Sarah Karnasiewicz

Now, more than 72,000 meals later, Jane and Michael Stern have become American culinary legends. Since that first shared meal three decades ago, the two have emerged as the country’s leading authorities on “road food” — sniffing out the small-town diners and roadside cafes with the country’s best flapjacks, fried dough, chili dogs and collard greens. From their home base in West Redding, Conn., together they have traveled over 3 million miles, surviving on their iron stomachs and their sharp sense of humor, and spawned a small cottage industry that includes more than 30 books, a popular Web site, a monthly column in Gourmet magazine and a frequent guest spot on public radio’s “The Splendid Table.”

Though “eating locally” has lately become a buzzword in four-star restaurants, the Sterns were fans of homespun, regional fare long before farmers markets and slow food were en vogue. “American food, as we think of it, is not pure — it’s not the Alice Waters ideal of sustainable, organic everything. Some of it is absolutely right off the farm, some of it is mixed in with crappy cake mix, some of it is about a guy who stands outside for 12 hours swabbing a side of meat, some of it is about just having a Coke,” Jane says. “[Describing road food] always reminds me of a time, back in the ’80s, when I took a tour of the homes of some local quilt makers in Oxford, Miss. There were beautiful quilts made of polyester, and with Barbie doll fabric in them — because cotton was too expensive. Because, of course, quilt-making tradition is to take odds and ends of leftover things you have around the house and reuse them. So I guess, like quilts, the food Michael and I are interested in is a kind of folk art.”

Indeed, when the couple first embarked on their edible adventures, both had recently completed graduate degrees in art from Yale University and they brought a documentarian spirit to the task. “When we were doing the first edition of ‘Roadfood,’” explains Michael, “we really did worry that the restaurants we were writing about would soon be gone and replaced by franchises. And over the years we have seen many go out of business; there’s no denying the onslaught of corporate food has had a bad effect.” “But it hasn’t been nearly as grim as we expected,” adds Jane. “I guess the upside of the fancier food culture that’s developed in the past two decades is that now a lot of restaurants that might have gone under have been preserved by a second generation of kids, and run with a pride that wouldn’t have been there before.”

Though the prospect of driving across the U.S. 100 days a year, earning a living sampling cherry pie and fried clams, is enough to inspire envy in any office drone, the Sterns, both aged 59, are quick to warn that the life of a roadfoodie is not without its trials. Indeed, in their continuing quest to test as many restaurants as humanly possible, the Sterns consume an average of 12 meals a day on the job, a task that means rising at 4 to catch at least one breakfast when coffee shops start humming at 6 a.m. “We can eat just about anyone under the table, so the first few breakfasts of the day [are] no problem at all,” they boast in “Two for the Road.” The difficult part comes, they explain, when you add to that itinerary four lunches, and an afternoon ice cream. Most nights, the Sterns say, they are so stuffed by their (last of four) dinners that in order to avoid the shaming stares of the wait staff, Jane stashes the leftovers in an oversize purse.

A look back at their courtship and entry into food writing, “Two for the Road” opens in New Haven, Conn., in 1970, when the couple — two self-described dreamers with a streak of wanderlust — found their studies in painting and art history challenged by “minor[s] in fried dough at summertime fairs [and] clams, chowder and lobsters all along the coast.” A year later, after graduation, unemployed, aimless and “living in a little shack in the woods, hiding out from life,” the Sterns say they were simply seized by an “an urge to just hit the road, to explore.” That urge has never gone away. “Even now,” says Michael, “the work we do is more about experience of a place rather than the food. Food on a plate in a vacuum is of virtually no interest to us — it’s the place, it’s the people, it’s the history, it’s the smells and the sights.” “Another part of it,” chuckles Jane, “is that the idea of having a real job was so anathema to us, and we really wanted to hang out together — and besides that, I knew I would be the world’s shittiest faculty wife!”

The Sterns laugh a lot — which any couple who’ve spent time together in the solitary confinement of a car will agree is itself quite a feat. In “Two for the Road,” they write, “Travel did wonders for us as a couple. As we sailed along the highways and back roads … we came to rely on each other’s company and comfort. Despite frequent battles for the car’s armrest and endless debates about which seafood shack ladled out the best chowder, our shared discoveries became a bond of security between us in an otherwise strange world … At night, we clung to each other under thin [motel] blankets.” A true team, in their books the couple write together in a universal voice — and in person finish one another’s sentences.

Still, despite their closeness, the Sterns are hardly clones — especially when it comes to their picky palates. While an aversion to ketchup seems like it could be a real handicap for a road warrior, Jane, who has a fondness for flowing black garments and sports the tight dark bun of a flamenco dancer, claims to detest condiments of any kind. Also on her least-favorite list? Fish — any kind except shellfish. But don’t worry about her going hungry: While Michael’s dining on fish and chips, she manages to keep herself busy, mostly, she says, by sampling pies.

Michael, tall and wiry with sandy hair and impish blue eyes, is an adventurous eater — the kind of person who will try anything once, whether it is a fried pig’s ear or steamed intestines. (The steamed intestines never actually made it into his mouth, Michael confesses; their odor was so nauseating, Jane says, that outside Brunswick County, Va., they had to toss the whole container from the window of their moving car.)

Today, though the two are still tireless explorers, ready to brave the icy stares of locals crowding Maryland’s dive bars (the only place to find the state’s signature “stuffed ham”), they long ago forswore backwater motels where “bathmats are made of paper like a diner place mat, TVs are chained to cinderblock walls, and you can only hope the people next door are not killers or hookers.” Thankfully, 30 years on the road has provided them with a practical education that includes, not least, a method of bedding down in a motel without touching the bedspread and discerning the quality of a diner by its jukebox playlist. (If Hank Williams is on there, you’ve hit the jackpot.)

While it is their loyalty to independent restaurants and local food that has helped them amass a devoted following of readers over the years, food snobs the Sterns are not. In fact, they are almost studiously anti-trend, subsisting on a rotating menu of frankfurters, roast beef sandwiches and cream pies, and returning again and again to the same family-owned clam shacks, taquerias, coffee shops and barbecue joints. “I think we agree that the whole idea of rarefied food is ridiculous,” says Michael. “People shouldn’t feel like they need a degree in sustainable food management to enjoy eating,” he laughs. It’s not that the Sterns are offended by new ideas and tastes, explains Jane. It’s that they think tradition is important and that change should be dictated by the way people actually live, not determined by some all-knowing arbiter of taste. “Meals and places that are about jagged, funky edges hitting one another — I find that much more exciting than a food world that is fixated on the lineage of the mackerel I’m eating,” says Jane. In truly democratic fashion, these days most of the places the Sterns profile in Gourmet and online at Roadfood.com come to them via reader tips.

