20 Foods to Can - Preserving Food on the Homestead

As a homesteader, I’ve learned that canning isn’t just a skill – it’s a season unto itself. When the garden explodes in August and the fruit trees bow with ripeness in September, the real work (and joy) begins. Canning days are long and messy (I’ve ended more than one summer night with tomato stains on the ceiling, don’t ask), but they fill our pantry and our hearts. There’s a quiet comfort in lining up warm jars on the counter and hearing that magical “pop” as each lid seals. It’s the sound of self-reliance and homestead resilience, a promise that when February blizzards roll in, we’ll still be eating bright, delicious food we grew ourselves.

Let me share 20 foods that we love to can on our homestead, each with its own little memories and tips. From the sweet to the savory, the garden staples to the wild-foraged treasures, every jar has a story. So pull up a chair (mind that sticky spot—I spilled some jam there yesterday), and let’s talk canning!

Tomatoes

There’s a saying around here: “When life gives you tomatoes, can marinara.” Every year, I underestimate how many tomato plants I’ve tucked into the garden, and every year come late summer I’m buried in a mountain of red (and yellow) tomatoes. On one August evening, I recall having every large bowl I own filled with tomatoes of all sizes. It was overwhelming, in the best way. My solution? A marathon sauce-canning session with a big stockpot simmering and the kitchen smelling like an Italian grandma’s kitchen.

To can tomatoes, I start by blanching them in boiling water for a minute or two and slipping off their skins (a task my kids actually find fun – they call it “tomato spa time”). We pack the skinned tomatoes or sometimes hot tomato sauce into jars with a pinch of salt and a tablespoon of lemon juice for acidity. The lemon juice is a must for safety because tomatoes can be right on the border of acidity – it ensures that a simple water-bath canner will do the job. After a gentle boil in the canner, we lift them out and wait for those lid snaps. Shelf Life: A properly sealed jar of tomatoes will easily last a year in a cool, dark pantry (though our supply rarely makes it to the next harvest – too many soups and stews calling its name). And let me tell you, nothing beats popping open a jar of home-canned tomatoes in the dead of winter. It’s like a jar of summer sunshine poured straight into your pot of chili or spaghetti sauce. Each spoonful brings back memories of warm soil and buzzing bees in the tomato patch.

Pickles

Crunch. Tang. That vinegary garlic-dill aroma – it all comes rushing back with a single bite of a homemade pickle. I have to smile remembering the first time I made pickles as a new homesteader: I was so proud, I gave a jar to my neighbor… only to have them politely mention they were a bit too salty. Oops. Over the years I’ve refined my pickle game, and now homemade pickles are a family favorite and a staple on our shelf. We grow cucumbers specifically for pickling (the kids call them “pickle worms” when they’re small and bumpy on the vine), and by mid-summer our cucumber patch threatens to take over the garden. Picking those firm little cukes in the early morning, while the dew is still on, is a simple pleasure I look forward to.

To can pickles, we pack clean pint jars full of cucumbers along with heads of fresh dill, cloves of garlic, a few peppercorns and mustard seeds – our own special spice mix that makes our kitchen smell like a deli. Then we pour over a boiling brine made of vinegar, water, and a bit of sugar and salt. (I still use Grandma’s ratio, scribbled in the margin of my canning book, which yields a pleasantly tart pickle.) A quick process in a boiling water-bath canner seals the deal, and then we let those jars cool and work their magic. Shelf Life: Good pickles only get better with time – after a few weeks of mingling with that tangy brine, they’re at their prime. Properly canned pickles will last a year in the pantry, though ours rarely survive past spring. In fact, I often catch myself munching a crisp dill spear straight from the jar while standing in front of the pantry – a homesteader’s version of sneaking snacks from the fridge.

Salsa

Fresh garden salsa is the taste of July – tomatoes, peppers, and cilantro all singing together. By January, I’m longing for that taste, which is why we learned to can our salsa and keep the summer going year-round. Canning salsa is a bit of a dance: you’ve got to get the recipe just right for safety (too much low-acid pepper or onion and you risk trouble). I’ll admit, I was overconfident on my first salsa-canning adventure and tossed in extra bell peppers… The result? A batch of salsa that fermented on the shelf. Lesson learned: stick to a trusted recipe or add a splash of vinegar to keep it safe. Now I channel all that creative energy into using different heirloom tomato varieties or levels of heat rather than changing the vinegar ratio.

