label each product before you forget what’s what, and share with the friend who helped. The Barbecue Relish is great on broiled or grilled fish or chicken. The Sweet and Sour Sauce gives an Asian flavor to rice dishes. Chutney can perk up anything.

  Download these and all other Animal, Vegetable, Miracle recipes at www.AnimalVegetableMiracle.com

  TOMATO SEASON MEAL PLAN

  Sunday ~ Grilled chicken with tomato salad and corn on the cob

  Monday ~ Homemade gazpacho with fresh bread and cream cheese

  Tuesday ~ Roasted tomato-eggplant ratatouille with rice (or bread) and grated Parmesan

  Wednesday ~ Grilled fish or lamb, served with crusty bread, chutney, and green-bean paté

  Thursday ~ Asian vegetable stir fry with soba noodles (or rice) and sweet-and-sour sauce

  Friday ~ Pizza with sliced tomatoes, fresh basil, mozzarella, and a drizzle of olive oil