“I don’t hold with any of these new-fangled notions,” said an old lady
to me, when I mentioned that my canning was over for the summer. “I was
beguiled, two years ago, into putting up some _tomaytesses_ in cans,
and if I’m forgiven for that folly I’ll never tempt Providence in the
same manner again.”
“They didn’t keep, then?”
“Keep! they sp’iled in a week! ’Twas no more’n I expected and deserved
for meddling with such a humbug.”
“Perhaps you did not follow the directions closely?”
“Indeed I did! I cooked the tormented things, and seasoned ’em with
butter and salt, all ready for the table, and screwed the tops down
tight. But, in course, they sp’iled!”
“Were you careful to put them into the cans boiling hot?”
“’Twould have cracked the glass! I let ’em get _nice and cold_ first. I
didn’t suppose it made any difference about such a trifle as that!”
Poor old lady! I think of her and her mighty temptation of Providence
whenever I can tomatoes, for heat _does_ make a difference—all the
difference in the world in this sort of work.
Pour boiling water over the tomatoes to loosen the skins. Remove these;
drain off all the juice that will come away without pressing hard; put
them into a kettle and heat slowly to a boil. Your tomatoes will look
much nicer if you remove all the hard parts before putting them on the
fire, and rub the pulp soft with your hands. Boil ten minutes, dip out
the surplus liquid, pour the tomatoes, boiling hot, into the cans, and
seal. Keep in a cool, dark place.