Our go-to canned salsa recipe includes tomatoes (usually the paste types like Roma for thickness), jalapeños or even a habanero or two if we’re feeling brave, onions, garlic, and cilantro, plus a good dash of cumin and chili powder. We cook it down just enough to meld the flavors, then ladle the hot salsa into jars. The jars take a turn in the boiling water-bath canner (acidified with a bit of vinegar or lemon juice) to seal up. When a blizzard is howling outside, we’ll crack open a jar, and suddenly it’s summer taco night in our kitchen again. Shelf Life: Sealed salsa jars are best used within 12–18 months for peak flavor. Around here, they disappear much sooner – thanks to countless taco Tuesdays and an unofficial chips-and-salsa addiction in our household.

Applesauce

The ritual of making applesauce starts long before the jars and lids come out. It begins on crisp autumn mornings, when we head out to our little orchard with baskets in hand. We have a few heritage apple trees on the homestead (gnarled branches and all) that produce more fruit than any reasonable person knows what to do with. By late September, the kitchen becomes an applesauce factory. There’s something so comforting about the smell of apples simmering with cinnamon – it instantly transports me back to my grandmother’s kitchen, where I first learned how to preserve fall’s bounty in a jar.

To can applesauce, we peel and core the apples (the pigs and chickens eagerly devour the peelings – nothing goes to waste here), then cook them down in a big pot with a splash of water. I like to add a touch of sugar or honey, but not too much – just enough to enhance the natural sweetness – and plenty of cinnamon. One quirky preference: I leave my applesauce a little chunky. Those small soft apple bits in the sauce let you know it’s homemade with love, not the uniform factory stuff. Once the sauce is piping hot and the kitchen windows are all steamed up, we ladle it into jars. A water-bath canner does the trick since apples are nicely acidic on their own. Shelf Life: A jar of applesauce can last a year or more on the shelf, but the real challenge is stretching our supply to next apple season. It’s a favorite side dish at our table – from spooning alongside pork chops to swirling into yogurt for breakfast – so our stash usually vanishes by spring. And if one of those jars doesn’t seal? Well, that jar “accidentally” becomes a warm apple crumble that night. Waste not, want not!

Green Beans

Green bean season on the homestead is a race against time. One day they’re tender little sprouts, and seemingly the next, bam! Every row is laden with beans demanding to be picked right now. I have vivid memories of an afternoon, midsummer, sitting on the porch with two big colanders overflowing with green and yellow beans. The sun was starting to dip, the mosquitos warming up for their evening serenade, and there I was snipping off ends as fast as my fingers could fly. It’s meditative work in a way – the snip-snip sound, the pile of stems growing at my feet, and the satisfaction of a basket of trimmed beans ready to put up. By the time the jars are filled and processed, it might be near midnight, but I’m glowing with accomplishment (or maybe that’s just sweat, because canning in July gets toasty).

When it comes to canning green beans, safety comes first. These are low-acid veggies, so we always pressure can them (I use a trusty old pressure canner that has been around nearly as long as I have). We pack the jars fairly tightly with raw whole beans (standing upright in the jar like soldiers, with a little wiggle room) and add a pinch of salt and hot water. Then the pressure canner takes over, hissing and jiggling on the stove as it does its work. (Confession: the first time I ever used a pressure canner, I hovered anxiously, clutching the instruction manual and wearing oven mitts like a security blanket. Now it’s second nature, but I still respect that steam power!) The reward for this effort is shelf-stable beans that taste wonderfully close to fresh. Shelf Life: Home-canned green beans stay good for 12 months and beyond, but we aim to use them within a year for best flavor and texture. They make for quick winter dinners – from green-bean casseroles at Thanksgiving to simply heated and tossed with butter and a dash of garlic salt on a random weeknight. Every time I crack open a jar, I’m back on that summer porch, listening to the crickets and snipping away.

Peaches

Sticky, sweet, sunny peaches – just saying the word “peach” brings a smile to my face. We don’t have a peach tree (our climate is a bit too harsh up here in Northwestern Ontario for those delicate southerners), but that doesn’t stop me from getting my hands on a bushel or two every summer. There’s a farm stand a couple of hours away that brings in Ontario peaches in late July, and I make it a point to haul a box home. The whole drive back, my truck smells like pure summer. Of course, as soon as I walk in the door, family members start appearing out of thin air, drawn by that aroma, eagerly asking if they can eat one. “Yes, but only the bruised ones!” I holler, sounding every bit the frugal homesteader. Can’t have the perfect peaches disappearing before canning day.

