Homemade Jam and Political Passion

This week I canned apple-maple jam. My friend, Kim, tutored me in the art of canning last year and we share days in the kitchen chopping and stirring and boiling and putting by. There is something essential about the work – and it is work – that grounds me in relationship, nurture, and hospitality. It is a political act. It expresses the core values of my politics: the value of each one, the grace of diversity, nurture and protection – especially of the most vulnerable, the importance of relationship, and making our nation hospitable.

I post a lot of political commentary. They are not merely opinion pieces but they express a passion for justice that is a part of every breath I take. If you have read anything I have written in the last 6 months it is evident that I am avidly anti-Trump. I am not anti-Trump merely because of his (non) policies but because of the way he pits us against one another and draws us into the vortex of ‘us’ and ‘them’. Not to mention his entitlement. His vitriole. His sexism. His racism. His ablism. His homophobia. His narcissism. His classism.

It will never come to pass but if I had my druthers I would spend a day with the Donald making apple-maple jam. I would have him ride up the north Georgia mountains and see the land and the people. We would pick apples in the hot sun, with sweat trickling down the small of our backs and have a tiny revelation about physical labor. We would sit in my kitchen and peel and chop apples, pounds of apples, and cook them with spices from different parts of the world – Vietnamese cinnamon, nutmeg from the Spice Islands of Indonesia, organic maple syrup from Vermont, all the while talking about the peoples and how we are a connected global unit responsible for one another.

I’d have him sterilize the jars and prepare lids for processing. Then he would stir the cooking apples while I invited him to experience the value of this form of ‘women’s work’ and talk about the 24 hour day of those who provide nurture to their families. He would ladle the jam into jars, carefully wipe the rims, top with sterile lids and lower them into the water bath. We would wait the allotted amount of time and remove them from the boiling water to sit on waiting towels. And we would drink coffee while we listen for the pop of the cans sealing and appreciate our efforts.

And then he might know something about the value of work that takes time and care, that is dependent on farmers from many places, that is meant for consumption by more than one’s self, and that provides nourishment for a family. He might learn something about collaborative labor and, if we were very lucky or very imaginative, he might experience relationship in which he was not the center of the universe.