With Mom on an Alaskan cruise two years before she died.

My Mom canned pretty much everything. Vegetables, fruits, juices, soups, sauces, kraut, pickles, jams, jellies. If we could grow it, she would can it.

I didn’t like my Mom’s homemade “catsup” growing up, though. It was so different than ketchup from the store, which I thought was the ideal. Mom’s canned catsup was runny. It often soaked through sandwich bread. Plus, her catsup was more tangy than sweet.

Now I would give just about anything for a jar of my Mom’s flavorful catsup. Mom would be 88 today and tickled to find out her homespun, produce-filled recipes are rather trendy. Comfort food, indeed.

Our basement, a.k.a. Mom’s grocery store, always had rows and rows of her canned goods. How Mom managed to “put up” all of that food in the summer heat without air conditioning I’ll never know. I didn’t appreciate everything my Mom did for me then; I suppose few people truly do until they are adults.

Obsessing about Mom’s catsup may seem strange, especially since there are so many things I miss about her. We used to go garage saling or junking together, play poker or other games with Dad, travel even after he died, have daily phone chats, just lots of things. Even when I was a child, we would read our books in the same room and be perfectly content, silent but bonding over written words. Somehow, missing Mom’s catsup symbolizes all of those memories and feelings.

I may try to can some of Mom’s catsup this summer. It will never be the same, but it’s definitely worth trying. That would tickle her, too.