Canning peaches is a bit of a messy party. I blanch the peaches in hot water for a minute to loosen the skins, then slip those skins off – which inevitably leaves my fingers pruney and my countertops covered in peach juice. (One year, I thought I could skip the blanching to save time. Big mistake. Let’s just say I gained a new appreciation for that simple hot-water dip after struggling with clingy peach skin for an hour.) We half or slice the peaches and pack them into jars filled with a light syrup. I usually add a touch of cinnamon or a couple of cloves to the syrup – a little twist I picked up from my mom. The fragrance when you ladle that spiced syrup over the peaches is nothing short of heavenly. After a water-bath processing, the jars come out glowing like jars of captured sunset. Shelf Life: Properly canned peaches will last a good year, often more, but their quality is best in that first 12 months. In the dead of winter, opening a jar of our peaches brings a burst of summer nostalgia. We’ll heap them onto pancakes, bake them into crisps, or honestly, just eat them straight from the jar cold. And each time, I’m reminded that a little summer sweetness was saved, just for this moment.

Carrots

Carrots might not get the same fanfare as peaches or tomatoes, but they quietly earn their place in our canning lineup every year. They’re the dependable workhorse of the root cellar – vibrant orange (or purple, or yellow, if you grow the fancy heirloom types like we do) and ready to jump into any stew or roast. Harvesting carrots is like digging up buried treasure. I still feel a childish glee each time I tug on the feathery green tops and out pops a fat carrot. Of course, not all of them are straight and supermarket-pretty. We get our fair share of amusing two-legged carrots or ones that look like they’re hugging each other. Those quirky ones taste just as good, and they’re the first to go into the jars (after a good scrub, of course).

To can carrots, we wash and peel them and decide whether to pack them whole or cut up. Often, it’s a bit of both: the small ones go in whole and the larger carrots we slice or dice. I blanch the carrots in boiling water for a few minutes just to give them a head start, then fill the jars. In each jar goes a pinch of salt and enough hot water to cover. Like green beans, carrots are a low-acid veggie, so out comes the pressure canner again. After processing, we have lovely jars of tender carrots ready for anything. Shelf Life: These carrots keep well for a year or more, but as with all home-canned goods, using them within 12 months is ideal for flavor. They’re a total weeknight savior – I can make a quick carrot soup, mash them for a side, or throw them in a stew without having to peel and chop on the spot. One winter evening, running late for dinner, I dumped a jar of our canned carrots into a pot with some broth and herbs, blended it up, and my family was convinced I’d been simmering soup for hours. Little did they know, it was homestead fast food courtesy of summer’s prep work!

Pears

If peaches are the exuberant, juicy burst of summer, pears are the elegant, mellow sweetness of early fall. We’re lucky to have a pear tree that we planted a few years back. Each year it gives us a bigger crop, and each year I’m almost astonished that something so tropical-tasting can come from our own backyard. Harvesting pears is a lesson in patience – you pick them just under-ripe and let them soften indoors. There’s a window of perfection where the pears are fragrant and yielding, but not yet mushy. I’ve missed that window before and ended up with a batch of pear sauce (not the worst fate, honestly). But when I time it right, canning pears in syrup preserves that delicate flavor and texture in the most delightful way.

To can pears, I first peel them – which always leaves my fingers wrinkled and sticky-sweet. We core and slice the pears (halves for the firmer ones, chunks if they’re very soft), and then gently pack them into jars. Our syrup for pears is light on sugar; the fruit is sweet on its own. I often infuse the syrup with a splash of vanilla or a piece of ginger. One of my favorite batches was a vanilla-pear combo – I tucked half a vanilla bean into a few jars, and those pears came out tasting like dessert. After ladling the hot syrup over the fruit, the jars go into the boiling water bath for processing. Shelf Life: Canned pears are best within a year, when they retain that soft bite and floral sweetness. We’ll use them for quick pear crumbles, atop oatmeal, or just chilled and served with a dollop of whipped cream for a simple treat. And every time I open a jar, the gentle scent of pears takes me back to that cool fall day when we stood under the tree, reaching up for the last fruit as golden leaves drifted down.