Those tips are proof that the Sterns’ passion is infectious. As with the folk artists they admire, there is a streak of the obsessive in their habits — and their interests are not confined to the edible. They admit laughingly now that back in the early 1970s, when they first thought about writing a food guide, they planned to eat at every restaurant in the country; after a month, when they still hadn’t made it beyond their corner of Connecticut, they realized they’d have to revise. But other infatuations soon followed — with long-distance truckers, rodeos and flea market kitsch collectors. Along with their regional cookbooks, the Sterns have co-authored books about Elvis fans and the dog show circuit. “We just fall in love with things passionately: We want to be rodeo cowboys, we want to be truckers, we want to be a part of their world, to know them and love them,” says Jane. “And I think that’s what people relate to in our writing — it’s a genuine enthusiasm. Maybe because we feel so rootless in a way, it’s so comforting to be around people who have such roots, such history and identity.”

Like the blue roads they travel through the veins of America, wandering is now in the Sterns’ blood. And they wouldn’t have it any other way. After lunch, our pizza is packed into cardboard take-away boxes and the Sterns load into their car, radio blaring. “Feel like ice cream?” Michael laughs. “Because I know this great place down the road.”

Langdon Cook, the author of the new memoir-cum-cookbook “Fat of the Land: Adventures of a 21st Century Forager,” and a popular blog by the same name, might put money on it — but he isn’t waiting around for the masses to catch up. Cook, an outdoorsman, amateur naturalist and former editor at Amazon.com, first began foraging as a trailside diversion but has spent the better part of the last decade getting in touch with his inner hunter-gatherer, schooling himself in the art of “shooting” razor clams, mapping out burn sites for signs of morels, and cataloging a veritable crisper-full of delectable weeds. That education — combined with a year spent living off the grid in southern Oregon with his wife and young child, growing and canning most of their food and foraging the surplus — proved a transformative experience for Cook, and inspired him to bring the gospel of wild food (in all of its muddy, wet, prickly and, yes, tasty glory) to the wider world. His message: Foraging food will make you a healthier, happier eater, a more thoughtful consumer and a more adventurous cook. And his best evidence? Himself. This is, after all, the same guy who once, in order to woo a lady, bragged about making a killer Egg McMuffin.

Now settled in Seattle, Cook does most of his foraging in the mountains and waterways near Puget Sound, but sometimes even a stroll around his urban neighborhood leads to an unexpected edible encounter. (Case in point: The dried buds of the lowly pineapple weed, a common sidewalk crack-filler and relative of chamomile, makes excellent iced tea.) Salon spoke with him recently about recession-proof dining, the large-scale sustainability of foraging, the hidden charms of the stinging nettle, and why it’s time we all got out there and started searching for our suppers.

How did you begin foraging? Was it something you did with your family growing up?

Not at all. I grew up in Connecticut, where I had a typical suburban upbringing and heard all the traditional warnings about not eating anything growing wild, especially mushrooms. Cooking was not a big part of my early life. We did, however, have a few acres of land, and I spent a lot of time playing in the woods.

My wife, though, who is of Polish and Italian extraction, came from a very different tradition. Mediterranean and Eastern European cultures have had a long and affectionate relationship with wild edibles. So it really wasn’t until I met her, and we started foraging, that I got serious about becoming a better cook. In part that was because when you bring home ingredients from the wild — especially animals, like fish and shellfish — you really want to honor them by making a good meal. And of course, when you discover just how much some premium ingredients — like morels and porcinis and truffles and things like that — are going for in the market, you also want to make sure that when you do find them, you use them well.

In the book you explain that foraging really became cemented as part of your life during a year in which you and your family lived off the grid in southern Oregon. Was that move — and your concentration on foraging — part of a deliberate attempt to change your own consumption?

There definitely was a philosophical element to it. I’d been working for corporate America for years, and in that environment a typical lunch was nasty reheated Chinese food from the food court that you’d wolf down in 20 minutes at your desk. So, yes, I used the opportunity of living off the grid to eat healthier and more thoughtfully. When you are two hours from the nearest town, foraging becomes a great way to supplement what you have, so that you’re not always driving back and forth from the market. We had a huge vegetable garden and an orchard with several varieties of apples, pears, plums and cherries, and we pretty much canned everything that we didn’t eat the day that we picked it. We fished for salmon and steelhead from the Rogue River, and we would go to town every 10 days to get basic necessities. But mushrooms and wild greens like fiddleheads and stinging nettles — those we could gather right outside the back door. It was definitely a concerted effort to live a little more close to the bone and closer to the land.

But you’re living in Seattle again now, right? How have you integrated foraging into your urban life?

When we got back from the boonies, I immediately went into a deep funk. I love Seattle, but civilization was a bit of a culture shock. So, I pulled myself out of it by continuing my foraging excursions — though now they are usually around the mountains or the Puget Sound region. But sometimes I even take urban foraging trips around my neighborhood.

During my year in the woods, I really thought about the problem of sustainability, and I think living off the grid really helped me clarify some of my ideas. Because the truth is that if at this moment everyone started foraging on a large scale, it would wreak havoc on the ecosystem. But there are certain things that we can all forage almost anywhere — for example, weeds — that wouldn’t have the same kind of environmental impact. Weeds are incredibly nutritious, a lot of them are very tasty, and they’re everywhere. I can name several — dandelions, lamb’s-quarters, chickweed, purslane, cat’s-ear  – that all grow around people. What’s more, certain weeds, like stinging nettles and lamb’s-quarters, have many more nutrients than any domestic vegetable we grow. They really do make spinach look like junk food. You can just sauté lamb’s-quarters like you would kale from your garden, and it’s delicious.

You live in the Pacific Northwest, though, which is basically an agricultural Eden. What about folks who live in New York or Nevada? Do you really think foraging is something people can do anywhere?

I think that certainly up and down the West Coast it’s possible. I’ve foraged in Oregon and California and in Colorado and the Rockies, though that’s a little tough because you’re at a high elevation. If you’re asking, can I do this in Brooklyn, or even just, can I do this in the Northeast, you can. It may be on a smaller scale, and your catch may be different, but you can.

