Leaving home and getting my own apartment was something that I couldn’t wait to do…  but it was also pretty scary.  I left home at eighteen and began - sometimes successfully and sometimes not - to create my own “home” in the various apartments that I occupied over the years.

In those early years, turning my living environment into my home meant doing some of the things that my Mom had done.

In my early 20’s my roommate and I took a summer road trip to the Okanagan Valley. At the time it took six hours (now shorter because of the Coquihalla) and took us to the land of Ogopogo and acres of orchards.

Orchards meant fruit; that year we arrived for peach season. On the way back to Vancouver we stopped at a stand and although we were only going to buy a few peaches, we ended up purchasing an entire flat - because we were offered a very reasonable price. Our idea was to jar those peaches, just like Mom used to do.  *I* must have been the impetus for this project, because, when we got home, my roommate felt no need to assist.  The real definition of “what a great price for the peaches” actually was, “you need to do something with them immediately” - which turned into a daunting project.

Had I been Mom, I would have taken care of this right away, but I had to get the jars, lids, and what ever else I needed for this project; so a day or two might have passed before I started. (My Mom, although celebrating her 80th birthday this year, has more energy then most of the people I know. She was a hard act to follow then, just as she is now.) All the while, busily preparing, I imagined a winter filled with my very own canned peaches, ahhh…. “home”.

In this past apartment, I thought it was a good idea to cover my, perhaps, not-so-attractive kitchen floor with one-foot square grass matting - the type you can find at Cost Plus.  One day after work, I enthusiastically began my project of canning those peaches, and soon realized that the time for peach sections had passed - and peach sauce might be in my future (they make apple sauce don’t they?). Needless to say this was very juicy, messy work and as the afternoon turned into late night my enthusiasm and my ability to complete this task were tried to the max. I was tired and sticky and pushing to get this done. I still do not have a ton of canning experience but one thing I know now and I knew then: cleanliness, sterilization and organization are key factors for the success of such a project.

I did not take the garbage of pits, skins and bad portions of peach out that night - but left it there in a garbage bag, on the rattan floor covering, to be taken out in the morning.  It had been late that night, and in the morning I was tired - and that garbage stayed put until I got home that evening. When I got home, the juices had leaked, and the mess I faced was smelly, wet, sticky, and just overall - disgusting.

I cleaned up, feeling sorry for myself, and made some mental notes about decorating. Then I waited patiently for those jars to seal, which should have only taken the time it took for them to cool. Calls for advise to my Mom pretty much confirmed that I should have called sooner. That evening, as I contemplated the possible demise of my canning project, I heard a loud popping coming from the kitchen - My beautiful jars of peach sauce were exploding!  They had started to ferment, creating pressure in the jars, and the peaches just pushed their way out, shooting sauce to places I would not discover until weeks later. There I stood facing what might have been good peach schnapps, but which was really an awful mess, and a huge reminder I was a long way from home.

This attempt at making a home for myself by recreating a piece of my past was just one of many; some with better results, but none that took quite so long to clean up.

As the general manager of a Palo Alto hotel I know that I cannot be home to everyone.  Home means different things to different people.  What I can do is make the Stanford Terrace Inn as comfortable, friendly, and helpful as possible, and most of all - welcoming.

Shanti,

Barbara