Beets

Beets have a special place in my heart – and not just because they turn everything (and I mean everything) a lovely shade of purple-red. These earthy root vegetables are a dual-purpose crop for us: we can them plain for adding to salads and sides, and we also pickle them (more on that in a bit). Growing beets is fairly fuss-free, but come harvest time, you inevitably look like you’ve survived a zombie apocalypse, with ruby-red beet juice splattered on your hands and shirt. I always joke that canning beets makes the kitchen look a bit like a crime scene – red stains here and there – but the end result is worth the mess.

When we can plain beets, we start by boiling or roasting the beets until the skins slip off (wearing old kitchen gloves for this is a pro-tip unless you fancy magenta-tinted hands for the next few days). We often can a mix of sliced beets and small baby ones that can fit whole in the jars. A pinch of salt and hot water go in with the beets, and because they’re low-acid, it’s another job for the pressure canner. The jars come out looking like jewels – bright garnet chunks suspended in liquid. Shelf Life: Like other veggies, they’ll sit happily on the pantry shelf for a year or more. I love opening a jar of beets mid-winter, slicing them onto a salad with goat cheese, or tossing them with vinegar and oil as a quick side. It’s the taste of our summer garden’s soil – sweet, earthy, and satisfying – coming back to life on our plates. And yes, I’ve learned to always check my face after handling beets, because more than once I’ve answered the door with an unintentional beet juice war-paint streak on my cheek!

Jam

There’s a special kind of joy in making jam. It’s often the first canning adventure for beginners and with good reason – few things are more delightful than turning ripe fruit into spoonable sunshine. Around here, jam is a family affair. Come berry season, we make it a point to go berry picking – whether it’s strawberries at a local farm in June, raspberries from the tangled patch by our fence in July, or blueberries and wild Saskatoon berries we find on our hikes. We usually return with buckets of fruit (and equally purple tongues, since far more “taste testing” goes on than the kids will ever admit). The surplus that isn’t eaten fresh or baked into pies becomes our year’s supply of jams and jellies.

To make jam for canning, the formula is simple: fruit, sugar, a bit of lemon juice for brightness and safety, and time. We toss the fruit and sugar together and let them mingle and macerate – this draws out the juices. Then it all goes into the pot. Here’s where a homesteader learns patience (or in my case, the art of busying oneself with cleaning the kitchen to avoid watching the pot). The fruit bubbles and boils, we skim off foam, and slowly the runny syrup thickens into a luxurious jammy consistency. A trick I picked up: keep a metal spoon or small plate in the freezer and drip a bit of the cooking jam onto it to test the set. When it gels instead of runs, we’re good to go. We funnel the hot jam into jars, wipe those sticky rims (children with sticky fingers love to “help” here, for better or worse), and then process the jars in a boiling water bath. Shelf Life: Unopened jams can easily last a year or more on the shelf, though color and flavor are brightest if used within that first year. We line up jars of strawberry jam, raspberry, blueberry, maybe a spiced apple jelly or a wild plum jam – each jar a different jewel tone. Come winter, these jams are our go-to for slathering on fresh bread, topping pancakes, or gifting to friends. And if I’m being honest, there’s nothing like sneaking a spoonful straight from the jar on a dreary February day – it’s instant summer happiness.

Corn

Sweet corn is a highlight of late summer. We grow a patch of corn in the lower field, and by August the stalks stand taller than me, rustling in the breeze. Harvesting corn is a race against the local raccoons – if you’re not quick, they’ll have a feast at your expense. Many a night I’ve gone down with a flashlight after hearing rustling, to catch a crafty raccoon making off with an ear. When we manage to bring in a good haul of sweet corn, much of it we enjoy fresh: grilled, boiled, slathered in butter. But we also like to can some corn for the pantry, preserving that taste of summer BBQs for the colder months.

Canning corn is a bit labor-intensive up front. We shuck the ears (the hens love to play with the husks), and then I cut the kernels off the cob. There’s an old trick of using a bundt pan: stick the cob in the center hole and slice so the kernels fall into the pan – it works like a charm and saves the kernels from flying all over the kitchen (mostly). We don’t add sugar or anything – the corn is plenty sweet on its own. We pack the raw kernels into jars, add boiling water and a little salt, leaving enough headspace for the expansion during processing. Because corn is low-acid, out comes the trusty pressure canner again. It feels satisfying to see those golden kernels packed into jars, knowing we’ve locked in the flavor. Shelf Life: Home-canned corn will stay good for at least a year, but I find the sooner you use it, the closer it tastes to that just-picked sweetness. Ours usually finds its way into winter chowders, corn pudding at Thanksgiving, or skillet cornbread (I stir a jar of drained canned corn into the batter for extra texture – family secret!). And yes, I’ve eaten it straight from the jar with a spoon. Quality control, you know?

