Pete’s and my canning project is a practical approach to solving a number of problems and furthering a few causes. Let’s review.

1. After Dad’s death, we still have hundreds, if not thousands, of jars and bottles sitting in the garage in Virginia.

2. Dad’s spice cabinet was full and now many herbs, spices and mysterious ingredients sit on my living room floor.

3. Pete and I both work two jobs and will have little opportunity to shop for holiday presents.

4. This is the family’s first Christmas without Dad, who did the vast majority of food preparation for family events, including Miss Sasha’s bridal shower.

5. Pete has an interest in developing his own recipes and his own flavors.

6. I am learning so much so fast I have hope that I might be able to learn again. This may mean the damage medication and depression did to my brain is not an insurmountable obstacle.

7. Pete and I like the idea of giving gifts we made as much as possible from materials grown by local farmers.

I am a shitty photographer but if I weren’t you’d see these lovely, jewel-colored concoctions with better lighting. I moved a few things around to see if I could work out a better lighting scheme – but no. See these humble images and know that if you found yourself in Pete’s tidy, utilitarian basement, you would see on the shelves a growing collection of vivid hues and startling textures in jars ranging from 4 oz. to 32 oz. – 1/2 cup to 1 quart. This jar at left is 1/2 cup, and that concoction is a lush, tropical green that makes my heart sing.

From top to bottom, these images bring us full circle: berry-wine jelly, herbes de Provence jelly and spicy peach barbecue sauce, kiwi daiquiri jam, and I think the berry-wine jam again. Try as I might, I could not photograph the sparkling garnet of the pomegranate jelly or the whole plum tomatoes and do their beauty any justice, and the basil tomato sauce proved utterly coy before the light of the flash bulb. Shortly after these I took these pictures, Pete said, “Hey, didja notice when you do this – see? – on your camera you can change the exposure?” No. Of course, I didn’t know. I’m so busy being dazzled by the light.

Pete and I have a project. We’re canning. See: when Dad died, the garage was full of about 10,000 bottles and jars – many very beautiful – that no one knew what to do with. I went home in April, thinking I’d love to do canning as individual art pieces, which I now know was thinking above my pay grade. In July, it turned out Pete was interested in canning and in me. We bought a book. We studied up. We brought back from Virginia cases of Dad’s jars. Those free minutes we have together? We blanche something!

I will talk a lot more about this as we get further into this project, which is canning with Dad’s jars and using Dad’s ingredients. One interesting aspect to our current story is that though Pete and I have been acquainted more or less since I was this many (holding up five fingers), we have not really known one another at all until now.

Tata: While you were at work, I went shopping! It was exhausting!
Pete: I saw all kinds of things in my kitchen. What did you do?
Tata: First, I went to Michael’s, where I thought I might find Ball Jar labels, but no! Then, while I was there, I looked for a book stand for your cookbooks, but no! The only ones they had were fake icky wrought iron with chickens, and I like a chicken-free decor.
Pete: No country kitchen, thank you.
Tata: So I found a good brand of yarn on sale for $1 a skein and you will pretend not to notice my yarn fixation.
Pete: Pretending…go.
Tata: So from there I went to Barnes and Noble for your book stand but in between I passed a well-dressed man shilling for the D.A.R.E. program and he started his patter on me. I said, “Actually, I think kids should be doing more drugs,” and kept walking. He made a noise like he was leaking steam.
Pete: You really said that?
Tata: Of course! Barnes and Noble was packed to the rafters, with only one cashier. You have no idea how surly bibliophiles become when unable to purchase the latest John Grisham.
Pete: Did ya riot?
Tata: I considered it, but there were New Yorkers on line, complaining out loud that the cashier ought to practice oogenesis and become four fully functional cashiers. That plan had many flaws so I smiled sweetly and pretended to be Lithuanian.
Pete: It was very nice of you to buy me the book stand.
Tata: No, it wasn’t. You weren’t there when the $45 cookbook was soaked and I borrowed the blowdrier from your housemate’s timid girlfriend, and I can assure you they were extremely naked and mortified. They would have loaned me car keys to get me to bug off.
Pete: Did you find labels?
Tata: Nope. Next, I went to Office Depot, where I walked around and around in circles, trying to guess which labels would fit on the jars. The staff suggested one of those P-Touch gadgets you type stuff into and out comes the label but it was an investment so I told them I’d consult with my esteemed colleague on the matter.
Pete: Do the labels come in different sizes?
Tata: Yep. I don’t know what to make of it. Then I went to Home Depot and by this time I’d perfected staring into space as an art form. I picked up a clamp for the dryer vent and lovely black duct tape. Chic, oui?
Pete: Black?
Tata: Black. Stealthy! I will repair unseen! Then I dragged myself into a Hallmark store and asked them about labels. No luck there, either, and by then I was thinking how much I hated packaging engineers. Damn their eyes! Since I was I shopped for wine and groceries and by the time I got to the checkout I couldn’t count how many fingers I was holding up, so I dropped things off at your house and came home to nap. How was your day? Did you filet any waiters?
Pete: Not yet. But it’s just a matter of time.

