tomatoes + pomarola boot camp

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 About a year ago, my husband hauled me out of bed at the crack of dawn.
“We're going to miss the window if you don't come now!” Pulling my sweatshirt on, I thought it might be something romantic.
“I've got a conference call at 9 and we need to pick these figs. The hornets are devouring them. We'll have no jam”
Rubbing my eyes but too tired to argue, I grabbed a basket and steadied the ladder.
“Concentrate, for God's sake, the ladder's shaking”.
Repressing truly evil thoughts, I slowly woke up to the sound of figs plopping into my basket.
Two hours later, I was abandoned to make our annual fig jam. I boiled, stirred and scrupulously sterilized the jars. Then, stupidly, I went off on a tangent.
I won't add any sugar. I'll just slop the fig gloop into the jars.
Wallowing in my domestic ignorance, I didn't even register that sugar is a century-old food preservative.
Two days later, when I went to inspect my jars, there was a slight odor. I ignored it. A week later, two tops had blown off and the jars were rattling and hissing next to each other. They were about to explode.
Out trusty housekeeper, Lina, quickly dealt with the clean-up and reassured me that it was just a bad year.
“It happens to the best of us”.
Mmm bet it never happens to you, I thought!
Understandably, the very thought of bottling or pickling makes me anxious.
Unfortunately, I'm alone again, but this time, with pounds of tomatoes. In these parts, if you don't make Pomarola or Tomato Sauce for the Winter you might as well sell up and move back to the city.
So, after a mild panic attack, I calmed down and called Rosina.
She arrived at 9 am ready for action. I was suitably impressed and intimidated by her 'balls to the wall' attitude. I felt like I was in Pomarola Boot Camp.
We washed the Pomarola machine, the tomatoes, carrots, celery, onion and basil and set to work. I took copious notes and photos to record every detail. She ordered me to stir the sauce, under no circumstances should it stick. It smelt delicious. I marveled at her proficiency as she strode around the kitchen.
Then came the bit I was dreading – the sealing of the jars. Rosina poured the sauce into the containers, sealed them tightly and tipped them upside down. She patiently waited for them to pop. When they pop, they are hermetically sealed and won't explode.
“You do one, you'll never learn if you just watch” she ordered.
I did exactly what she did and waited for my jar to pop.
Ten minutes went by, then twenty, then three hours. Mine never popped!
I surrender, I cannot make Pomarola or jam without help.
But what's a girl to do with pounds more tomatoes?
Err, make sure Rosina is free next Thursday!

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