Canning Peaches: A DIY Journey of a Lifetime

Dear Readers,

Recently, I became a proud member of Pinterest (please see pinterest.com if you don't know what I'm talking about) and have had the chance to read several wonderful step by step, DIY, beautifully done instructional blogs for the crafty and talented. In an effort to meet and/or exceed the instructional blog expectations, I'm summoning the power of my mormon-family blood and am going to show you how to can peaches, Badger-Girl style.

Having not been to church in a few years, I was having a hard time finding my inner-homemaker, so I recruited the help of my younger awesome (and church going) sister, Kate. And so our journey to home canned peaches began in Kate's mini-van, with our ever faithful helpers, Lucas, Lucy, and Annie.



Kate and I are big fans of Williamson's Orchards in the Sunny Slope area of Marsing. As we were nearing the beautiful Snake River Valley, Lucas informed me that he wasn't feeling so well and then puked all over the floor of the van. Lucy was kind of grossed out, but not enough to turn off her DVD. And Annie could care less, all she wanted was a Diet Coke and a sucker. But after some clean up and a stop at a super creepy gas station, we finally made it to the orchards. I had a brief minute of calm, long enough to take this picture:



We bought our boxes of peaches in record time to keep the children from hurting themselves or others at the family friendly farm stand. On the drive back, Lucas asked Lucy if they could watch "Coraline". Lucy's reply was direct and to the point: "No. I'm never watching "Coraline" again because you puked on it like a jack-ass."

When we finally made it back to Boise, we decided the peaches needed to ripen before we canned them. Also, we smelled like vomit and farm stand and felt like a mini-van full of jack-asses. So fast forward two days, and we've finally reached canning day!

So here's how you do it:

Step One: Buy one hell of a lot of peaches. We bought two boxes. That's roughly equivalent to 18,000 peaches.



Step Two: Hire a crazy one year old to help take peaches out of the box and hide throughout the house. That way, you won't get bored with the rest of the steps. Remind said baby that the fire place is the perfect place to hide peaches.



Step Three: Buy and sanitize a whole bunch of jars. If you don't want to buy them, clear out your fridge of all the unused condiments (ie mayonnaise, old moldy jam, and the half a bottle of kalamata olives you had to pretend to like at a dinner party you had) and wash out those bottles as good as you can. We just bought the jars.



Step Four: Blanch the peaches by putting them in a pot of boiling water for 30 seconds, and then putting them in an ice bath. Try to burn yourself while doing this to keep your senses sharp and on high alert. Swear as needed.



Step Five: Spend the next several hours of your life skinning and slicing peaches and putting them in their jars. Try your hardest to get peach juice all over your counters and floors so that you have a satisfying coating of fruit adhesive to clean up when you're done.



Step Six: Make a sugar syrup on the stove. Pour over peaches in the jars and then put the lids on tight. Do not take a picture of this step because nobody wants to see this vital part of the process.

Step Seven: Buy a lot of canning equipment. Luckily, Kate already did this step so I didn't have to pay for it.

Step Eight: Put the jars filled with peaches and syrup in the jar holder thing. Don't let the jars touch each other (they need to be a Bible's width apart like at a church dance). Immerse in big pot of boiling water. At this point, you want to make sure your kitchen is at a nice humid 109 degrees.



Step Nine: Let the jars boil for a really long time. Try to make as many jars of peaches as possible in a day, but only boil six jars at a time to really draw out the process. Also, it's best for a screaming baby to enter the kitchen when it's time to remove the jars, and try to entice them into touching one of the bottles that just came out of the boiling pot of water. That way every jar you pull out is a reminder of the way you disfigured a child for life.



Step Ten: Wait. And wait. And wait some more. Eventually the lid should make a little *pop* noise, signaling your success as a canner. All of ours popped and with each sweet little noise an angel smiled.



Step Eleven: Find a place in your two bedroom apartment to store 24 jars of peaches. And you're done! Now that you've put all that work, sweat, puke, and swearing into a couple dozen jars of fruit, try to avoid ever opening one bottle for fear of realizing all the work you put into it is only worth about 3 minutes of eating enjoyment.

Woila! DIY blog, h.-style! Not only did the peaches take forever, but this blog did to. I'm never teaching you, my sweet and devoted readers, to make anything ever again.

Sincerely,
h.