Apricots

Apricots are a bit of an underdog in the canning world – not as commonly mentioned as peaches or berries, but oh, do they shine in a jar. Their season is fleeting and their shelf life as fresh fruit is short, so canning apricots is almost a rescue mission to save their unique sweet-tart flavor before it’s gone. I don’t grow apricots (they’re another fruit that doesn’t love our northern climate), but I stumbled upon a great deal at a farmers’ market a few summers back. I came home with a crate of apricots – half of which my family immediately decided to eat, until I shooed them away to protect enough fruit for canning.

Canning apricots is very similar to peaches, but easier in one way: you can often skip peeling them if the skins are thin and you don’t mind a bit of texture. I usually halve the apricots and pop out the pits (saving a few pits to crack later for the kernel – some people add those to the jars for an almond-like flavor, though I prefer a safer route: a tiny splash of almond extract in the syrup). We pack the halves into jars and cover with a hot light syrup, into which I stir a drop or two of that almond extract. The combination of apricot and almond is chef’s kiss – it reminds me of French jam recipes. A water-bath canning session later, I have gleaming jars of golden apricots. Shelf Life: They’ll keep a full year easily, though the color can darken over time. We spoon these apricots over yogurt, bake them in tarts, or blend them into a quick barbecue glaze for chicken. One of my favorite winter desserts is warm apricots with a crumble of ginger snaps on top. Every jar I open comes with the memory of that sunny market morning and the surprise of finding a new fruit to love and preserve.

Pumpkin

When you grow pumpkins on a homestead, you often end up with way more pumpkin than you anticipated. They start off as these humble little green orbs amongst big leaves in July, and by October you’re tripping over giant orange globes everywhere you turn. After we’ve carved the jack-o’-lanterns and made an unreasonable number of pumpkin pies, I turn to canning to preserve the rest of the pumpkin flesh before it goes soft. Important note: We only can pumpkin in cube form, not mashed – pumpkin purée is too dense to can safely at home. So instead, I roast chunks of pumpkin until they’re just tender, or sometimes I peel and cube raw pumpkin and lightly pre-cook it.

To can pumpkin, we pack the pumpkin cubes into jars and fill with hot water (no need for sugar or salt, unless you want a pinch for flavor). This is absolutely a job for the pressure canner – those jars are full of low-acid vegetable and they need the high heat to be safe. After processing, the cubes of pumpkin are soft but still hold together. They don’t look particularly glamorous in the jar – kind of beige-orange blocks – but they are enormously handy. Shelf Life: Canned pumpkin chunks will easily last a year or more on the shelf. When pumpkin season is long gone, I mash these cubes to make quick pumpkin pie filling, or blend them into soups (pumpkin soup with ginger is a winter favorite of ours). I’ve even made a pretty decent pumpkin butter from canned pumpkin by further cooking it down with spices and sugar. And I can’t talk about canning pumpkin without recalling the time one jar didn’t seal and exploded inside the canner – what a mess! Lesson learned: always use the recommended headspace (I had been a tad overzealous with stuffing in cubes) and don’t rush the cool-down. Even homesteaders get overexcited sometimes.

Pickled Beets

Remember those plain canned beets from earlier? Well, their tangy cousins deserve their own spotlight. Pickled beets are a classic in my family – my grandmother wouldn’t consider a holiday table set without a gleaming dish of pickled beets on it. As a kid, I was suspicious of them (the color! the vinegar!), but now I adore them. We tend to grow a lot of beets, specifically so we have enough for both regular canning and pickling. On pickling day, the house smells of spices and vinegar, and the counters are lined with reddish-purple rings where jars have been filled (I’ve learned to lay down old towels to catch the inevitable drips – otherwise my countertop looks tie-dyed for weeks).

