Jadrian Johnson UC Master Food Preserver Online Program Volunteer

County of residence: Los Angeles

Image credit: Jadrian Johnson, 2025.

There is a unique alchemy in food preservation, a practice that feels just as much a form of time travel as it does domestic science. Within a simple jar, we can seal not just the fleeting sweetness of a summer peach, but the echoes of the hands that harvested it, the stories shared over a bubbling pot, and the enduring spirit of a family. For me, this craft is a conversation with my history, and its language was taught to me by two formidable women: my mother-in-law, Patti, and my Grandma Ruth. 

My connection to my family’s Nebraska roots is a flavor that collapses time, reaffirmed with every spoonful of the grape jelly Patti sends at Christmastime. It’s a preserve made from an heirloom grapevine her own mother planted generations ago. It’s a taste of heritage, a direct throughline to the matriarchs who kept this tradition thriving. My other North Star was my Grandma Ruth, whose basement was a veritable family museum. Amidst the ghosts of my stylish grandparents’ vintage clothing and a guest room corner that was a perfect time capsule of seventies decor, I found my real treasures. There, in the coolest part of the cellar, stood two floor-to-ceiling cabinets, a library of captured seasons. Jars of home-canned green beans, tomatoes, pears, applesauce, and more stood like jewels on the shelves, a testament to her skill and a vibrant promise of bounty against the monochrome of a Nebraska winter. 

With such profound inspiration, it seems inevitable I would find my way to becoming a canner. My own kickstart, however, was fired up in the summer of 2020. As the world rose up to protest profound social injustice, I felt a desperate, visceral pull to join the chorus on the streets. But being immunocompromised, I was warned by my doctors to stay home and not risk COVID-19 infection. Faced with the choice of safety over solidarity, I felt sidelined. Instead of succumbing to helplessness, I resolved to redirect that fire. I traded the pavement for the pantry and brought the protest into my kitchen. 

My small Los Angeles backyard, bursting with the defiant colors of nectarines, kumquats, and apricots, became my staging ground. From this harvest, "Gentle Giant's Anti-Fascist Backyard Victory Jams" was born. It was a name that was both a mission statement and a tribute, a nod to the Victory Gardens of the past, reframing a historic act of civic duty for a modern fight. I taught myself to safely harness the wild alchemy of fruit, sugar, and pectin, offering these jars as gifts to folks who made donations to social justice organizations: groups fighting for food security and nutritional education in under-served communities. That summer, this quiet act of creation, fueled by the legacies of Patti and Ruth, helped raise nearly $10,000. 

From a bountiful basement and a legacy grapevine to my own California kitchen, the thread continues. It is a profound reminder that preservation is always an act of love, a way to honor the past while actively building a more just, more equitable, and infinitely more delicious future. I’m proud to be part of the UC Master Food Preserver class of 2025 to help empower others to continue these traditions in safe and sustainable ways!