The Blame has Been Placed

Dear Readers,

I was just reading some of my earliest blogs out loud to Shay. We were chuckling and having a gay ol' time when Shay pointed out that my writing has become rather serious. "You used to be so funny!" said Shay. I can't help but agree, I was pretty damn funny (please visit my blogs from 2010 if you don't know what I'm talking about). I feel that the death of my best friend has caused me to lose some of my sense of humor, and so I would like to make it official: I blame you, Loren.

Earlier this evening I was at dinner at the Red Feather with my sweet and close friend Jenny. Inevitably, the conversation moved to Loren. Loren this and Loren that and do you remember when Loren said blah blah blah. Loren, Loren, Lojo. I would be the biggest liar and fraud in the world if I said I don't think of him multiple times a day. I would be an even bigger liar (we're talking career politician sized liar) if i said I didn't shed a tear a least once a day because I miss him to my absolute core. Because I do. And if he could hear me, he would hear me say: "Please, please, come home. I miss you. I love you. My life, my family, is not the same without you."

So maybe I did lose some of my funny. But more than that, I lost one of my closest friends. A book I read recently said that Americans don't let themselves mourn correctly. That it's easier and more socially acceptable to sweep things under the rug, to shuffle the sad days into the deck of life, and pretend like they didn't happen. Get back to work! Go back to school! Keep yourself busy enough that you won't feel feelings anymore! But when you put it under a microscope you can't help but see, the sadness and helplessness you feel when you mourn cannot be solved by a hard days work or a day of busy distractions. As Tom Robbins said, "It is what it is. You are what you it. There are no mistakes."

With that sentiment in mind, I'm still funny. I can make people laugh. I can make people happy. I still make delightful treats and overly lavish my friends and family with an abundance of nurturing and concern. But I can miss my friend at the same time. Because the fact of the matter is, Loren was a part, a huge part, of my day to day life. And things just haven't been the same with him gone and it's better for me to acknowledge that then it is for me to pretend that his death was just another part of life. But one day, perhaps tomorrow or maybe a year from now, I'll be just as funny as I was when I started this blog a year and a half ago.

Sincerely,
h.

Submission

Dear Readers,

My mind hasn't been working correctly lately. Simple things like speaking, writing, and thinking have been more difficult than usual. I'm sure when my sister Andrea reads this, she'll laugh to herself thinking, "You were only one or two steps ahead of a sack of hammers anyway, I don't know why this comes as a surprise to you now...". Regardless, I've tried and tried again to write a thoughtful and delightful blog for you, but keep failing miserably.

In an effort to keep faith in my writing alive, I thought I would post my submission to the "One Minute Idaho" writing contest. Will I win? It's doubtful. None-the-less, I'm proud that I was able to condense this infamous story down to 118 words. For those of you that already know it, my apologies for being redundant. For those of you who have yet to experience the wonderment of the collective genius of the Badger sister's, I hope you enjoy (and yes, it's all true). Without further ado, my submission:


“This will be so funny!” My older sister exclaimed. Having spent the weekend in Boise with my aunt, we were preparing for the long ride home to Rupert. She made two signs; one said “HELP US”, the other said “SAVE US”.

The faces people make when they see teenage girls in the back of an Oldsmobile holding up these signs is priceless. Unbeknownst to us, a plan was made. Our car was surrounded by semi-trucks and stopped by the Twin Falls exit. Horrified, we watched the burly truckers come to our rescue, only to be angered and annoyed to find that we were not captives. We were just the daughters of the now irate man driving the car.

And there you have it. If I win, I get to have some sort of crazy night snorting cocaine and going to a rave with Ira Glass. Well, go to a meet and greet with him anyway. If I lose, well, I have to pay $75 if I want to catch a glimpse of the NPR icon. So for his sake, I hope I win, otherwise he won't see this pretty face anywhere near the Morrison Center.

Sincerely,
h.

Thirty New, Look at You

Dear Readers,

Today is the last day of my 31st year of life. How did I spend it, you ask? Well, it started with a cup of coffee and some meditation (I like to counter balance my relaxation sessions with a nice jolt of caffeine), then a full day of being busy at work, coming home and doing some yoga (which to my horror my husband and mother-in-law walked in on me in my way too tight yoga pants in a compromising position), catching up with my mom-in-law, and making dinner. That's as far as I've gotten, and considering that it's almost 8:00pm, the only thing exciting after this is watching an episode of "American Pickers". That's it.