It dawned on me in the grocery store, as cognitive ability was deserting me, that the label problem was solved by Dad and Darla by abandoning Ball Jar labels and going full metal household printer on the job. I don’t have a printer. What would you do?

This is not food. It is a substitute for food. Sure, it’ll keep you alive, but you’ll be resentful. Why? Because this shit’s making you fat, slothful, addlepated and hypertensive.

You don’t have to be a genius to look at a plate of this oozing goo and know it’s no good for you. Why? Look at it. No, really look at it. What do you see? White flour and a fatty substance that may or may not be a dairy product. Your first thought when someone puts down the plate ought to be, “You bastard! Attempted murder is a felony!” People poisoning cash-laden spouses with arsenic may thicken their plots faster than your dinner host but dead’s dead, and you’ll push up daisies with the same aplomb. From the Stouffer’s Nutrition Facts panel, which I can’t reproduce because I was born before the fucking Photoshop Cut-Off Date:

Serving Size 6 oz
Servings Per Container 2

Amount Per Serving
Calories 350 Calories From Fat 150

% Daily Value*

Total Fat 17 g 26%
Saturated Fat 7 g 35%
Trans Fat 0 g

Cholesterol 25 mg 8%
Sodium 920 mg 38%

Total Carbohydrates 34 g
Dietary Fiber 2 g 11%
Sugars 2 g 8%

Protein 15 g

Vitamin A 0%
Calcium 30%
Vitamin C 0%
Iron 8%

*Percent Daily Values are based on a 2,000 calorie diet. Your daily values may be higher or lower depending on your calorie needs.

Let’s be honest about a few things. You know why? Because lying is hard work – and who has the time?

1. I’m not brilliant. The rest of the label reads like that nightmare test I haven’t studied for and OMIGOD I’M NAKED! You’re a grownup. Read it yourself.

2. Nobody but nobody eats 6 oz of this glop and quits, which is why 2 servings come in that box. Six ounces is 3/4 of a cup. Go to your kitchen. Get a one-cup measuring cup. Three-quarters of that is your serving, and you know right away you’re going to eat twice that, aren’t you? Now, that means double your sodium, and that’s 76% of your daily sodium on one plate. Dude. You’re in trouble now.

3. That dietary fiber number means your digestive tract is done for the next 24 hours – unless you’re lactose intolerant, in which case: clear your schedule. Your lower intestine has plans for you!

4. Don’t get me started about what all this starch does to your brain. You get depressed, you eat this crap, then you get more depressed, then you’re buying this by the case and writing love letters to Morrissey. There’s a clue here somewhere.

Why are you doing this to yourself? You’re short on time, you can’t cook, you need some comfort ASAP or maybe it never occurred to you that Corporate America doesn’t love you like Mom. Note: if Mom’s making this crap for you, it might be a hint that Mom wants you the hell OUT.

You: Okay! I won’t eat the Stouffer’s! Ya happy?
Tata: Yeah yeah – NO.

You can find recipes for macaroni and cheese – which I am not now nor will I ever refer to by its dumb nickname – just about anywhere, both good and bad, but they are mostly bad. Answers.com, where I never go for recipes, offers this, which once again will keep you alive until it kills you. The Food Network lists 92 recipes; nutritionist Ellie Krieger’s includes lowfat cheeses and pureed winter squash, but that’s not much of an improvement over our boxed oozing goo. (Frankly, I value my arteries too much to even look at Paula Deen’s recipe.) Cooking.com gives us some better possibilities with the inclusion of beans, eggplant or mushrooms. America’s Test Kitchen, which I love with a fiery passion, challenges us wth a classic, a lighter version of macaroni and cheese, and one with ham and peas.

Macaroni and cheese was invented during the Depression to feed large families for virtually no money, with cheap, relatively plentiful ingredients until better was available. In 2007, not only are you not starving but you would have to be deaf, dumb, blind, marooned on a desert island and locked in your parents’ basement to not know that your body will function better with whole grains, fresh fruits and vegetables (frozen, in a pinch) and good quality protein sources. Moreover, you will always feel and think better when you prepare your own food and control the sodium content. I know we all take shortcuts, but boxed macaroni and cheese is a shortcut through the backyard of that neighbor with a pack of rottweilers.

Look, I grasp down to the soles of my Keds that sometimes you want to eat this crap and not think. You want the gooey, creamy, cheesy, thoughtless, artery-clogging goodness that reminds you of a better day, with a crunchy crust. And I respect that blue moon impulse in people who know better and will eat some stir-fried tofu tomorrow, but what is driving me fucking round the twist is parents shoving the detestable Kraft Easy Mac at their defenseless children instead of real food. Honest to Christ, it’s not, and parents are doing their children no favors here. I’m not even going to link to that shit. You can surf the net for it or drag yourself to your grocery store, where you can find the boxes you desire by following the trail of hyperactive fat children with glazed expressions and behavior problems.

Look, it’s just not that hard. Don’t eat this evil crap and don’t feed it to children.

Attention: Poor Impulsives! Please make your own sandwiches!