I’ve always thought of foraging as gathering, but in your book you include fishing and catching and squid and mollusks. How do you define foraging?

My definition is pretty broad — basically anything you can gather or catch that doesn’t run away, like shellfish, like clams or oysters. I’m not orthodox about it. I really don’t think of myself as a modern-day Euell Gibbons or the book as a modern-day “Stalking the Wild Asparagus.” I really just want to introduce readers to the forager’s milieu. In general, I think even if you just forage a little in your local area, it will raise your awareness about food in general, and the politics surrounding it.

Do you think foraging is the natural next step in the local and seasonal food movement?

Absolutely. Foraging keeps you acutely aware of the seasons, and to develop a forager’s eye, you really do have to be cognizant of the natural history of your surroundings. If you’re mushroom hunting, you need to know about the landscape — the trees, the soil composition, the weather, the microclimates — all the conditions that figure into finding mushrooms. In a way, it’s kind of like a puzzle to work out.

How has focusing on foraging changed the way you cook?

What I think foraging does is help keep you in tune with the source of your food — and that carries into other areas of eating. So, even if you’re buying seafood or vegetables in a shop, you think a little bit more about where they came from, because you’ve become more intimately involved with food gathering yourself. Nutrition is part of it as well. A lot of foods that we grow have been selected over time for taste and hardiness, and have lost some of the nutrients they started off with, whereas a lot of wild foods are very nutritionally rich. For example, huckleberries are full of antioxidants and stinging nettles are high in protein — in fact, they have more protein than just about any other plant in the plant kingdom.

And I think eventually my foraging will probably lead to hunting, which up until now I’ve never done. I’ve never used a rifle or a gun to take an animal. But I’m a carnivore, and I just feel like I can’t spend my entire life buying meat at the store wrapped in plastic. I’m going to have to get my own at some point. It just seems a little more honest.

It’s also a cost-conscious way of eating ethically.

Foraging really is the ultimate budgeter’s solution. For instance, on my kitchen counter right now, because we’ve been doing a lot of canning lately, I can see jars of elderberry syrup and rose-hip syrup and thimbleberry jam, which in a few months will become recessionary Christmas presents. But the thing about thimbleberries is that they’re tiny to pick — it took me a full day to get enough for 12 very small jars! When you start processing foraged food you realize why hunter gatherers basically spent all their time doing that, not building towns or making art. Hunting, gathering and processing are a never-ending job.

What advice would you give to novice foragers?

There aren’t a ton of deadly poisonous plants and mushrooms out there, but there are some. So, the golden rule of foraging is to never eat anything, especially plants and fungi, that you can’t identify with 100 percent certainty. In order to do that I recommend that people join mycological societies — they exist all over the country and are a great source for would-be mushroom pickers. Also, look for people in your area who are leading plant tours and check out nearby horticultural societies. Unfortunately, field guides — even ones with pictures — don’t always tell the whole story, and a plant can look a lot different when you’re holding it in your hands than it does in a book. That’s why it’s really best to learn from someone who is an expert in the field. That said, there are all kinds of delicious plants and fungi that are really easy to identify once you learn them the first time. Mushrooms like morels, chanterelles, porcini, lobster mushrooms and oyster mushrooms — they’re all really simple once you know what they look like. But for that first time, it’s important to learn them from someone else.

That makes a lot of sense, since over history these skills have largely been learned experientially, from parents or grandparents or neighbors.

Right, that’s how my wife learned — from her family. Of course, when we were all in rural societies, we all had access to that knowledge. Now we have to trust so-called experts. As far as plants go, again, there are several species that are really easy to identify. Anyone can go out and collect dandelions — I’m not going to say you need an expert for that!

What’s the Holy Grail of foraging? Is there something you’re always looking for but haven’t found?

Well, for the first time other day, I dug a geoduck. It’s basically a giant clam — it’s certainly the largest clam in the Pacific Northwest. Going after them involves digging a hole around three feet deep and just as wide, and trying to get at the neck of the geoduck, which is extended, because they can’t pull their neck all the way into their shell. You can only get them during the low, low tide, and I went on what was one of the last days in the season that low tide would occur during daylight hours. I took my time and was chatting with some friends, and the next thing I knew, the tide was coming in. I was on my belly, up to my neck in water, reaching around in the hole, when I finally grabbed ahold of the neck and wrestled it out of there. The geoduck I got was about two pounds. I took it home and used the neck to make a ceviche with red onion and papaya and cucumber and a lot of lime juice. Then I used the rest of the body to make a really nontraditional kung pao that I called surf and turf, because I included a few chicken of the woods mushrooms in it, too. It was a long, wet day — but it was so good.

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Creamy Chanterelle Pasta

Adapted from “Fat of the Land”

You can use store-bought cremini mushrooms, but this dish is far superior with fresh chanterelles, which offer a fruity counterpoint to the bacon, and it’s nearly as good with chanterelles that have been previously sautéed and frozen, so you can eat it in the depths of a cold, dark winter, when the chanterelles in the northern latitudes have long since returned to the earth. Green peas add a dash of color.

4 tablespoons (1/2 stick) butter

4 slices (1/4 pound) thick, quality bacon, diced (or the equivalent of pancetta)

1-2 shallots, finely chopped

1 pound shaped pasta (I prefer bow ties)

1 pound fresh chanterelles

Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

1 pint heavy cream (or less)

4 ounces garden peas, fresh or frozen

1/2 cup grated Parmesan, with more for the table

Preheat oven to 250 degrees. In a large skillet, heat 2 tablespoons of the butter over medium heat and add the diced bacon. Do not drain fat. As bacon begins to crisp, add shallots and cook until tender, a few minutes. Meanwhile, bring a pot of water to boil and add pasta. Add chanterelles to skillet and cook several minutes, stirring occasionally, until they have released their water. Season with salt and pepper. In a large glass or ceramic mixing bowl, add 2 remaining tablespoons of butter and half the cream. Place mixing bowl in warm oven. Slowly add remaining cream to skillet and simmer, continuing to stir occasionally while pasta cooks. When pasta is nearly done, add peas to chanterelle sauce. Remove pasta from heat, drain, and pour into warmed mixing bowl. Mix in sauce along with grated Parmesan and serve immediately. If you’re worried about all that butter and cream, open another bottle of red wine. SERVES 4 

I come forward with this confession as a serious cook and without irony – because, well, it’s about time someone did. After decades of pretzel and marshmallow-strewn degradation, Jell-O (and its plain old unbranded sibling, gelatin) has served out its term as a culinary punch line. Let’s give the Rodney Dangerfield of desserts some respect.

