One summer, years ago, I decided to take up canning.
Spurred by memories of the homemade bread and butter pickles and blueberry jam of my childhood, I bought a box full of Mason jars and a giant pot nearly too big to fit on my teeny tiny apartment stovetop and I set about putting up jam, fruit butters and stewed tomatoes.
When the summer ended I stashed my giant pot on top of one of the kitchen cabinets and proceeded to more or less forget about it.
That pot has since moved with me four times and occupied up an inordinate amount of kitchen real estate. It would have been justifiable had I actually stuck with my canning endeavor, but that first summer was the only summer I ever canned anything.
I wasn’t someone with a canning hobby. I was just someone with a really large pot.