At this moment, my 19 year old self is puking her much thinner guts up, disgusted by the ordinary display of existence that her life will become. Where are the glamorous parties, the rich friends, the successful high paying career, and the city life I dreamed of and worked so hard for in my younger days? Thankfully, gratefully, and boastfully I say to my younger self: "You may be more intellectual and prettier than me, but you have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."

After reviewing last year's birthday blog, dreading the woes of turning 31 (thirty-fun), I slapped myself in the face and snapped out of it. My friends Michael and Loren taught me a valuable lesson in that I'm lucky to have made it this far (by the way boys, if this is your way of proving a point, I hope there's an after life so I can beat the crap out of you). As one of those good books says, "Tomorrow is not promised" (or something like that). So on that note, I'm welcoming year 32 with open arms and an open heart. I'm no longer dreading getting older. I look forward to it! Do you realize, in 10 years my son (my sweet angel baby boy) will be graduating from high school and going to college? As much as I absolutely dread that, do you know how young 42 is to start over with your freedom. So young (take that 19 year old self)! But let's not jump too far ahead, 32 is enough for now.

My plans for my 32nd year are grand: travel to distant lands, growing in my job, getting my health back in control, loving my friends and my family, getting tattooed, and smoking crack are all on the plan of attack (just kidding about that last one, Mom). So much to do in a year! My main ambition, however, is to live my life one day at a time, and savor the gifts that life gives me. Shay and Lucas mock me when I tell them not to buy me presents, but what they don't understand is that getting to have them and our friends and family in my life everyday is gift in itself. Wow, I've grown sentimental in my old age!

So let's raise our glasses to me, in celebration of my next big adventure. In the vain of Jenny Rice, here's to Thirty Two, Thirty New!

Sincerely,
h.

Banbury Hot Springs: Where Dreams Come True

Dear Readers,

That special time of year is upon us once again. The sun is shining (at least it's trying), there's a perpetual smell of hamburgers and hotdogs in the air, and my patio is covered an allergy comma inducing layer of cottonwood seeds. That's right folks, it's June and the annual pilgrimage to Banbury Hot Springs in Hagerman, Idaho is about to begin.

An anthropological phenomenon, the family descendants of Calvin and Hazel Braegger each year follow the winding roads down into the Hagmerman valley, past a thousand springs, and find themselves at the green cattle gate to paradise. The dirt road that leads down a steep incline induces what may be a genetic pre disposal to excitement and squealing, and seeing the pool headquarters sparking a thrill that only heroin addicts can relate to. Keep your fancy cruises, your elite resorts, and your white sandy beaches! I prefer a campground next to the Snake River, with a canopy of Ash trees and a pool kept warm with fresh hot spring water for my vacation destination.

Correct me if I'm wrong (which I'm sure you won't hesitate to), but the Braegger's began going to Banbury Hot Springs in the summer of 1978. Year after year we've gone back (with a little hiccup during he early 2000's, we'll blame Y2K for that), and year after year little changes. The camp grounds have neither improved nor worsened. The bathrooms are still painfully white and smell of sulfur. Mr. Banbury uses the same golf cart to mind the grounds and keep the rowdiness down (his dogs have changed a few times though). Besides the dock going out to sea, everything else is the same.

Beyond the place of Banbury, it's the people that I really look forward to being with. I adore the Braegger family. Love them. Cherish them. Mostly because of the food they make. But they're pretty nice folks as well. Getting my mom's siblings together is for sure a good time. Throw my cousins into the mix, and it becomes a riot. Like any family, we've had our snags and probably aren't immune to more. But our good times surely out number our bad. There's no awkwardness, and you're liable to be made fun of at any moment. Someone's always kind of watching the kids (no harm can come from Banbury, silly!), but for them it's one of the rare times when they're allowed to roam freely. Did I mention the food? The food! During my early years, the KAASH Club (Kate, Andrea, Ana, Sarah, Heather) would live entirely on Wheat Thins with Easy Cheese (thanks Nan), Squeeze Its, small novelty size boxes of cereal, and of course S'mores. As an adult, I've learned to enjoy the culinary wonders that are the Braegger sisters; Nan, Ruth, and my mom Kristie are geniuses. Throw my cousin Tori into the mix, and a few of my own cookies, and you're looking at consuming 2,000 calories per hour around the picnic table.

