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The Tale of the Antique Mason Jar
Jan. 17th, 2011 05:07 pmWhen I was in Sacramento in December, Jane and I hit a few estate sales.
One was a real jumble of stuff, little good to be found, except amid the piles of junk on the patio I found a pint-sized mason jar. It was very unique looking; a little squared off, with measuring lines on the side, and the word "Atlas" alongside "Mason."
I was charmed. I had never seen a jar like this! I kind of have a thing for canning jars, and after I stopped canning I continued to keep an eye out for my girlfriends who still put up food and make jelly. I always have a few in my own cupboard for drinking iced tea, which always tastes better out of a canning jar.
I just had to have this jar. It seemed old. I loved the way it looked, and as I admired it I imagined its unknowable history. How long had this woman owned it? What had she used it for? How many seasons of canning had it seen? What part of her garden's bounty was lovingly preserved therein? Oh, if this jar could talk! It just screamed authentic American values. Who knows, it might even be worth something, an old jar like this. I knew every sip of tea I ever quaffed from it would be exquisite. EXQUISITE I TELL YOU.
So I bought it (actually, they let me take it for free!) and packed it home with me back to Michigan. I washed it out well and put it to use immediately. Every time I took it down I'd feel a little bit of satisfaction and happiness. My own little antique jar, continuing a new chapter of its useful life, rescued from the dusty confines of one deceased old woman's belongings, traveling 2000 miles to endure for who knows how many more generations.
God I loved that jar.
So last week I'm making a spaghetti casserole and the point of the recipe is ease, so I don't make my own sauce. I grope up in the cupboard for whatever pre-made sauce we might have on hand and pull down some Classico, a brand I don't usually buy but it must have been on sale at some point. As per usual I have trouble opening the damn thing, and as I'm turning the jar in my hands to get a better grip I notice its squarish shape. Then I notice the writing on the side in the glass. I see the word "atlas." I see the word "Mason." I hold the jar up and try to imagine it without the label and realize it's pretty much just a bigger version of my precious "antique" heirloom from California.
For pete's sake, all this time I've been mooning over a CLASSICO PASTA JAR.
I think they sell their bruschetta toppings in this size, meaning there must be thousands of them sitting on grocery store shelves all over America even as I'm typing this.
One was a real jumble of stuff, little good to be found, except amid the piles of junk on the patio I found a pint-sized mason jar. It was very unique looking; a little squared off, with measuring lines on the side, and the word "Atlas" alongside "Mason."
I was charmed. I had never seen a jar like this! I kind of have a thing for canning jars, and after I stopped canning I continued to keep an eye out for my girlfriends who still put up food and make jelly. I always have a few in my own cupboard for drinking iced tea, which always tastes better out of a canning jar.
I just had to have this jar. It seemed old. I loved the way it looked, and as I admired it I imagined its unknowable history. How long had this woman owned it? What had she used it for? How many seasons of canning had it seen? What part of her garden's bounty was lovingly preserved therein? Oh, if this jar could talk! It just screamed authentic American values. Who knows, it might even be worth something, an old jar like this. I knew every sip of tea I ever quaffed from it would be exquisite. EXQUISITE I TELL YOU.
So I bought it (actually, they let me take it for free!) and packed it home with me back to Michigan. I washed it out well and put it to use immediately. Every time I took it down I'd feel a little bit of satisfaction and happiness. My own little antique jar, continuing a new chapter of its useful life, rescued from the dusty confines of one deceased old woman's belongings, traveling 2000 miles to endure for who knows how many more generations.
God I loved that jar.
So last week I'm making a spaghetti casserole and the point of the recipe is ease, so I don't make my own sauce. I grope up in the cupboard for whatever pre-made sauce we might have on hand and pull down some Classico, a brand I don't usually buy but it must have been on sale at some point. As per usual I have trouble opening the damn thing, and as I'm turning the jar in my hands to get a better grip I notice its squarish shape. Then I notice the writing on the side in the glass. I see the word "atlas." I see the word "Mason." I hold the jar up and try to imagine it without the label and realize it's pretty much just a bigger version of my precious "antique" heirloom from California.
For pete's sake, all this time I've been mooning over a CLASSICO PASTA JAR.
I think they sell their bruschetta toppings in this size, meaning there must be thousands of them sitting on grocery store shelves all over America even as I'm typing this.
