I made a bomb in my kitchen last Saturday. Again.

It’s an annual event. I use a thick, solid metal pot with a heavy locking lid, a gauge, a valve, heat, steam and pressure. And it scares me half to death every time I do it. But if I want to bottle the beans, I have to. Some people call it a pressure cooker. I call it my kitchen bomb.

I call it that because it has the potential to explode. For some folks — I’m thinking particularly of male family members — that fact makes it interesting, although I notice they’re never around when I’m in the kitchen shoving beans into jars. I’ve personally never harbored the fascination for things that blow up, so when I clamp the lid down on that heavy metal pot and then turn up the heat, the knowledge of what’s happening inside unnerves me.

The heat builds up and the steam starts coming out something called a petcock on the lid. According to my ancient user manual, steam shooting out of the petcock “for 7 to 10 minutes” gets rid of air pockets. Well, you can’t have air pockets in a bomb (says someone who knows lots more about this process than I do). The result is an escalating shriek for seven to 10 minutes in my kitchen, loud enough to thwart any conversation.

The next step is even more unsettling because I close the openings in the petcock and suddenly it’s very, very quiet. This is when the pressure starts to build in the pot. And this is when I want to leave the room. Except I can’t because I’m tending the pressure gauge, waiting for it to rise to 12 pounds so I can start timing this bomb. For the next 25 minutes, I have to keep that gauge needle pointing at 12 pounds by adjusting the heat. So I’m stuck there, listening to a quiet, chuffing whisper from the pot, and an occasional muffled gurgle inside.

Just me and the pot. Me and the bomb.

Those are a very long 25 minutes. I use them to clean up, stack dishes, wipe cupboards — anything to keep my mind from contemplating what’s happening on the stove.

I once made the mistake of looking up “pressure cooker accidents” online. If you’re planning to learn how to use a pressure cooker, just don’t. That research prompted me to take my pressure cooker to the extension service for a check up. It’s just fine, they told me. They also politely noted that it’s old, and recommended I consider buying a more modern model. I already have one, a back up, still in the box. But despite the terror this one inflicts, at least I know what it sounds like and acts like during the bomb phase of the process. I don’t want to start over.

More importantly, my pressure cooker was my mom’s before it became mine. I learned how to bottle beans and other stuff in it from her. There’s a comforting safeness that offsets the fear when I give some thought to those memories.

My tendency to put everything into jars during harvest season was also inherited from her. I blame her for the madness — and thank her for it too. In these troubling days of wondering what will and will not be available at the grocery store, there’s a particular satisfaction in preserving my own food.

I talked to Mom on the phone this week. (We live far apart). I told her what I’ve been doing and asked if she was ever afraid to use the pressure cooker. She replied, “Every time.”

“But you did it anyway,” I persisted.

“Well, if you want to bottle the beans, you have to,” she replied.

They say that love conquers fear. Apparently so does necessity.

D. Louise Brown lives in Layton. She writes a biweekly column for the Standard-Examiner.

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