Canned Tomatoes. ✠
“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.