To can pickled beets, we first cook the beets until tender and slip off their skins, similar to the plain ones. Then we slice them. The magic is in the pickling brine: a mix of vinegar, water, sugar, and spices. I go pretty classic – white vinegar or apple cider vinegar, a touch of sugar, and spices like cinnamon stick, cloves, allspice, and mustard seed. Sometimes I’ll throw in a sliced onion, which turns deliciously sweet and pink in the jar. We pack the beets in jars, pour the hot spiced vinegar brine over them, and seal them up. Since this is a high-acid mixture (thank you, vinegar), we process these in a boiling water bath canner. Shelf Life: Pickled beets can last a year or even longer, and their flavor actually deepens over time. They come out for every special occasion – alongside roast dinners, in salads with feta cheese, or as a quick snack straight from the jar when I need a puckery pick-me-up. A funny memory: one year I was sure I’d nailed the perfect spice mix, but when we opened a jar at Christmas, it was mysteriously clove-heavy – like, “Christmas dessert or pickled beet?” levels of clove. Now I’m a little more measured with the spices. Every jar is a new experiment, and that’s half the fun.

Cranberry Sauce

Cranberries weren’t something I thought about canning until I realized I could make homemade cranberry sauce ahead of the holidays and jar it up. Game changer! No more last-minute sauce prep while juggling a turkey and ten side dishes. Plus, up here we have access to wild cranberries (highbush cranberries, we call them, though they’re technically not true cranberries – they still make a mean sauce). A crisp October day spent foraging bright red berries along the boggy edges of our fields is rewarded with enough cranberries for both sauce and jelly. The process of making cranberry sauce for canning is straightforward and fills the house with the smell of the holidays.

I simmer the cranberries with sugar and a bit of water or orange juice (I love the hint of citrus – it’s like a little sunshine in the tartness). As the berries heat up, you start to hear them pop, one by one. It’s oddly satisfying, like little celebratory fireworks in the pot. I’ll throw in some cinnamon or a knob of ginger sometimes to give it a spicy twist. Once the sauce thickens (and with cranberries, that happens relatively quickly thanks to their natural pectin), I ladle it into jars. A hot water bath processing, and they’re good to store. Shelf Life: Jars of cranberry sauce will easily last a year, so you can can them well ahead of the holiday rush. They sit quietly on the pantry shelf, those deep garnet jars, until Thanksgiving or Christmas roll around. And I’ll let you in on a secret: cranberry sauce isn’t just for turkey dinners. We spread it on sandwiches (turkey sandwiches, of course), serve it with meatballs as a makeshift Swedish sauce, and I’ve even used it as a glaze for pork roast. Each time I open a jar, I get that whiff of orange and cranberry, and I’m transported to that chilly day of picking berries with cold-numbed fingers and the excitement of the first frost in the air.

Peppers

Peppers are a mainstay in our garden – we grow everything from sweet bell peppers to fire-breathing hot chilies. They’re beautiful to look at, in reds, greens, yellows, and purples, hanging like Christmas ornaments from the plants. By season’s end, we often have more peppers than we know what to do with (despite our daily slicing, dicing, and throwing them into every meal). Canning peppers was a solution I embraced after one especially prolific pepper year when even the freezer was jam-packed. Now, having jars of canned peppers around is something I rely on for quick meal additions.

We preserve peppers in a couple of ways. Sometimes we do a simple vinegar pickle for hot peppers (like jalapeños – perfect for nachos later), but for plain sweet peppers we can them in water. I’ll often char and peel a batch of red bell peppers and can them roasted – the flavor is incredible that way, like those pricey jarred roasted reds from the store. Whether raw or pre-roasted, we cut the peppers into pieces (or leave small hot peppers whole with a slit in them) and pack them into jars with a little salt. We cover them in boiling water, then it’s into the pressure canner they go (peppers without a vinegar brine need pressure canning to be safe). One memory that makes me chuckle: I was canning a particularly hot batch of chilies one day and didn’t wear gloves – by the end, my hands were on fire and I had to soak them in yogurt to cool down. Lesson learned: respect the peppers! Shelf Life: Canned plain peppers will last a year or more sealed. We plow through them by then, using them on pizzas, in pasta sauces, and fajitas. The pickled jalapeños and pepper rings we make (processed via water bath, since they’re pickled) also last a year, though a jar of those in the fridge usually disappears within weeks. The flavor of home-grown peppers in the middle of winter is like a little reminder of the heat of summer – especially if you accidentally grab a jar of the hot ones when you thought they were sweet! (Yes, I’ve done this. No, I don’t recommend surprise habaneros.)

