Without fail, it happens every election cycle. The ominous posts, snarky comments, innuendos, hate speech, canceling, gaslighting. It’s morphed into an entity of its own.

No wait, my bad, this happens every fall, even when there’s no election. I might lose my last thread of sanity.

I scroll through these menacing posts, comments, fretting, shaking my head, wondering how low and despicable it’s gonna get before Thanksgiving. It’s very disconcerting. My world crumbles every stinking autumn.

Never gave it a passing thought before inundated by Facebook throughout every facet of my life. Meh, it’s just a phase and will be soon forgotten. Except it’s never over or forgotten, but shoved in the forefront for all the haters to voice their disgust and giving their disparaging opinions. Ugh.

Every fall since adulthood you can count on this loathsome behavior, like turning back the clock and losing another hour of sleep in November.

Who are these heartless heathens and blasphemers? How did they get so powerful? Why can’t they simply let this one important fall tradition continue in peace?

It’s the non-believers. They might not be in the majority but they’re loud and obnoxious. Their words and voices are read and heard, yet not the loyalists like me. It puts me in a very awkward position, trying to defend myself against the masses (who are looney tunes).

There was no negativity concerning this natural phenomenon when I was a kid. There was world wide acceptance the closer we got to Halloween. Life was good.

However, I believe they may have altered the taste/recipe since my youth. Of course there were bound to be imitations. As soon as a new delicacy is welcomed and heralded by the world some nefarious company out there is trying to make it cheaper, using inferior products like imitation vanilla, corn syrup instead of sugar and artificial dyes. People with less than stellar taste buds buy into this crap and soon no one remembers what gave the first delicious original such a distinctive taste.

I think the original company sweetened this delicacy with honey. Real honey. While chewing it almost made the back of your bottom jaw ache. Such sweet pain.

But just because the taste is not exactly the same as 60 years ago is not a reason to give up on a true tradition. I’m tougher than that! You’ve surmised by now I’m talking about Brach’s annual fall collection of Candy Corn. (In case you’ve never figured out that brown M & M’s taste the same as the red M & M’s, don’t be duped into believing Brach’s Autumn Mix, Candy Corn and Pumpkins taste the same).

THEY DO NOT.

Brach’s Autumn Mix is awful. The brown sections taste like dirt (matching the color). Pumpkins pass the muster but they’re too big and the green stem is just distracting. The difference in Brach’s original Candy Corn is texture. The ‘white tops’ texture is crumbly, the orange and yellow sections are chewy. Those textures fight each other in your mouth, so I separate them. The tri-color ones get eaten first, leaving the bi’s (just yellow & orange-my favorite) for dessert. The chewing slows, allowing for the ‘like textures’ to meld before swallowing. Heaven.

It’s too late to stop the hate Brach’s campaign this year but we can do better in 2023. I envision a world at peace with nary a negative post on Brach’s Candy Corn. Every living person enjoying their personal stash which never runs out. Can I get an amen?…

While going through some old pictures I detected a pattern. The first half century of life I was under some kind of a hypnotic spell. Nothing dangerous or scary but subtly swayed and persuaded. My life was impacted by my first true love. Mom. And a certain color she loved.

I don’t think mom understood exactly how influential she was. I would bet she was influenced by her Dutch heritage and being raised by both sets of grandparents (her mom died when she was 2 weeks old) except for this one color which somehow muscled it’s way deep in all facets of my life. It’s just a color! Ha! After I started noticing how much this color’s been in my life I have to laugh about it.

Mom wasn’t crazy about wearing a dress or heels so when the ‘pantsuit’ became the rage, she accepted and embraced that style for the rest of her life. But she preferred dark, solid colored slacks, a fancy blouse, usually with a large bow at her neckline and a jacket that fell past her hips. (She thought her hips were big-they absolutely were not). She didn’t accessorize much, not wearing much jewelry, never nail polish but always wore pretty lipstick. And a nice pair of flats.

The color mom was hung-ho about throughout her life and much of mine was orange. I knew she liked orange and yellow just didn’t know how much her fondness of that color spilled over into mine.

When we moved to 15th street in 1955 (I was 4) the kitchen had a sink but no cupboards so dad’s first priority was making that room functional. The kitchen had 3 doorways, thus the only cupboards were on the west wall with a double sink in the middle below the lone kitchen window. Dad built the cupboards. Nothing custom, maybe even a bit primitive, might have used plywood. No Formica graced that short wall either. Our countertops and backsplash were glued down linoleum that looked like beige/gold rocks. I never gave that quirky oddity a second thought and assumed everyone’s kitchen looked like ours. Of course the cupboards were painted orange.

Dad enclosed our front porch so when Iowa’s ‘hot August nights’ (sing it Neil) cooled down to 80 we could sleep out there and catch a breeze (no air conditioner). Mom bought this couch/futon where the back could lay flat making almost a full size bed, although it was covered in Naugahyde which made anyone trying to sleep sweat through the sheet. The Naugahyde was orange.

