From the Managing Editor, October 2012
When the weather for gardening isn’t right, there remain certain activities with which I can distract my mind, shut it down such that it does nothing more than focus on the task at hand. I’ve an affinity for jewelry making; it’s nothing fancy, but beadwork is tedious enough to require a keen eye and a steady hand. Cooler temperatures motivate me to rustle up dried herbs and essential oils to mix into melt and pour soaps. Reading allows me to take on another life altogether given the power of imagination.
Yet, it is cooking that my husband is most likely to find me doing—or starting to do—at 11:30 p.m. when the stress boils over like an overfull pot of potatoes. He sighs, kisses me on the forehead and goes off to bed, and I try not to clatter about with the pots and pans any more than necessary. The pickling began at an even later hour. I was done, cashed, written out, overwhelmed, but I had a selection of vinegars and vegetables to burn.
The carrots were first. Given that I wasn’t actually canning and had little fear of botulism, I improvised—an absolute canning don’t—and warmed apple cider vinegar, water, salt, sugar, and slivers of ginger in a saucepan. As the mixture came to a simmer, a hot bitterness wafted up to tease my nostrils, and I wondered if my husband wouldn’t awaken to the strange though not unpleasant smell. I removed the pickling brine from the heat, allowed it to cool while filling a jar with baby carrots, and poured the warm liquid bath into the jar and covered it loosely. The carrots, which had been refrigerator relics, soaked up the vinegar mixture. The process, which had taken 20 minutes at best, had returned my brain to neutral. So I ran another batch, pickling carrots and preserving my sense of self.
This edition of Smoky Mountain Living is focused on preservation—of lifestyle, of language, of land. It’s about recognizing what we have before we lose it completely. Once things are gone, we cannot bring them back, at least not in the same way they once were. We clutch tight keepsakes and useless trinkets because they remind us of a time past. What we hold in our hearts is so much stronger than any candy dish or baby gown or pocket watch. Our love, our memories, our stories live on when they are shared, and these things, unlike finite material things, can be shared time and time again with anyone willing to accept them into their own heart. Each story in this edition of Smoky Mountain Living is marked by a passion for passing on something intangible, a recognition of history and heritage in defining one’s sense of self and in fighting for self-preservation.
— Sarah E. Kucharski, managing editor