The arrival of cherries at the local fruit stands means it’s time to rearrange the kitchen to make space for the annual task of preserving the gorgeous orbs with the regal sounding names — Titen, Royal Anne, Rainier.
The preservation steps are few and monotonous, but essential: Tie on an apron. Dig out the huge colander. Wash the fruit and dry thoroughly. Don’t use your favorite towel, as it will inevitably be permanently stained from the cherry juice, as will your fingers. Descend into the basement for drying racks. Locate the cherry stoner, which only gets used for a week each July. Pull off every stem. Clamp on the stoner to the counter.
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I have a love/hate relationship with my stoner, which I always thought was called a pitter until I moved to this wonderful valley and learned the proper terminology. I’m on my third stoner, having sent the first two to the landfill when they fell apart. The tool is made of plastic. It has a small trough in which I place a handful of cherries. The cherries are supposed to roll down one by one into a holding place. Next step, press down on the spring-loaded plunger. As the plunger returns to start position, the pitted cherry is supposed to roll off the stoner into a waiting bowl as the pit drops down into a small plastic box.
Here’s what usually happens: The cherry doesn’t roll on its own into the holding place. It needs coaxing, then repositioning. About every six cherries, the plunger misses the pit. The cherry appears to be pitted — juice spatters my apron and a gaping hole appears in the cherry. If I trusted my stoner, I would place the cherry on a drying rack and move on to the next piece of fruit. However, since I give these cherries away as Christmas presents, I must double check for pit-less-ness by poking my finger into the hole. Otherwise, my friends and family will need extensive dental work when they bite into one of the dried cherries and discover a pit in hiding.
When the small plastic box fills with pits, I empty it. This is the time I must also re-clamp the stoner to the counter, as inevitably it racks and loosens from the pressure of the plunger being pushed.
When all the cherries are pitted, I spread them out on drying racks and carry the stack down into the basement, where our food dehydrator (one of the best kitchen purchases ever made!) will do its work. Less than two days later, the cherries are reduced to tiny wrinkled nubbins bursting with flavor. I pack them into airtight bags and hide them away like a squirrel stowing away acorns for the coming winter. They’ll be delicious with a piece of dark chocolate on a cold December night.
This year I decided I was treating myself to a new, industrial strength stoner. I visited my favorite, locally owned hardware store. They had boxes and boxes of my current stoner, but nothing that looked like it could stand up to the force of a body builder’s biceps. The wonderful manager went looking through his catalog but was unable to find me one. I turned to the internet — no luck there either. So now I am appealing to my readers. Have you a source for a super-duper stoner? Or are you looking to sell grandma’s antique cherry pitter? If so, please contact me via this newspaper.
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Recently, the act of pitting and preserving the cherries has become an ominous metaphor for something much darker than a Titen cherry. A year ago, I was preparing for the removal of a cancerous tumor. Today, my body is permanently changed, but my oncologist is confident the cancer is gone. Meanwhile, three dear friends are dealing with the disease.
The work of the surgeon seems surprisingly like the experience of pitting a cherry. The surgeon uses good tools to remove the tumor. Always, there is the question — did the surgeon “get it all,” or is part of the tumor still lurking in the darkness? Has the cherry been pitted, or is there a pit still hiding?
Cancer patients and their loved ones suffer through surgery, radiation, and chemotherapy, in hopes that there will be another December in which to enjoy the cherries, or the pickles, or the peach jam, all lovingly preserved by those we cherish. They’re counting on us to be around to enjoy the fruits of our labor together. We’re hoping for the same.
Meanwhile, the garden is helping us to “be here now.” Every day we clip fragrant sweet peas and cut lettuce. These most ephemeral of plants can’t be preserved in a dehydrator or made into jelly. They must be savored and enjoyed right now.
If we’re lucky and our doctors skilled, we may be here to dig potatoes, pull carrots, and slice into delicious tomatoes in the months to come. If not, there are jars of homemade strawberry jam in the basement, waiting for a future day when those we love can toast us with a piece of toast.
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