After mom took knitting classes (proficient enough to teach classes soon after) I became her most used model of her works of art. In the mid 60’s when hot pants became popular, wanna guess what color my mini-skirt of wool worsted yarn was? Yup, orange.

After Hubs and I eloped we bought a floral couch and chair from a deep-deep discount store (early American style just like mom and my MIL. I relied on what I was used to seeing and what they liked for years before establishing my own tastes). By year 4, the fabric had worn through. Mom said she had some upholstery fabric she wasn’t using that I could have. Yay, saving me money we didn’t have (and the upholstery job cost us a whopping $40 bucks which we had to scrounge and save). Not even going to say what color the fabric was. You all know.

Eventually mom had her kitchen remodeled featuring dark oak cupboards on 2-1/2 walls with blue countertops. I guess she had grown tired of orange and yellow too. She was very proud of her kitchen and kept it (and the rest of the house) immaculate.

This week marks the 18th anniversary of mom’s death. I had gone to Iowa to see them a couple weeks prior to their 62nd anniversary in September. Mom called the night before she passed away while my sister was with her. She was struggling to get the words out but the last thing she said to me was, “I love you honey.”

She died a few weeks shy of her 78th birthday. Ironically, her twin brother Floyd passed away a few weeks after their 77th birthday, so they both died in 2004 when they were 77. Always thought it was odd they died the same year mere months apart. Mom decided to stop chemotherapy treatments for non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma when the cancer returned for the 3rd time. Floyd died from complications with Parkinson’s Disease.

Maybe I was easily affected and enthralled when I was young. We certainly didn’t see eye to eye on many things. Still my life was filled with the love of her favorite color orange for decades. Mom was an influencer way ahead of her time. In this day and age she’d probably have her own You-tube podcast…

I’ve been nursing my last pint of home canned pickled beets for a couple months. It’s commonplace for me to eat half a jar when I get a craving but I’ve shown incredible self-restraint in case I needed a half cup of tiny diced beets for a special homemade salad dressing recipe. How would that dressing taste without those tangy tidbits and slightly pink tinge color? Not very good so I’ve practiced safe pickled beet denial.

Pickled beets were my second attempt into the world of canning 35 years ago. I wanted to can them because mom and I loved them. It was soon after we moved to Michigan in 1987. My neighbor Diane asked me to help her can Bread & Butter pickles (they’re out of this world delicious) and it wasn’t long before I questioned if I could pickle a beet better than store bought ones? (which are quite bland).

No one on my side of the family canned but my MIL was a great canner when she was raising (the Hub’s and his sibs) so I asked her. (Little Johnny Wayne used to sneak down the basement when his mom was gone and eat a whole jar of her canned sweet cherries, then got rid of the evidence. Did he throw away the jars?) Sure Mag had canned pickled beets many times. She grabbed an envelope that was on the table and scribbled the recipe down from memory. I mentioned my pickled beet intentions to my SIL a couple hours later as she glanced at the recipe. “No this isn’t quite right,” she began. “Close but let me check the amounts and I’m sure there’s a missing ingredient.”

I was now armed with the right recipe but waiting to find some beets which Diane ordered for me at her ‘go to’ farm market. Beets are root vegetables which are harvested in late fall. I bought some jars and picked up my beets. They’re messy to work with, spewing a colorful shade of maroon over countertops, walls and hands, plus they don’t smell the best until they’re swimming in syrup. And it takes awhile to get them to that point. You have to boil them whole until they’re fork tender, drain, cool and ‘slip the skins.’ (I love that phrase), then dice or slice in the delicious, tangy syrup (almost makes your eyes water! Hubs always finds something to do in the garage when it pickled beet canning day, but I love the smell!) is heating up.

During my Parish Visiting days, pickled beets were one of the favorite foods I brought to folks who still lived in their own homes. Think this beet obsession might be age related. Not one of my kids or grands will eat them (when our kids were little and I asked them to pass the beets, they’d snap their fingers, clap and make weird noises in their mouth, succumbing to fits of giggles. Every. Single. Night) but most older folks relished getting a jar. Many wrote notes specifically thanking me for the beets. And the clever ways they used to repurpose the pickled syrup after every last diced nugget had been consumed. Most common was cooking hard boiled eggs, removing the shell and plunking the eggs in the leftover syrup. Waiting a couple weeks (for the eggs to get all pickly. The eggs turn into an incredible color). From that day forward whenever I made beets, I canned and saved the extra syrup and would bring folks a quart so they could pickle eggs. Such wonderful memories.

Since I’ve been going through beet withdrawal this summer I’ve been impatient for this year’s crop. Messaged the farm stand for their availability. Finally got a note my beets would be in only to have her tell me they didn’t get them and it would be another week. A couple days later I noticed their Facebook page advertising Northern Spys (my favorite pie apple). Waited to hear my beets were finally in so I hustled over to buy both.