Sweet Potatoes

Sweet potatoes in our northern homestead? You bet. It took a few years of experimenting, but we found short-season sweet potato varieties that actually produce in our climate. Harvest time is like an Easter egg hunt in the soil – you dig around the vines and unearth these beautiful orange tubers (and occasionally some funny misshapen ones that resemble, oh, I don’t know, a duck or a pair of legs). After curing them to develop sweetness, we enjoy a good number fresh. But I also love canning sweet potatoes, especially for quick use in cozy recipes like casseroles and pies.

To can sweet potatoes, we first cook them. I usually boil or bake the potatoes until they’re just tender enough to pierce but not completely mushy. Then we peel off the skins (they usually slide off easily after cooking) and cut the sweet potatoes into chunks. We pack those into jars and cover with a light syrup that I’ve spiked with a touch of cinnamon or nutmeg. This gives the canned sweets a hint of spice, almost like they’re pre-seasoned for a pie or candied yam dish. Off to the pressure canner they go (like other starchy veggies, they need the high heat). Shelf Life: These jars keep a solid year or more. They’re like gold when the holidays roll around – I save a couple for our Christmas sweet potato bake. But they’re also great mashed on an average weekday or even fried up with some bacon for a hearty breakfast hash. One year, I labeled my jars poorly and mistook a jar of canned sweet potatoes for canned carrots (the syrup made the contents look lighter). I ended up with cinnamon-spiced “carrots” in a stew – my family was baffled by the flavor! Now I label very clearly. Even homesteaders have their derpy moments.

Chili

Canning whole meals is like the ultimate fast food for homesteaders, and hearty chili in a jar is our absolute favorite example. We often do big batches of chili in the fall, when we’ve got the trifecta of needed ingredients coming out of the garden: tomatoes, peppers, and beans. Add some ground beef or venison from the freezer and it’s a complete one-jar meal. On cold winter nights when we’re too tired to cook from scratch, grabbing a jar of homemade chili and just heating it up feels like cheating – except it’s all homemade and nourishing.

To can chili, we prepare our chili as usual: browning the meat with onions and garlic, adding tomatoes (sometimes even those previously canned tomatoes work their way into this), beans that we’ve soaked and cooked a bit, plus corn, peppers, and our secret spice blend (not so secret – it’s cumin, chili powder, a touch of cocoa powder, and a square of dark chocolate melted in for richness). We keep it on the thick side but still brothy enough to can. Importantly, this all needs to be pressure canned because it’s a mix of low-acid ingredients. We ladle the hot chili into jars, leaving ample headspace (learned my lesson with the pumpkin – thick things expand!). After a round in the pressure canner, we have jars of chili that are shelf-stable. Shelf Life: For quality, we use them within a year, but they can last longer if properly sealed. I stash these jars in the front of the pantry because they’re often what I grab when heading out on winter camping trips or when we expect a storm – it’s the easiest comfort food imaginable. One time, a friend was over and saw me open a jar of chili for a quick lunch and was flabbergasted. “You can CAN chili?!” she laughed. We enjoyed it with some crusty bread, and by the end of the bowl she was asking for canning lessons. It’s that good and that convenient.

Plum Jam

Plums aren’t the first fruit that come to mind for jam for many people, and that’s exactly why I love making plum jam – it’s a bit unexpected and utterly delicious. We have a couple of hardy plum bushes on the property (plums that can survive -40°C, imagine that!). They produce small, tart purple plums that are not the greatest for fresh eating – a bit too sour – but add sugar and cook them into jam, and something magical happens. The jam comes out with a gorgeous deep ruby color and a flavor that’s sweet with a tangy kick at the end. If “zing” were a flavor, that’s plum jam.

My process for canning plum jam starts with pitting the plums. Now, plums can be clingstone (pits that don’t want to let go) or freestone. Mine are clingstone, of course, because nature likes a challenge. I’ve learned to halve them and twist, and then just kind of carve the flesh off the pit – it’s messy, but that’s what aprons are for. I toss the plum pieces with sugar and a squirt of lemon juice and let them sit while I maybe go have a coffee (that sugar needs a bit of time to draw out juice). Then it’s cook, stir, cook, stir. Plum jam tends to foam a lot, so a tiny pat of butter in the pot can help reduce that foam. Once it’s thickened to the right consistency (sheeting off the spoon in thick drops), I ladle it into jars and give them a nice hot water bath. Shelf Life: Like other jams, plum jam is best in the first year, but I’ve found a jar tucked away at 18 months that was still perfectly fine (color darkened slightly, but flavor was there). This jam is a superstar on toast and scones. And for a treat, try it warmed and drizzled over cheesecake or ice cream – trust me, it’ll put any cherry topping to shame. I remember last winter, I was feeling a bit of cabin fever and opened a jar of plum jam to taste summer. One spoonful, and suddenly I was back in the sunny orchard swatting away wasps and filling my basket with ripe plums. That’s the power of a good jam – time travel in a jar.

