Canning/Pickling/Harvesting Mom Era

This season feels like a love letter written in dirt-under-the-nails cursive. I’m measuring life in jar lids and berry stains, in the soft thud of potatoes hitting a bucket and the bright ping of seals setting on the counter. Somewhere between little boy laundry and work scrubs, I slipped into my canning/pickling/harvesting/gardening era—and it fits like a well-worn flannel.

It’s not glamorous. The kitchen smells like vinegar and dill, the floor gets a little sticky, and my forearms are decorated with tiny steam kisses from the stove top. The boys orbit the chaos—curious, wild, helpful in the ways that make everything take twice as long and feel twice as meaningful. We’re building a pantry and a childhood at the same time.

Potatoes Like Treasure

We grew potatoes this year, and digging up a small pot of them (so far) felt exactly like pirate loot—only better, because pirates never roasted their treasure with butter and salt. I watched small hands plunge into the soil and pull up gold. Seed to spud to supper. We ate some with dinner and tucked the rest away, a humble little bank account of dinners-to-be.

Raspberries & Huckleberries, August on Our Tongues

Raspberries and huckleberries were our other riches—bright, sweet, and stained across our knuckles and cheeks. The boys learned that berry picking is part patience, part snack, and part scavenger hunt. We came home with full containers and fuller hearts, berries destined for jam, pancakes, and the kind of winter oatmeal that tastes like July. The house hums with the rhythm of rinse, sort, stash, repeat. Salal harvest is right around the corner!

Every Kingdom needs a Queen

In our family, Grandma is the undisputed Huckleberry Jam Queen—keeper of the pectin, boss of the boil, and fully in charge of all things jelly and jam. If a lid doesn’t ping right, she hears it from two rooms away. And when I want a little heat with my sweet, I call my favorite gal, Miss Julie—the candied jalapeño and spicy jam virtuoso—who shows up with jars that sparkle like stained glass and taste like sneaky spice flirted with sweet sunshine. Between Grandma’s huckleberry magic and Miss Julie’s kick, our shelves look like a rainbow and dinner always has a crown.

Two Cases of Pickles = A Whole Lot of Crunch

Somehow I blinked and made two cases of pickles. Dill spears stacked like little soldiers, garlic tucked in like secret promises. I love how pickles ask for ordinary faithfulness: pack, pour, wipe, process, wait. Then the chorus—ping, ping, ping—like a round of applause.

The Freezer: Our Other Pantry From Sea & Forest

Right next to the rows of jars lives another kind of abundance—vacuum-sealed, neatly labeled, and cold as January. We’re tucking away fillets of halibut, salmon, and yelloweye; bags of spot shrimp; and packages of bear meat and venison that will turn into stews, tacos, and Sunday roasts when the rain sets in for the long haul.

There’s a deep comfort in stacking those meals: food gathered with intention, cleaned at the sink with the back door open to the ocean air, wrapped tight for winter. It’s Alaska’s love language—feeding your family from the water and the woods.

Jarring Smoked Salmon (Shelf-Stable Sunshine)

Some days the smoker runs from breakfast to bedtime. We brine the salmon, lay it out to take the smoke, and then pack it into jars—before the steady hum of the pressure canner turns the kitchen into a lullaby. When those lids ping, I hear December being taken care of. Smoked salmon on crackers for friends dropping by, folded into chowders, whisked into a quick dip, or eaten straight from the jar on a tired weeknight—it’s summer, preserved.

This Week’s Project: Roasted Garlic Marinara

Up next: a big pot of roasted garlic marinara for the shelf. Heads of garlic go into the oven until the cloves turn soft and sweet, the kind of bronze that makes the whole house smell like Sunday dinner. I’ll stir tomatoes with basil and thyme, a spoonful of sugar to balance, a generous grind of pepper, and a splash of something tangy for backbone. The boys will wander through and snag a taste off the wooden spoon, compliments spilling all over the floor I just mopped. Some jars we’ll save for cozy pasta nights; some we’ll gift—because food this kind of good wants to make friends.

The Sacred Ordinary

This is motherhood that nobody photographs perfectly: the vinegar-fogged glasses, a stovetop that looks like a war zone, kids who drift in and out with pockets full of rocks and questions. It’s “Mama, can I help?” followed by half a cucumber sliced into puzzle pieces. It’s wiping counters, then wiping faces, then wiping counters again.

It’s also a quiet kind of worship—saying thank you with my hands. Thank you for rain and soil, for berries that come back every year like an old friend, for a family that eats loud and laughs louder, for tides and cedar smoke and the gift of a full freezer.

What I’m Really Storing

I used to think putting food up was only about meals. Now I know it’s also about time. Every jar holds an afternoon together. Every vacuum-sealed package is a promise of a night in. The label on smoked salmon reads more than a date; it reads the day the boys chased seagulls on the dock, the hour the smoke curled just right, the moment the last lid pinged and the house exhaled.

The Pantry As a Promise

When I open the pantry and the freezer, I don’t see chores. I see continuity. My grandmother’s hands, my mother’s voice, my own kids’ fingerprints on the glass and the frost. I see winter dinners that will taste like sunlight in July.

This phase won’t last forever. The kids will grow. These shelves will empty and fill again. But right now, while the berries are heavy, the dill is tall, the salmon is smoking, and the halibut is stacked in tidy white bricks, I’m grateful to be here—apron on, pot bubbling, a little wild and a lot content.

Two cases of pickles down. More potatoes ready to be harvested. Raspberries and huckleberries telling their sweet little stories. Freezer full of halibut, salmon, yelloweye, shrimp, bear meat, and venison. Jars of smoked salmon lined up like rubies in a row. And this week, roasted garlic marinara is coming to life. If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen, catching summer in jars—and in freezer paper—one ping at a time.