Shannon was interested in making some pies together (her kitchen is huge and she has 3 ovens) so I made a quadruple batch of 10” double pie crusts, (ha, we ended up making more crusts) lugged a half bushel of Spys to her house. When we were a family of 5 and could snarf a pie after supper I always made a 9” pie. Now we’re down to 2, Shannon’s house is down to 3 and none of us needs a big pie. Or pie period but we love them. We each wanted one 9” for company but then made the rest into 6, 7 & 8” pans. Just big enough for a couple slices. The small (pot pie size) will go to Landon when we attend his basketball games this winter. (He’s the only one who runs off the calories during one practice)!

The pickled beets are in my canning cupboard and pies are in the freezer. I have a half bushel of Spys to can into applesauce this week but what we got accomplished since Friday feels good. Although I never could dance, I’ve still got the beet…

The feeling was familiar and reminiscent of a couple years ago BI (before inflation). Me, the grocery shopper extraordinaire, now a hesitant shopper because every time I walk in Meijer a hundred dollar bill flies out of my wallet. For 3 or 4 plastic bags to carry to the house. But the last few days felt like 2020.

Last week a post on Facebook advertised, Friday & Saturday at Meijer, Strawberries, 99 cents a quart (while supplies last). I love them and eat a bowl of strawberries every night when I can afford them. Strawberries aren’t something I can buy ahead because they’re extremely perishable (if you frown they’ll rot on the spot). They don’t have a long shelf life, which means going to the store every few days to buy a couple quarts. And if they’re more than $2.50 a quart I can’t justify keeping them in the house.

Hubs doesn’t care for fresh strawberries but when they’re canned into jam he has a smidge on toast with peanut butter almost every morning. Until there was no more strawberry jam in the cupboard which he’s reminded me of daily. So I bought 12 quarts, 3 to eat fresh and 9 to wash, remove stems, slice into quarters, then smash and freeze for jam. They’re really a pain in the butt to get ready for jam. They don’t smash easily but fight tooth and nail to stay in their original shape (wish I had that much willpower to stay in my original shape).

So we tried something different this time. Still had to remove the stem, rinse and quarter them but Hubs put small batches in the food processor and pulsed for a second. We still wanted pieces of strawberry in our jam just without the tedious process of using my pastry cutter or potato masher for an hour. I packed 5 cups each in ziplock bag and laid them flat in the freezer to save room.

A few days later I noticed Meijer’s new post on Facebook. Friday & Saturday, fresh Raspberries, 99 cents per 6 ounce carton. Well 6 ounces of raspberries doesn’t amount to much. A batch of raspberry jam takes several cartons to make 5 cups of smashed fruit. Still, a far better price than they have been which is about 9 dollars a pound-yikes! So I bought 21 cartons for 3 batches of raspberry jam, minus one big berry per carton-to make sure they were delicious. Pretty good deal for fresh fruit but pectin is up 75 cents a package (I needed 6) and 10 pounds of sugar is up from $5.49 to $6.59 (needed 2). Still haven’t figured out how inflation is up 9% when my sugar is up 20%, and that’s not an oddity with foodstuffs but the norm or lower than some of the price hikes.

Luckily I have oodles of jars, rings and lids I bought on fall clearance a couple years ago because rings and lids have nearly doubled in price. It’s almost cheaper to buy new jars which includes rings and lids than just the 2-part tops. Crazy. Brought up all my canning supplies, washed everything on Friday night to get an early start Saturday. Ok it was 10 a.m. before I was sufficiently motivated but I was done by 3 which included a half hour to eat my BLT.

The sum of my 5 hour canning fest was 54 half pints, 27 of each. Nothing was brought back downstairs but the kitchen was fairly clean, dishes were done and floor was mopped. I usually wait overnight to wipe, label and make sure all the jars have sealed.

An easy supper of nachos was on my agenda when Hubs decides he’d rather have tacos. “Fine, get a container of taco meat out of the freezer.” I’m dotting my chips with nacho meat, adding cheese and throwing them in the oven for a few minutes while I cut tomatoes and shred lettuce for both of us. Did I mention how small our kitchen is, especially when there’s 4 dozen jars taking up valuable counter space? Hubs is making tacos and placing them on his plate, which is sitting on top of a dozen jars of jam. Precarious right? Slid right off the counter, flipped upside down on the floor. Sigh.

I didn’t say one WORD. All his delicious food on the floor (formally recognized as clean). He gets the broom, dust pan, sweeps up the whole mess, plops it in the garbage while I scrub the floor. Again. My nachos are now lukewarm while he scrounges the fridge for leftovers and settles on 2 brats, buns and tops them with sauerkraut. We’ve both seen enough of our kitchen for the day.

The jam is now downstairs, the countertops are clear and the floor is presentable. Still want to can some applesauce, pickled beets, cranberry sauce and make a couple apple pies but the Northern Spys are not ready, neither are the beets. That’s ok, I might need a few days…