Now seems like as good a time as any to start: Another August is well upon us, and thermometers around the country are finally nudging their way above 90 degrees. No one wants to soak through a T-shirt standing over a hot stove. Freezers are full of ice cream and Popsicles already, and the long days of late summer are prime time for a little cool-cooking experimentation. Not to mention, recession-minded penny pinchers: compared with single-origin chocolates or pistachio-saffron cakes, gelatin is both pretty and pretty easy on the wallet (At my local Met Food, a box of Jell-O retails for $1.09; Knox unflavored gelatin is $1.59. Pistachios are $7 for 10 ounces.)

I know: The specter of dozens and dozens of odiferous cafeteria lunches, countless cheerless hospital trays, and towering potluck salads of ectoplasmic lime Jell-O and mayonnaise is a hard one to shake. In the modern American cook’s imagination, Jell-O is inextricably linked to the Technicolor convenience foods and culinary disasters of atomic-era housewifery (allow me to present the Gallery of Regrettable Food). But Jell-O, and certainly gelatin, have been a part of the cook’s arsenal for much, much longer than 50 years, and rearview mirrors are notoriously distorting. Examples of sophisticated gelatin dishes can be found in some of our earliest cookbooks, and they were served with honor at the courts of Napoleon and the Medicis. Even more recently, one of my favorite kitchen references, the Women’s Day Encyclopedia of Cookery, a 12-volume guide published in 1966 that featured such esteemed contributors as James Beard and Nika Hazelton, devoted almost a dozen reverent pages to the subject, right between gâteaux and génoise. Its recipes include both the sweet and the savory – from a seafood cocktail salad (glazed with fresh tomato gelatin) to a lemon, fruit and white-wine jelly. Jell-O can be cool and seductive, a playful spectacle, and the ultimate culinary blank slate. Where’s the horror in that?

Indeed the story of Jell-O, like so many other classic American sagas, is a fable of inspiration, invention and fall from grace. For most of their history, gelatins (or jellies, as dishes made with gelatin are known) were strictly aristocratic fare. Their esteem was a reflection, in part at least, of the intense labor required to produce them. Just how hard was it? It helps to begin with some science: Gelatin is simply a hydrocolloid protein that can be extracted from animal collagen in tissue and bones. (Ever wonder what gives great homemade stocks their velvety feel? Yep, it’s gelatin.) High-quality gelatin is both odorless and flavorless; the proteins swell in contact with liquid, dissolve in warm water, and form a firm jelly when cooled. (Cooks today can create vegetarian jellies by substituting agar, a gelatin made from red seaweed, for one derived from animal bones.) But before the development and widespread availability of powdered gelatin, cooks had to collect bones and remove the gelatin themselves. Carolyn Wyman, the author of “JELL-O: A Biography,” describes the whole gory process, thusly:

First, you had to get two calves feet – scald them, take off the hair, slit them in two, and extract the fat from between the claws. Then you had to boil them, remove the scum, and boil them again for as long as six or seven hours – before straining, letting the product cool, skimming the fat, boiling once more, adding the shells and whites of five eggs [to pick up impurities], skimming again, and straining twice through a jelly bag that you would have had to make yourself [there being no Kmart].

Not exactly appetizing. Should it be any surprise that jellies were most beloved by those who could afford to foist the task of preparation on an army of hired help?

Nearly any liquid can be jellied, from fresh juices to meaty broths to spirits and wines – though a handful of raw fruits, including pineapple, papaya, figs, ginger and kiwis, contain an enzyme known as bromelain, which inhibits gelatin from properly setting. (That enzyme is destroyed during cooking and preserving, though, which is why you still see many Jell-O fruit salads studded with Dole pineapple chunks.) As early as the 17th century, chefs were creating dramatic, layered or “ribboned” jellies as dining table centerpieces – but during the Victorian era, with the invention of elaborate, architectural jelly molds, the art of gelatin cookery reached its rococo peak. Many dishes were as practical as they were beautiful. Gelatin was a popular method of preservation before refrigeration became routine, as a jelly encasement could cut off oxygen to food, inhibiting the proliferation of bacteria. In French fine cooking, jellied foodstuffs never fell out of fashion; to this day gelées and savory aspics are celebrated on their own and as a part of iconic dishes, such as pâté en croûte (in which a layer of gelatin and fat insulates the forcemeat terrine from its pastry shell). In Southeast Asia, almond milk Jell-O topped with sliced melon or lychee remains a warm-weather staple; and in Mexico and South America, no market or stall is complete without a refrigerator case chock-full of fruity, creamy or coconutty jellies.

Ultimately, though, like so many other tales, the story of gelatin cookery underwent a drastic reimagining on American shores. The first U.S. patent for a powdered gelatin dessert was taken out in 1845 by none other than Peter Cooper, inventor of the steam locomotive. But Jell-O as we know it today – in all its artificial glory – wasn’t introduced until 1897, when Pearle Wait, a carpenter and part-time patent-medicine tinkerer from LeRoy, N.Y., developed a powdered gelatin with coloring and flavorings already added and marketed it as the world’s first packaged dessert mix. His wife christened it Jell-O. The ads declared: “Just Add Water!” and “Works Like Magic!” The 20th century, and the future of food, had arrived.

Inexpensive and brash, over the next hundred years Jell-O democratized dessert in America – and was transformed from a novelty treat available in only four flavors (strawberry, raspberry, lemon and orange) into a kaleidoscopic, multinational corporate culinary and cultural behemoth. “It might be more American than apple pie,” says Lynne Belluscio, the director of the Jell-O Museum in LeRoy, N.Y. Because it was simple enough for a harried housewife to throw together after picking up Junior from school, yet versatile enough to spiff up when there was company to impress, Jell-O soon became a symbol of postwar suburbia at its most sweet and stifling. But – like a maraschino cherry suspended in a scoop of lime gelatin – that reputation has hardly budged since.

