A Memorable Day with Mom, by Mary Mulvihill, July 2002

My son, Geoff, and I were visiting Mom when he was about seven. He was going to spend a day with my brother and nephew, so I proposed that Mom and I do something special. She had the choice of any activity.

I suggested that we visit her favorite relatives or go out for lunch and antiquing, but I let her have the final say. I would drive and buy lunch. I hoped for a memorable day.

Geoff slept at my brother's the night before the big day. Mom had not given any indication as to what we would do. I was disappointed that we would not see Aunt Judy and Uncle Bill. We needed to call ahead to arrange that trip.

The banging of the frying pan awoke me well before seven as Mom started our day with a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs. Her eyes were fairly blazing when she stated her choice for our special day. We would can beans.

Can beans! I was devastated. That was hard work. I wanted to have fun with Mom. She replied that nothing was more exciting than providing food for her family. We wouldn't waste time or money on something frivolous, but we would be productive and have something worthwhile to show for our time together. I was not happy, but it was her call.

After breakfast I drove Mom to the country garden she shared with her sister. The sun was hazy with high humidity and there was little breeze. Insects bit as I perspired and the fuzz from the bean plants irritated my exposed arms and legs. We picked several pails full of green beans. Aunt Katie wanted to visit, but Mom didn't have time for socializing. After a quick glass of iced tea we were on our way back to Mom's house in town.

Next came the bean washing. Using the garden hose we rinsed the beans several times, picking off dried blossoms that clung to the hairy beans and got rid of other foreign matter.

Mom filled large aluminum pans with water and beans. She sat hers on her

lap and over the edge of the kitchen table. Mom had this technique down, but it was not comfortable for me. My shirt front got soaked. On the table were big kettles for the cut green beans.

Each of us was armed with a paring knife. Mom was very adept at grabbing a handful of beans, while checking them over one last time. With quick snips she sliced off the ends, then cut the beans into inch-long pieces that landed in her kettle. I was not nearly so coordinated as to get the beans cut evenly or into the kettle.

I know Mom hoped this project would inspire me to can garden produce to save money and feed my family. It wasn't working.

We broke for a lunch of leftovers. The kitchen was heating up even more with Mom's kettle of beans on the stove. She didn't want to tax her window air conditioner with the extra heat of the canning. It was left off and there still wasn't any breeze. She did agree to turn on the oscillating fan, but it didn't have much effect.

As I did the dishes from lunch, Mom went in her dank, dark basement to get pint jars. They were washed and stored there after she used up the previous contents. The jars needed to be washed in extra hot water and aired dried, while the lids and rings were boiled to sterilized them. This only added to the already unbearable heat in the kitchen.

After the cooking to the point where purplish-colored foam appeared, the beans were funneled into jars. Each jar rim was wiped clean before a lid was secured with a ring. The jars were locked into the pressure cooker for what seemed like hours and hours. The heavy steel pressure disk was placed on protruding tip of the canner set for the recommended pounds of pressure. It would whistle and spin during the process.

The kitchen was a sticky mess with my stray beans on the floor and kettles everywhere. While the canner was on the stove, we washed the equipment and scrubbed the floor. Then we took showers and collapsed in the living room.

Mom expected that every jar would seal. We listened for the popping sound that signaled good seals, then checked the for indented lids to confirm the safe seals.

At the end of the day there were sixteen pints of green beans to feed my family the next winter. I was still hot and had cut my hand. Mom was ecstatic to have put up so much food for her family. I was thinking that it would cost about five dollars to buy sixteen cans of green beans at the grocery. Home-canned beans taste better than store-bought, but they are not worth the hassle. I haven't canned a thing since.

That night for supper we had green beans and ham! The day wasn't what I had envisioned, but I remember Mom in her glory feeding her family with the fruits of her labor. I treasure that memory.

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