Put a Lid on it! Strawberry Jam

The Sweet, Sassy Joy of Canning Your Own Food 

There’s something magical about hearing a canning jar pop. It’s the sound of summer sealed in glass. It’s the song of self-sufficiency. It’s also the sound that makes you yell from the kitchen, “That one sealed! We got a good one!” like you just won a blue ribbon at the county fair—because, honey, you did (even if it’s just in your own heart). 

Canning isn’t just about making food last longer. It’s about slowing down. It’s about remembering. And it’s about reclaiming a bit of control in a world that feels increasingly, well… processed. 

Let’s be honest—our great-grandmas weren’t driving to Trader Joe’s for tiny jars of overpriced jam. They were barefoot in their gardens (or, okay, maybe wearing practical shoes), picking berries in the early morning sun, and boiling them down with just enough sugar to make the whole house smell like home. They weren’t chasing trends—they were the trendsetters. And here we are, all these years later, circling back to their wisdom like it’s something new. That’s the boho circle of life, baby. 

But seriously—there’s something wildly empowering about taking raw, sun-warmed tomatoes and transforming them into jars of sauce or salsa that’ll knock your Lucchese boots off in the dead of winter. You get to know what’s going into your food. No weird dyes. No secret preservatives with names that sound like they belong in a sci-fi movie. Just honest-to-goodness ingredients, prepped by your own two hands. With maybe a splash of wine on the side (for the cook, not the sauce—unless you’re feeling fancy). 

Canning is also the ultimate slow rebellion. In a world screaming for instant gratification, fast food, and next-day shipping, you’re choosing to do something that takes time, intention, and a little elbow grease. And trust me—your future self will thank you when you’re cracking open a jar of golden peach butter in February, thinking, “Dang, I did this. I made this.” 

It’s not all sunshine and pickles, of course. There are moments of doubt. Sticky counters. That one batch of strawberry jam that didn’t set quite right and ended up more like “strawberry surprise.” (The surprise was that it made a great cocktail mixer.) But that’s part of the charm. You get to laugh at your flops, high-five your wins, and learn something with every batch. 

And the gear. Ohhh, the gear. Who knew water bath canners and jar lifters could spark so much joy? A vintage funnel here, a rustic basket of new lids there—it’s functional, but also a vibe. Your pantry starts looking like a still life painting: jewel-toned jars lined up like little soldiers of sustenance. 

Even more than the food, it’s the feeling that gets you hooked. The feeling of being connected—to the earth, to your family, to the generations before you who stirred their pots with purpose. The feeling of being capable. Like, “Yes, I may not understand how taxes work or where my left sock went, but I can sure as heck preserve this garden bounty.” 

It doesn’t matter if you live on a farm, in a cozy little bungalow, or in a home in the middle of town, if you’ve got a stove, some jars, and a willingness to learn, you can be a canner. There’s no one way to do it, no perfection required. Just a little curiosity, a sprinkle of bravery, and maybe a playlist that includes some Merle Haggard, Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline. 

So if your heart’s been whispering, I want to try this, consider this your sign. Tie on an apron, roll up your sleeves, and put a lid on it—literally. The world may be wild, but your pantry can be a place of peace, color, and sweet, tangy order. 

Start small. Laugh often. And always, always label your jars. Because zucchini relish and pear butter look suspiciously similar in the dark.