Sure, there have been sporadic revivals and reinventions. Show me a high school graduate who hasn’t slurped down a brain-melting shot of grain alcohol and blue Jell-O from a Dixie cup, and I’ll show you a Mormon. More than a decade ago, the world-class chef Jean-Georges Vongerichten surprised diners at his flagship four-star New York City restaurant, Jean-Georges, by serving a chocolate and raspberry Napoleon with strawberry Jell-O and vanilla ice cream. Then the aughts ushered in the era of the kitchen laboratory, and chefs on the vanguard of the global “molecular gastronomy” movement, including Spain’s Ferran Adrià, Chicago’s Grant Achatz, and New York’s Wylie Dufresne, began playing with gelatin and agar to create whimsical dishes like fried mayonnaise nuggets and beef short ribs swaddled in thin, translucent blankets of jellied Guinness.

Britain has Bompass & Parr, two self-proclaimed “jelly mongers,” whose work includes “bespoke” jelly molds in the shape of Madrid’s Barajas airport, glow-in-the-dark Jell-O, and even Jell-O wedding and funeral towers in the same silhouettes as traditional cakes. And just last month, the Gowanus Studio Space in downtown Brooklyn, N.Y., hosted a Jell-O mold design competition that resulted in feats of artistry and engineering such as jelly jewels and an all-Jell-O hamburger and fries. What’s been missing, though, are creative Jell-O dishes that go beyond nostalgia and kitsch and celebrate the quotidian versatility of the ingredient itself; modern food for every day, created for and by home cooks. Think about it: Cupcakes used to be strictly the stuff of fourth-grade classrooms – now they’re a billion-dollar boutique business. A Jell-O revolution could be unleashed with only a smidgen of that star treatment.

Given its processed, dyed and powdered past, perhaps the most revolutionary approach a cook can take with Jell-O is to start simple and fresh. Invest in a box of unflavored gelatin and a few cups of fruit, and snip a few sprigs from your garden. I came home from an afternoon of berry picking yesterday with a dozen pounds of blueberries, and my window box is spilling over with lemon verbena. Add a simple sugar syrup, a squeeze of lemon, an envelope of Knox – heat, stir, chill, and there’s the evening’s sweet ending. And once you let gelatin’s irreverent nature be your muse, it only gets easier. For instance, maybe you’re sick of tomato and mozzarella salads? Me too. So I’m already eyeing my tomato plants and planning an eye-popping savory terrine of homemade basil-infused Jell-O and meaty slices of late summer beefsteaks.

“When it comes right down to it, gelatin is just fun to play with,” says H. Alexander Talbott, one of the chefs and mad geniuses behind the blog Ideas in Food. “Food doesn’t always have life and texture – but when you slurp gelatin through your teeth, you can feel it moving. It has a force.” That’s right. So, Jell-O warriors, go forth and cook. It is in your power to vanquish the empire of mayonnaise and the mini-marshmallow. And may that force be with you.

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RECIPES

Summer Blueberry Cream Pie

Serves 6-8

A tart and voluptuous summer dessert – without a marshmallow in sight.

1½ cup fresh blueberries
3 eggs
¼ teaspoon salt
½ cup sugar
Seeds of 1 vanilla pod, or, 1½ teaspoon real vanilla extract
1 envelope unflavored gelatin
½ cup cold water
1 cup heavy cream, whipped
1 deep-dish 9-inch pie crust, prebaked

1. Place berries in a medium bowl; crush slightly with the back of a spoon to bruise them and release some of their juices; set aside.
2. In a separate bowl, beat eggs with salt until thick, then gradually beat in sugar and vanilla.
3. Soften gelatin in a small bowl of cold water, then add a bit of hot water and stir until the crystals are fully dissolved. Allow it to cool, then stir into egg mixture. Fold in cream and chill until mix begins to firm up. Then, fold in berries. Spoon the finished berry-cream into the pie crust, and chill until set. Decorate with additional whipped cream and a scattering of blueberries.

Adapted from the Woman’s Day Encyclopedia of Cookery (Fawcett Publications, 1966)

Iced Coffee “Gumdrops”

Makes two dozen 1-inch cubes

American food anthropologists Jane and Michael Stern attribute the origins of this dish to Durgin Park, a dining landmark in downtown Boston – and, indeed, its straightforward simplicity does smack of Yankee thrift. (Think of it as iced coffee, only solid!) But, in fact, versions of coffee jelly are popular around the globe, most notably in Southeast Asia and Japan. If you like your coffee black, go ahead and eat these unadorned – but beware, they’re strong. Otherwise, try them topped with a dollop of fresh whipped cream, or – my favorite – a drizzle of coconut milk.

4 cups coffee
1/2 to 3/4 cup sugar (depending on your desired level of sweetness)
2 envelopes unflavored gelatin

In a small saucepan, bring the coffee to a boil. Once it is simmering, whisk in the sugar and gelatin. Stir until they are completely dissolved. Turn off heat and let sit for 5 minutes. Pour the coffee mixture in a shallow pan. Refrigerate for 3 hours or until firm.

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For years, accepted wisdom has held that it was a transition to meat eating that prompted human evolution — which makes Wrangham’s hypothesis a radical departure. Yet, the more he tested his theory, the more he found the science to back it up: Cooked food is universally easier to process and more nutritionally dense than raw food, which means adopting a cooked diet would have given man a biological advantage. The energy he once spent consuming and digesting raw food could be diverted to other physiological functions, leading to the development of bigger bodies and brains. And Wrangham’s “cooking hypothesis” not only explains the physical changes that humans underwent but also the social ones: Cooking created a sexual division of labor that informs our ideas of gender, love, family and marriage even to this day. “Humans are adapted to eating cooked food in the same essential way as cows adapted to eating grass, or fleas to sucking blood,” Wrangham concludes. “And the results pervade our lives, from our bodies to our minds. We humans are the cooking apes, the creatures of the flame.”

Salon spoke with Wrangham, 60, by telephone from his research station in Uganda, about the dangers of strictly raw-food diets, why women are the ones who cook and the tricky business of calorie counting.

For years scientists have suggested that the making of tools, and then using tools for hunting and meat-eating, were factors that prompted the evolution of man as we know him. You push that theory farther to say that it was not eating meat, but cooking it and eating it, that’s responsible for the transformation. How did you make that leap?

In the very beginning, I wasn’t even thinking about human evolution. In fact, the basic idea came to me after long days of following chimpanzees, when — because I was hungry, and sometimes I didn’t take my food with me — I tried to eat what they ate. I assumed that since I was a member of a species that was so closely related to chimps — different only in terms of bodies and brains — I would be able to eat anything that they could. But in actuality, though I could force it down, I quickly realized that I could not eat enough of what they ate to satisfy my hunger.

