Canning Applesauce

 

The day before my daughter was born in May of '69 we moved to this acreage between Urbandale and Grimes. I was so happy to be living back out in the country - peace, quiet, anonymity and an old barn for my son Douglas to play in. Plus we could get his dog Mimi back from my sister who had been caring for her during the almost two years we had been living in city apartments. We had room for a garden and plenty of apples from the trees growing there. Though I didn't have the equipment, or know how to spray for worms each spring.

Applesauce

by Ted Kooser

I liked how the starry blue lid
of that saucepan lifted and puffed,
then settled back on a thin
hotpad of steam, and the way
her kitchen filled with the warm,
wet breath of apples, as if all
the apples were talking at once,
as if they'd come cold and sour
from chores in the orchard,
and were trying to shoulder in
close to the fire. She was too busy
to put in her two cents' worth
talking to apples. Squeezing
her dentures with wrinkly lips,
she had to jingle and stack
the bright brass coins of the lids
and thoughtfully count out
the red rubber rings, then hold
each jar, to see if it was clean,
to a window that looked out
through her back yard into Iowa.
And with every third or fourth jar
she wiped steam from her glasses,
using the hem of her apron,
printed with tiny red sailboats
that dipped along with leaf-green
banners snapping, under puffs
of pale applesauce clouds
scented with cinnamon and cloves,
the only boats under sail
for at least two thousand miles.

The time came when I decided to pick some of those apples and make applesauce to can and place on those shelves in the basement. Save a little money, why not? I still remember the hours I spent in a hot kitchen, peeling, cutting out the wormy parts, dicing and cooking down all those apples just to end up with a measly few pint jars of applesauce. It was the first, last and only time I canned applesauce.