In the excitement leading up to next weekend, my family has been posting memories all over Facebook. My grandma Hazel rolling down the hill when her chair crashed on her. My uncle Bob attacking the tent at the sight of a Daddy Long Leg spider. Andrea having the chicken pox and getting to choose a special prize from the vending machine that held everything from disposable swim trunks to playing cards. Staring longingly from the side of the pool at the ultra hot lifeguards when we were about 10 (I'm sure he found us to be just as attractive). Synchronized swimming. Diving contests. Giant ice cream cones. Getting held under the water by your older sister only to be called a pansy when you start to cry after catching your breath. Mosquito bites that make your eyes swell shut.

Do I expect all of you to understand the grandeur and meaning behind the word Banbury? No, of course not. Not all of you have Braegger DNA, after all. But for those of you who get it, who when they can't sleep at night they conjure images of that tree lined road in their heads, waiting to pull up to their parking spot to the cheers of their family members and are finally able to fall asleep knowing that there's a happier place waiting for them next to the Snake River, I'll see you on Thursday. Hell yes.

Sincerely,
h.

I Do, Indeed

Dear Readers,

Had a cup of crappy coffee at Shari's Restaurant. That's what Shay and I did on our first "date". Shay was 22, and I was a month shy of it. In fact, next week marks our 10th year of being together. Tomorrow marks our 9th year of marriage. I still remember that evening at Shari's like it happened yesterday. The inbetween is certainly blurry in spots, but I don't think I'll ever forget Shay in his Triple 5 Soul hooded sweatshirt, his curly locks, his sad gray eyes, and him telling me I shouldn't swear because it wasn't a pretty thing to do. We talked all night and then just stayed by each other's side from then on.

During the last decade we have experienced a lot. I'm not sure if it's more or less than most couple, but it sure feels like a significant bit to me. Just to give you a taste, here are some of the highlights (and lowlights) of our time together so far:

1. Church. Ugh. Church. We tried so hard to be going church going people. It ends up that we're are a far happier couple when you take religion out of the equation!

2. Lucas. We were just toddlers it seems when we found out that we were going to have a baby. Only 9th months into our marriage, I took the 3 pregnancy tests that told us in a very short and sweet symbol that our lives were going to change forever. Sure enough, Lucas came to us the following November (6 weeks early...he's been late for everything since) and brought with him a nice little package of sleep deprivation and a terror that only new parents experience. He has grown up to prove himself a worthy distraction however, and in the end made Shay and I a stronger couple (especially when he started sleeping through the night at age two).

3. Moving. 6 times, to be exact. We're not a couple that fights, it's just not becoming on us. When we move, however, all bets are off and we swing punches freely. The last move wasn't as bad as those before it. However, our next move if all goes as planned will be our last. Not because we want to be home owners, but because we're both fearful that our marriage won't survive any more moves than that.

4. Loss. Since I've been with Shay, we've had the unfortunate experiences of losing my Aunt Holly, his Grandma Plummer, his Great Grandma Bertha, my Uncle Leon, our friend Michael, and of course our darling friend/adopted brother/son Loren. In the middle of all of these wonderful people moving on in their existence, we also lost our unborn child, and with it my ability to have more children. This was several years ago now, but it rocked our foundation and only now am I able to see just how much damage it caused. But we mourned it, survived it, and (speaking for myself, at least) are still learning from it. Although my body was left weaker from the ordeal, I think my spirit grew in lengths, and I have learned that I can survive even the worst heartache. I didn't expect to feel something so close to it in losing Loren, but it sure as hell did. Shay and I have each other though, and the loss of a loved one most certainly creates stronger bonds with the loved ones you have left. I can say with the upmost confidence that these sad losses have added a solidity to our marriage that wouldn't have been there otherwise.

5. School and work. Shay was in school for the first 6 1/2 years of our marriage. I've changed jobs 5 times since we've been together. It makes me nauseous to even think about. Regardless of the stress of school, the doubts of careers, and the fluctuation in income, we were always there to support each other (sometimes in very loud voices). Remembering to keep the other's hopes and dreams in sight, we've somehow or another arrived at a place that will set the foundations of our next 10 years which should prove to be far more successful. I can speak for both of us in saying, we wouldn't have made it to where we're at without each other. True we may be far richer and more famous than we already are without each other, but our egos would have been way out of check. But now that Shay is an unofficially tenured teacher (thanks for taking that title away, Tom Luna), we have the road to our future paved in gold. Literally. Teachers make BANK!