That started me subconsciously wondering about the question of food’s role in human evolution. But it wasn’t until some years later — when I was sitting in front of my fireplace one night, thinking how nice and comforting a fire is, and how long ago back it would have been that our ancestors had been doing the same thing — that I went further back in time in my mind, and realized it was very difficult to imagine our ancestors having fire and not cooking. And from there, I began to find it very hard to imagine any creature with the basic human shape surviving on raw food.

Still, when I started my research, I was amazed to discover how little investigation had been done into the nutritional and biological aspects of cooking. In particular, I was amazed by how many people thought that humans could live perfectly well on raw food.

Yes, you do quite a convincing job of arguing that a purely raw diet cannot sustain an active human. Do you believe that we have evolved to a point where a raw diet is fundamentally against our biology?

Yes, I suppose I do. If I hesitate, it is because I certainly recognize that raw foodists who live in an urban area of a well-to-do nation can make it work, so it’s not that much against our biology. But I do feel very confident now that going off into the wild and living like a hunter-gatherer on raw food is not possible. People who switch to a raw diet report feeling constant hunger and lose large amounts of weight, even when they are careful to take in at least the nutritionally suggested number of calories a day for an adult. Basically, all the studies show that over the long term, a strictly raw diet cannot guarantee an adequate energy supply for our bodies. In other words, raw foodism is against our biology in a state of nature.

How do you respond to raw foodists who say a raw diet makes them feel healthier than they ever have before?

My response is that under modern conditions, living in places where you have money and grocery stores that make a super abundance of high-class domesticated foods accessible, I think it probably can be a healthy way of eating. Don’t get me wrong: I have tremendous admiration for raw food devotees because it is a very hard life to resist the temptations of cooked food, and they must build their whole life around it. And of course, because they build their lives around it, they are very, very committed to the idea that it is a valuable diet. That makes them feel some resentment toward me, I guess. But the irony is that these days, very often, cooked food can be unhealthy, too. The most obvious way is that people eat too much of it.

But raw foodism seems like a pretty extreme response to the problem of obesity, doesn’t it? And from what I can tell, most people don’t eat raw food just to lose weight — there seems to be a philosophical element to it, an idea that as though by choosing a raw diet, they can get back to a pure state.

Yes, of course, raw foodists argue quite strongly that it is our natural diet. My response to them is to say that yes it is, in a way. But it was natural 2 million years ago, not a few thousand years ago.

You write that cooked foods give our bodies more energy than raw foods. Can you explain that, because it seems somewhat counterintuitive. Even when you’re not adding anything — oils or fats — the caloric value goes up?

It’s really very simple. Cooking doesn’t change the actual number of calories in food — meaning that, if you take two portions of raw vegetable or animal product and cook one of them, when you blow it up in a bomb calorimeter and compare the two, you’d get the same number of calories. But there are two big things that cooking does. One is that it increases the proportion of the nutrients that our bodies digest, and from the data I reviewed — for instance, in the case of egg protein it goes from 50 percent to 90 percent — it looks as though that effect can make an enormous difference. And the second thing it does is that cooking reduces the costs we pay to digest our food.

So, eating cooked food conserves our energy?

That’s right. We all fall asleep after a heavy meal, but if you eat a large meal of raw food, you’ll fall asleep faster, because your body is working harder. More oxygen will be leaving your peripheral tissues and going to your intestinal organs.

Basically, cooking makes the food we eat more nutritionally efficient?

Yes. And that’s why in my last chapter, I take on the issue of our food labeling system. When you treat food through processing or grinding, you’re not actually creating more calories — so technically, the food labeling system we have now is correct. But, if we want to be realistic about the caloric value we actually get from a food, we need to modify our labels to reflect more subtle measurements — something like: “This item has been given a level 2 processing, which has increased its nutritional value by 50 percent.”

You argue that cooking not only shaped our bodies, but it also shaped our households and our most basic ideas of gender. How so?

Well, without language, we can’t be absolutely sure about what happened right in the beginning. But with what knowledge we have, I do think that cooking has this huge impact on households and our system of gender as we see it today — and I’ve been trying to figure out where my thinking on this began. I’ve been fascinated for a long time by the idea that cooking basically produces a lump of food — yet unlike any other primate, we humans have an extraordinary degree of respect for women who make it. Other men — bachelors, children — almost never take food from them. And the more I thought about this, I concluded that it looked to me like a system in which women cook for their husbands to earn the social protections that only men can give them through their membership in the male community.

So the concept of marriage began fundamentally not as about power or sex, but food?

Yes, though that would mean that women always do the cooking, and when I first started down this path, I wasn’t at all sure that was the case. So, I went to the anthropological literature, and sure enough, I found reports of societies where men did the cooking. But then I dug into it more carefully — and I discovered that, in the cases where the anthropologists claimed the men had done the cooking, the scientists had been wrong. In every single society women cook for men. And, what’s more fascinating, in many societies you can really say that food or domestic promiscuity is far more serious than sexual promiscuity. In other words, it’s more of a breach of social convention for a woman to feed the wrong man than it is for her to have sex with him.

Why do you think societies have evolved that way?

Because it is, and has always been, so critical for a man to be able to know that someone is going to give him a meal in the evening – because this enables him to spend the whole day doing what he wants — doing, as it were, manly things. It’s very clear from the literature on small-scale societies – and probably true even in our society today – that bachelors have a very hard time of it. They are thin, they are looked down upon by married men, they deeply desire to have a wife in order to be able to join the ranks of the elders. The problem that bachelors face is that they have to spend time during the day not simply doing things that will bring them glory — like hunting — but making sure they have a way of feeding themselves in the evening. And it uses up a lot of energy and time to take care of yourself.

A lot of my book has been challenging to people, but because the male-female relationship is so central to the way we think about humans, and because for so long people have tended to think about pair bonding as being about mating competition and choice of a sexual partner, this in particular has been quite a difficult theory for people to chew over.

Does that mean that, evolutionarily, men should focus on finding a wife who can cook instead of a beauty?

Yes, essentially. I know that from our perspective in the West, where we tend to focus even more than other societies on questions of sexual morality, it’s rather an immoral suggestion that I’m making — basically that men set themselves up with wives in order to have the freedom to be men, as it were — and then go ahead and design their sexual strategy from that point on.

Now, in modern Western societies, that strategy is usually to stay with one’s wife — but not always, as we know! From the woman’s point of view, the wife wants the security of knowing that she has her husband to protect her from the scrounging “others.” It’s not a notion of a love relationship. That’s less common and more nakedly economic in many societies than in our own.

