Summer in a Jar

When I was growing up, summer wasn’t summer unless my mother was in the kitchen putting up a batch of old-fashioned bread and butter pickles. Oh how we loved eating them on a hot summer day: the sweetness of the sugar, the bite of the vinegar, the crisp of the cucumber slice, and the slippery onion strands. It was glorious summer in every forkful! We kids were happy to be pickle helpers.

Usually near the end of July or the beginning of August, when temperatures soared into the nineties, my mother would announce, “Today we make pickles!”

We kids would grab our baskets and swarm into the garden amidst the prickly cucumber vines. Baby cukes that were too little would be left until later. Big lunkers that had escaped earlier detection would be plucked and rolled out of the patch for the rabbits and raccoons. The “just-right” cucumbers were piled in our baskets, headed for the vegetable chopping block. Dad was working too, digging up baseball-sized white onions and tossing them in a wheelbarrow. Soon, all the produce was washed and delivered to Mom’s kitchen.

The table and countertops were covered with newspapers, and three cream-colored crocks squatted on the floor. We older kids had the privilege of using knives. We would slice each green cucumber into “just-so” slices, not too thin, not too thick. Mom would inspect out handiwork.

“That’s a tree stump, not a cucumber slice!” She declared. Or, “We are cutting cucumbers, not shaving them!”

Dad sliced the onions on a wire contraption called a mandoline. It was dangerous. He tried to show my mother how to use it, but she promptly sliced off a fingertip, and that was the end of pickle making for that year! Younger kids would gather up the cucumbers and onions and place them in layers in the crocks, all the while liberally sprinkling them with pickling salt. Some years, depending on the young age of the children, there would be more salt on the floor then in the crocks.

While the pickles “brined,” newspapers were rolled up and clean dishtowels spread over the work surfaces. Glass jars and lids were sterilized in boiling water and set out on the kitchen table, waiting to be packed. Big pots were placed on the stove and pickling juice was measured in: water, vinegar, sugar, and spices. My mother never tied her spices neatly in cheesecloth bags. These were real pickles we were making; everything went into the pot and swam together in steamy goodness. Mustard seed, celery seed, sometimes a little dill seed, or whole peppercorns were tossed in. Sometimes a toe of garlic snuck into the pot and turmeric made the pickles crisp and gave them a little touch of sunshine color.

By this time, the temperature in the kitchen was 95 degrees and climbing. Mom unfastened the top two buttons of her blouse, Dad was down to his undershirt, and we kids changed into cutoff tops and shorts. Dad hoisted the crocks over the sink and drained off the salty water that had been drawn off the cucumbers and onions. Mom brought the big stove pots to a simmer and then carefully loaded in the cucumber and onion slices.

It was then that the kitchen smelled like heaven. Great clouds of sugary vinegar aroma rose and swirled about. It was a heady, dizzying scent, one that made you want to jump into a haystack or ride a Ferris wheel. It was like inhaling the entire spice cabinet and then rolling around in the vegetable patch. It cleared the nose and tickled the toes! There is no smell on God’s green Earth like that of pickle making on a hot summer day!

After a few short minutes of simmering, the pickles and onion were packed into jars and the rims were carefully wiped. A butter knife was passed down the side of the jar to let out any stray bubbles that might be hiding amongst the pickles. Lids were placed on the jars and the rings were twisted lightly into place.

By this time, the thermometer had soared to over 100 degrees. We fled into the front room and flopped in front of the fan. Now we played a waiting game. If the pickles “took,” each jar would make a sucking pop as the lid sealed onto the jar. We listened intently for the satisfying “pop.” We needn’t have worried, because my mother’s bread and butter pickles always “took.” This meant the bread and butter pickles could be kept at room temperature, if they lasted that long. Usually, we ate them up, with hamburgers, hot dogs, grilled cheese sandwiches, or just right out of the jar.

Sometimes, as an adult, I’ve tried other pickle recipes. My sister-in-law makes a “kill pickle” with cucumbers and hot peppers. And I’ve tried dill pickles in a crock. Sometimes the pickles turn out and sometimes they don’t. The ones that don’t turn out get buried in the backyard. However, when I make my mother’s old-fashioned bread and butter pickles, they always turn out. As I put them up, I think of her. I think of summer. I think of love.