6. Love. So much love! For each other. For our son. For our friends and family, and family that we call friends. The support we have from the people we've surrounded ourselves with is astounding and humbling. I get all sorts of giddy when I think about the people we are so lucky, so very very lucky, to have in our lives. I know how fortunate I am to have a husband who lets me hang out with our guy friends without getting jealous. He knows he can hang out with our girl friends without me getting jealous either. What a great feeling it is to be trusted and know that you can trust! Integrity, folks, is a great and valuable thing. Don't marry anyone without it.

There are a lot of things that have happened during the last 10 years that could be blogged about for hours. But I think this little selection sums it up pretty well. This year, more than any other, I've been reminded of the reasons that we ended up together. I can't imagine, nor do I want to, spending my life and experiences with anyone else. Our bond is strong, our friendship is stronger.

Thank you, Shay, for choosing me. And in case you haven't figured it out by now, I cho-cho-choose you.

Sincerely,
h.

That Glittering Instrument, the Human Soul

Dear Readers,

I keloid when I scar. Where a normal person would develop a smooth, slightly discolored surface with a cut or incision, my body sells the wound as prime real estate to those skins cells that are ready to settle down and multiply. The result is an obscene mass that's unsightly enough that growing up my mom would recommend covering them up. "Bikini's probably aren't the best idea," she told me once. Thankfully my shameful scars can be hidden by my clothes and hair, only viewable by my husband, doctor, and stylist.

As I write this a new scar is forming, still new enough that the tissue is bright and apparent. It has an interesting shape, long and thin with dollop of a feuxhawk on top. LoJo shaped, some might say. That would make sense, since it's mending that LoJo shaped hole that's been left in my heart.

It's a funny thing to think about now that I've had some time to reflect. Here was a person that I loved and cared for so much and then *POOF* he's gone. That's how it goes though, isn't it? Show up, share a few laughs, shed a few tears, down a couple drinks, and then the party's over and it's time to move on. Life doesn't care where you go, but you sure as hell can't stay here.

I'm fortunate in that I don't have any regrets concerning Loren. I said what I needed to say. I spent as much time as I could with him. I watched him age 70 years in 7 weeks. I was relieved when I got the call, happy that it didn't last long and he got to leave on his own terms. I didn't allow myself the option to grieve while he was alive, "...there will be plenty of time to be sad when he's dead." I said. And boy oh boy, was I ever right.

At work I've been approving applications for admittance to our lineman program. I love this part of my job. It's both humbling and humorous to read these applications where strong young men are vulnerable and nervous of rejection. A lot of them have their mom's or girlfriends fill out the applications for them, worried that their bad penmanship and grammar will keep them from training for a working man's job. I couldn't help but notice while going through these applications that some familiar last names came through: Lacy, Blevins, and Grady. I realized I recognized them because they are characters from the Cormac McCarthy book "All the Pretty Horses". Excited, I picked up my phone and started to text Loren about it. I got about halfway through the message before it hit me that he wouldn't get the text. And like a punch in the face, reality set in and I sat in despair at my desk knowing that had no one in my life to make obscure Cormac McCarthy observations to any more.

I think that's the hardest part, the little every day things. Listening to an Animal Collective song. Doodling on a Post-it note. Driving past the Library. Making a treat that he liked to eat. It's these seemingly insignificant things that rain down on you like a b.b. gun attack, making you flinch and irritable and angry, but not enough to take you out like a sawed off shotgun would.

Throughout all of this there have been moments of lightheartedness, laughter, and most certainly of love. Being welcomed into the Reed household with open arms has been a blessing. Receiving notes and gestures from people I don't know has been humbling and gratifying. Sharing a night of dancing and celebrating Loren left bruises on my shins, conversations in my mind, and a dance beat in my heart.

I meant for this to be more of a tribute to LoJo, but it reads more like notes from a counseling session. I don't know, maybe a friend's grief is a tribute in itself. What could a higher compliment be to someone than having someone full of sincerity say, "My life will never be the same, never be quite as good and lovely without you in it!"?

That scar I was speaking of earlier - not the unsightly scars on my head, stomach and shoulder, but rather that peculiar shaped one on my heart, I think I will display that LoJo shaped deformity proudly. If only there were a bikini to showcase my heart! A strange reminder of my strange and wonderful and very much missed best friend.

I love you LoJo, but you already knew that, didn't you?

Sincerely,
h.