Haven’t we evolved an emotional attachment to cooked food as well as a physical one? It didn’t occur to me until I was reading your book, but raw foods have little scent — yet the sense of smell is one of our most powerful senses. And elemental smells like warm vanilla or baked apples or grilled meat — all cooked foods — are ones that humans seem to respond to positively and universally across age and culture and place.

Absolutely, and as Proust says, smells definitely have an immense effect on our memory and our biology. But it’s a complex question. When I was working on the book, I tested apes on a diet of cooked food, and they liked it spontaneously. You can understand why: The physical characteristics of cooked food have commonalities with other foods that are good for them in the wild. But the smells of cooked food are not like anything you’d find in the wild. They’re really totally different — though I admit I have no chemical data to support that. So, you might think that we have adapted to appreciating and enjoying cooked food as a result of our evolutionary history of exposure to it. But, in that case, other animals should not be adapted to like the smell of cooked food. And we simply have no data to reflect that at the moment.

Did your your studies change the way you thought about the way we should be eating?

Not really. I’d like people to be aware of how easy it is to overeat in today’s world. But personally I’ve always been on a quasi-Mediterranean diet: lots of vegetables, some oil, not too much of anything and not much red meat. I don’t think this experience changed the way I choose to eat, though frankly, if I had the courage, I might try a raw diet for a bit — just to see how it is.

You haven’t ever gone on a completely raw diet?

No, I haven’t. It just seems such a social inconvenience. But maybe that’s just an excuse.

Yes, the sandwich was delicious, and given the quantity of said jam in my cupboard, I’ll probably have one for lunch today, too. But I never meant to be the Daniel Boulud of the PB&J. No, like pretty much everyone else who ties on an apron now and again, I’d been hearing the buzz about how the combination of growing food consciousness, urban homesteading, rising unemployment and the diving economy was spurring a canning renaissance. And indeed, for months it seemed as though a glossy new book or stylish blog appeared on the scene every day, bursting with tempting chutneys and conserves, and eager to tutor the uninitiated in the art of food preservation. Then summer arrived, with its parade of seductive fruits and veggies, and on Facebook, my friends’ updates began including portraits of their rhubarb pickles. I left my secure staff job as an editor in order to write more, and suddenly had the leisure hours and dwindling bank account to prove it. I thought: I’m handy! I’m hungry! I’m broke! So, I joined the club. I hurried to my farmers market, and plunked down $16 for two perfect quarts of wild strawberries. Hours evaporated as I trolled the Web for the just-right recipe. And when, on the proud morning I stirred up my first batch of jam, I gazed on each jewel-colored jar and saw an act of thrift, a gesture of do-it-myself get-up-and-go, a symbolic high-five to all the generations of women before me who wasted not.

But now, a few weeks of sticky counters and countless Ball jars later, I see that I may have gotten just a teensy bit caught up in the romance of it all. Because the truth no one tells you is that while canning and pickling and curing your own (locally grown, organic) food may be many things — rewarding, sustainable, health-conscious, creative and challenging, even — one thing it ain’t is cheap.

OK, maybe it’s not that simple. In fact, before the angry hordes descend, allow me to hedge a bit. Sure, putting up food can be a budget-conscious choice. It definitely used to be, when everyone and their grandmother (literally) had a half-acre plot out back, bursting with bumper crops every August. This, I imagine, is why in many older canning texts, including the bible of food preservation — the “Ball Blue Book of Preservation” (currently sold out on Amazon, natch) — the recipe yields sometimes stretch into the dozens of pints. But today, the desire and ability to pick, pickle and distribute a bushel of kirby cukes in a single day presumes either a boatload of brine-crazy friends or an amount of both garden and pantry real estate of which I can only daydream. And let’s not forget the ultimate unrenewable resource: time. These days, even if you’re not a city dweller short on arable acreage, if you’ve got a full-time job, or a kid, or even just a needy cat, you’re probably tight on the hours it would take to plant, nurture, weed and water a small homestead. So maybe you find time to head to a pick-your-own farm. But mostly you march over to the Greenmarket and lay down your greenbacks. And you buy the books, and the jars, and the spices, and the salt. Making beef jerky? Gotta be grass fed, of course. Yes, there are a million worse ways you could spend your money. Maybe you’re OK with having a $20 jar of homemade maraschino cherries. (I am.) I’m just saying, people: It adds up.

Who wants to talk about that, though — and forfeit the Everyman satisfaction that comes along with trotting out maple syrup from your own tap and homemade salt-cured bacon at your next brunch? This isn’t the first time suburban and urban cooks have latched onto old-timey kitchen ways to fire their domestic fantasies; indeed, anyone unsure about shelling out for the latest crop of preserving cookbooks might want to check used bookstores for some classics from the ’70s and early ’80s, during the last wave of DIY-food publishing — titles like Jean Anderson’s “Green Thumb Preserving Guide,” “Fancy Pantry” by Helen Witty, “Stillroom Cookery” by Grace Firth, and the enormous back-to-the-land lifestyle manual Carla Emery’s “Old Fashioned Recipe Book.” (A note of caution: The USDA revised the canning guidelines in the early ’90s, so make sure to reference its most recent guidelines when using books published prior to that year.) But don’t be disappointed when you open them and find newsprint pages and “Little House on the Prairie”-style ink illustrations instead of glossy photos and artsy fonts. Back then canning was hippy, not haute.

So how’d we get back here? It can’t just be the recession, dummy — because the DIY-food craze started years ago, when everyone was still stinking rich and oblivious. In fact, the whole DIY scene seemed to gain ground just when everyone needed new, hipper, cooler creative things to spend their money on. Cases in point: the “everybody knit your own socks out of $30 skeins of mohair” trend and the “sew your own purse out of vintage bark cloth” trend. The DIY-grub trend, like a slightly more practical younger sibling, has been nurtured by years on a steady diet of hipster, locavore, get-your-hands-dirty, foodie propaganda — articles like “Yes, You Can” and “My Empire of Dirt,” New York magazine’s 2007 memoir of brownstoner homesteading, and at restaurants like Dan Barber’s farm-to-table mecca, Blue Hill Stone Barns. It’s been boosted by books like the agriculture-chic River Cottage series (one of which features a helpful chapter on caring for a shotgun) by British chef Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, and the recently released “Farm City,” Novella Carpenter‘s charming chronicle of her life as a farmer in downtown Oakland, Calif. And, of course, we’ve eaten it up. The figureheads of the DIY food movement are lovable oddball heroes, doing hard work, with delicious consequences. Who wouldn’t want to be them a little?