Blackberry Syrup

Foraging for wild blackberries is practically a competitive sport in my family. We know a spot down an old railway line where, come late summer, the blackberry brambles are heavy with fruit. It’s a labor of love – you end up with as many scratches as berries, and you’ll definitely be stained deep purple from fingertips to elbows. But the reward is a bucket of plump blackberries bursting with flavor. Sure, we eat a ton fresh (and the kids’ grins with purple-stained teeth are always a hoot), but one of our favorite ways to preserve blackberries is by making a blackberry syrup.

Blackberry syrup is essentially a thinner, pourable cousin of jam. We cook the berries with sugar and a bit of water, and I usually add a squeeze of lemon juice to brighten it up. As the berries cook, they release their juices and the house smells like a blackberry patch in the sun. Instead of cooking until super thick, I stop when it’s a syrupy consistency that still drips easily off a spoon. Some people strain their blackberry syrup to remove seeds – I’m a fan of a little texture, so I keep most of the pulp in, with just a quick pass through a sieve to catch any big clumps or stems. We funnel the hot syrup into jars and process them in a boiling water bath. Shelf Life: Sealed, the syrup stays good for a year (though Sunday pancake breakfasts ensure it never actually lasts that long around here). We use this syrup on everything: pancakes, waffles, yogurt, ice cream, even as a base for refreshing summer drinks (a spoonful in a glass of seltzer water – homemade blackberry soda!). One memory that always makes me chuckle: a jar of blackberry syrup wasn’t sealed properly (I think a seed was stuck on the rim, breaking the seal), and a couple weeks later it popped open in the pantry. I ended up with a sticky purple puddle on the shelf – luckily it didn’t break, it just overflowed. Now I double-check every jar, and any that don’t seal become immediate fridge syrup. No berry left behind, that’s my motto.

Canning Safely and Joyfully

Canning on the homestead is equal parts art and science, and it’s taught me to be both creative and careful. Over the years I’ve had my share of minor mishaps (sticky floors, one or two unplanned “science experiments” in jars) and triumphs (rows of perfect jars cooling with that satisfying ping!). The key to success is respecting the process: I always follow trusted, tested recipes for canning times and methods – the National Center for Home Food Preservation guide is like a bible to me, and my dog-eared Ball canning book isn’t far behind. Safety first, always. That means using the right method (water bath vs. pressure canner) for the food’s acidity, keeping everything scrupulously clean, and not improvising in ways that could compromise safety. Within those guidelines, though, there’s plenty of room to make recipes your own, add a pinch of this or that, and infuse a little personality into each jar.

In the quiet of winter, when I walk into our pantry and see all those jars lined up, I feel rich. Not rich in dollars (goodness knows homesteading isn’t a get-rich-quick scheme), but rich in self-reliance, in memories, and in future meals already prepared and waiting. Each jar is a small celebration of seasons past and a reassurance for seasons to come. We’ve captured sunshine, rain, toil, and love in those containers. From the tang of a pickled beet that reminds me of a summer afternoon, to the sweet spoonful of blackberry syrup that conjures up laughter in the berry bramble, canning has woven our lifestyle into our food in the most tangible way.

If you’re new to canning, start with something simple like jam or pickles – you’ll get the hang of it and build confidence. If you’re a seasoned canner, you know the thrill I’m talking about – and maybe this list gives you an idea or two for something new to try next season. Either way, don’t be afraid to experiment with different foods and recipes (safely!). The beauty of homesteading is learning by doing, batch by batch, season by season.

When the power goes out in a winter storm or when grocery store shelves look a little bare, we don’t worry. We’ve got home-canned food to rely on – delicious insurance, courtesy of our own hands. It’s more than just food in those jars; it’s peace of mind, a connection to our land, and a labor of love. Happy canning, and may your pantry always be full!

(Warm water and full bellies – that’s the homesteader’s way.)