I am the worst descendent of Mormon pioneers ever.
And while I'm assuming the half of my family that is LDS comes from "pioneer stock" -- and even if they don't in the strictest sense, I'm sure these ancestors moved somewhere, sometime in history, so I'm counting it -- I know for certain that if I spent time in a covered wagon or a handcart or even a log cabin on some homestead, I'd unintentionally kill my theoretical olden times family and neighbors through poisoned jam and pickles.
It's okay though, because canning is overrated. Don't try to convince me otherwise because it's useless -- I grew up in a family that gardened and canned and I still know I'm right. I'm going to continue making my freezer jams, freezing my peaches, and knowing in my heart of hearts that I prefer both those "easier" methods as they taste more like the fresh fruit they came from. I will continue to purchase things like ketchup, applesauce, tomatoes, and pickles. Especially pickles.
Picture it: my cooktop, covered in salty white baked-on blooms of splashed brine. Empty jars, scattered lids, piles of cucumbers. The kitchen scattered from hither to yon with crunched up dried dill. (An aside: you know how you find sand in odd places days after you go to the beach? I've already found dill in my bra.) Oh, and picture my pioneer spirit too: it was broken. And sweaty.
And maybe, just maybe, only two jars of pickles sealed after all that. And perhaps, to add insult to injury, they were the two jars that fell over, full of cucumbers, into the sink full of hot water just before I poured in the brine. And so now all my sink's bacteria is sealed nicely in two jars of doomed cucumbers... just waiting to strike.
I could pop jars open, buy new lids, process stuff and pray to the canning gods... or I could admit defeat, and admit that my older sister Johannah got all the pioneer genes and all I got was poison pickles.