For dinner, Pete carved up a leftover grilled double-thick boneless pork chop and placed it in pleasing geometric patterns on square whole wheat bagel bread. He seasoned turkey breast with olive oil, salt and pepper and grilled it. Pete sliced the turkey breast and placed the slices on the geometrically pleasing pork chop slices before dripping homemade spicy peach barbecue sauce on the sandwiches and the counter. Finally, Pete added two slices of provolone to each pile. He put the sandwiches into a giant hot cast iron pan and covered them with aluminum foil, weighting them down with another cast iron pan. Pete whistled along with the tune on the radio and turned the sandwiches over. He cut them into appealing diagonal quarters. Then we ate the sandwiches and I said a lot of rude things that sounded like, “Ahhh mmmm. I would do you just for this.”

The current soap opera on Italian TV – Un medico in famiglia – opened recently with a picture of our sometimes comical patriarch holding a sign: Nonno Libero. Of course, my Italian is for crap so I was left with a problem of interpretation. Did that mean “Free Grandpa!” like, “Attica! Attica!” or, “Grandpa, free to a good home”? In this dark and economically uncertain time, when we’re inexplicably using parent as a verb, we may soon face packs of oldsters on streetcorners bearing signs: Will Grandparent For Food. It’s funny. But it’s not.

A few weeks ago, Daria, shouting at the tops of her lungs so Grandpa could hear her, asked about his new arrangement with Meals On Wheels. This was news to me.

Daria: HOW ARE YOU GETTING ALONG WITH THE MEALS ON WHEELS?
Grandpa: Fine, fine.
Daria: WHAT DO THEY FEED YOU?
Grandpa: A hot meal, three times a week. Those aren’t my favorite nights.

I stiffened. I’ve never heard Grandpa say a bad word about anything, let alone people who take care of him so I was confused. This morning, Daria had answers.

Tata: Promise me no one’s bringing Grandpa baloney sandwiches on white bread.
Daria: No, it’s nothing like that!
Tata: No baloney? No matter how it’s spelled?
Daria: They bring him a hot meal three nights a week. It’s good food. It’s just not his favorite.
Tata: What?
Daria: He says the meatloaf is good, but it’s not his friend Hoagy’s meatloaf.
Tata: You’re saying they don’t specialize in Thai, Italian and Moroccan dishes?
Daria: Yeah. It’s different when we’re there but we can’t always be there.
Tata: This is a veritable bouquet of good news/bad news pairings. It’s good news that someone feeds Grandpa but bad news that he’s not wild about the food. It’s good news that he goes out to the Vets every day but bad news that he goes home alone. It’s good news that he takes care of himself but bad news that we can’t anyway from hundreds of miles away. Christ, I’m depressing myself with this happy news.
Daria: That’s your special charm.

I’m grateful. Somehow gratitude is not enough.

Pete’s full of surprises. For instance, I don’t know about you but I get confused when a pastry chef says, “I don’t eat white flour.” It turns out Pete had a life-altering illness about the same time I did, lo when Gingrich roamed the earth, and now dietary elements I take for granted suddenly aren’t. I eat everything. He does not. This is not a problem. It’s a puzzle, and my brain rejoices.

When Dad was sick, I wracked my brains for simple and complicated ways to get a few calories past the bad taste cancer literally left in his mouth. On good days, when I thought of a way to trick the cancer palate, I felt like a million bucks. By comparison, lactose and white flour intolerance combined with an inability to digest seeds and nuts is a walk in the damn park.

I admit the lactose intolerance made my head spin a bit. A zillion years ago, I did a brief, embarrassing stint as a backup singer for this woman who played the women’s music circuit. Yes, there is one. Getting to sing was great fun but rehearsals kicked my ass. She was vegan and fed me gallons of coffee and soy milk, bagels and …something spread-y, I don’t recall what. Her heart was in the right place, but I spent whole afternoons in the bathroom. Thus, when Pete said, “I drink soy milk” I bit my lip and bought a box. I mean, what the hell. It’s not radioactive, right? It can’t hurt me from the inside of a cardboard box. One morning when I didn’t have to leave the house all afternoon, I poured a glooooop! of soy milk into my coffee and waited for digestive disaster.

None ensued. Emboldened by this minor triumph, I began pouring glooooops! of soy milk into my coffee every morning. Then Pete introduced into the diet soy spread, which turned out to be tasty and perfectly okay for frying. I was pleasantly surprised that we weren’t fighting lactose intolerance with saturated fat. A month ago, I would have rejected these products out of hand; now, I am perfectly okay with them. It is slow going to dismantle my assumptions about what is available and edible, but the thinking – all the thinking – excites me.

We agree to disagree: Pete says no one needs cheese. I say you can have my cheese when you pry it from my cold, dead hands. Other than that, planning meals is a blast.

My friend Dom says the best thing I’ve heard in weeks.

Dom: Come to my house Wednesday night for dinner.
Tata: Oh, I don’t know. I’m tired. I probably have to work. I am randomly lame.
Dom: Dinner is at 5. If you are not here by 6, I will come to your house and kick your ass with a lamb roast, which we will then eat.

Oh, he’d do it.

Tata: Dinner it is, then. I’ll wear something stuffing-proof.