But, here comes the bubble burst: These people are also professionals. As in, giving the rest of us something to fantasize about is what they do for a living. They can justify the time and the expense and the maddening everything of it all because it is the central project of their lives, at least for right now. What the rest of us are is hobbyists. As in: We noodle around on the guitar, we knit scarfs, and on Saturday mornings, we wander the farmers market and amuse and entertain ourselves by deciding whether today we will make carrot or okra pickles. We choose our little comforts and we sell the leftovers in adorable vintage jars with handmade labels and vintage calico-cloth lids on Etsy. 

That’s why, in my opinion, the best new guides to food preservation are “Jam It, Pickle It, Cure It” by Karen Solomon (Ten Speed Press, 2009) and “Well Preserved,” by Eugenia Bone (Clarkson Potter, 2009): two beautiful books that embrace today’s canning craze for what it really is — a small, sustainable luxury and a craft — and take into account the fact that fig jam, while delicious, is not actually a dinner. Instead, like embroidery, they present preserved foods as lovely accents that need a foundation garment (or, in this case, foundation recipes) to give them shape. To that end, Bone (the daughter of acclaimed Italian food writer Ed Giobbi, and an urbanite who nonetheless has been “putting up” small stashes of seasonal food in her New York City apartment her entire adult life) chooses to limit her book’s focus to a few dozen “master recipes” — like spiced apples, green olive tapenade, smoked chicken breast, and olive-packed tuna — which she then adapts in a trio of heartier forms, such as a warm potato and tuna salad or a spiced apple strudel or a thin-crusted pizza layered with mozzarella and tapenade. The genius of her approach is in the connections it makes and the new possibilities it presents with ingredients one might otherwise take for granted. But budget-minded cooks who read closely will see that Bone, who admits to walking to the Greenmarket repeating the mantra “I will not overbuy, I will not overbuy,” doesn’t so much set out to save money by preserving, as to make sure that the splurges she does allow herself don’t go to waste wilting in the fridge.

Similarly, Karen Solomon, who now lives in San Francisco but grew up in Massachusetts “eating Miracle Whip and drinking diet Shasta,” doesn’t hide her skepticism about the links the media has tried to draw between the surge of interest in food preservation and the economy. She says the main reason she wrote “Jam It” was that she “was always looking for a kind of Girl Scout Manual for the kitchen.” And it’s easy to see that playful, unself-conscious ethos reflected in her book — as though each “cooking project,” whether marshmallows, mayonnaise or homemade Pop-Tarts — might come with a mail-order merit badge, to be awarded upon completion. For Solomon, the connection of cooking to the larger craft culture is clear. “I’ve done collage, I’m a knitter, and all of those things are fun — but, really, how many hats can you give away?” she says with a laugh. “At least when you’re putting up food, the results are edible and shareable and storable. But is it a money saver? Not really. Basically, I care what I eat, and I think, like a lot of people, I just wanted to get creative in a new way.” Solomon’s book takes an iconoclastic approach from other preserving books on the market, focusing on easy condiments like spicy mustard and mayonnaise and quick refrigerator pickles, like a tart Thai cucumber salad and a garlic- and ginger-doused Korean kimchee, which don’t require the time or equipment commitment of recipes that call for preserving jars in a boiling water bath. Come to think of it, they’d be perfect for a lazy lunch after a morning at the Greenmarket.

Still, maybe the trend watchers haven’t gotten everything wrong. Maybe the latest craze for canning (or any kind of craft, for that matter) is connected to the economic crash — but just not in the bottom-line way it’s easy to assume. Maybe for the downsized and jobless, the appeal of all this preserving and pickling and curing is not that it’s a money-saver but rather that it’s a time-spender. In my new freelance life, I pass more hours in my pajamas than I’d care to admit, and have succumbed to the allure of procrastination in the shape of a canning kettle. But there’s also no denying the satisfaction that comes with holding one of those hot little jars in your hand, imagining the pop of the lid and the bright memory of summer months from now. Amid whatever other uncertainties the day brings, it is a little moment that rings of the physical and the nourishing, the productive and reassuringly tangible. That story pitch I spent three hours writing this morning? I may never hear from the editor. But a jar of apricot butter? That I can hold in my hand. That I can swallow.

****

Worth Every Penny Cherry-Almond Conserves

Yields about 6 half-pints

Adapted from “Well Preserved” by Eugenia Bone (Clarkson Potter, 2009)

Conserves are jams that are made from a combination of stewed, sugared fruit and ground nuts. In “Well Preserved,” Bone features a simple recipe for Concord grape and walnut conserves, which she uses as a tart filling and an accompaniment to cheese. But I like a little kick of booze, am allergic to walnuts, and was too impatient to wait for September, when Concord grapes are in season. This midsummer adaptation, I hope, tweaks Bone’s ingredients but preserves the essence. For detailed canning safety instructions, see the USDA Guide to Home Canning.

8 cups of sweet cherries, pitted

5 1/2 cups of sugar

1/2 cup brandy

3 tablespoons of orange zest

2 cups unsalted almonds, semi-crushed

1. Prepare 6 half-pint jars and their bands for packing by scalding them in a large kettle of boiling water. Set pieces aside to dry on a clean towel.

2. Place the cherries and sugar in a heavy pot over medium heat; add 1/2 cup water. As the mixture heats, gently mash the cherries with a potato masher or the side of a wooden spoon, to help them break down. Monitor the pot, stirring to prevent burning, until the sugar dissolves completely. Cook for 15 minutes, until the cherries are dark and glossy and have begun to fall apart.

3. Add orange zest to the pot; simmer for 20 minutes, or until the mixture has thickened. Add the brandy and almonds, then continue cooking for 5 more minutes.

4. Pour the conserve into clean, dry jars, allowing 1/2 inch of space between the mixture and the rim. Wipe any excess conserve from the rims, and screw on the jar lids.

5. Process the sealed jars in a large pot of water fitted with a rack at the bottom. (The jars should be covered by at least 3 inches of water.) Bring to a boil; then allow to simmer for 30 minutes. Turn off the heat, carefully remove the jars, invert them, and allow them to cool upside down on the counter for 5 hours. (As the jars cool, you should hear the popping sound of the vacuum seal as it sets.) Store in a cool, dark place and refrigerate after opening.