The minute my husband walked in the door toting a big bucket full of elderberries, I knew he had relapsed.

We had kept his food-preservation addiction in remission for years, largely because there wasn't much around to can.

I'd schlep home the occasional box of apples and make applesauce, or buy a bunch of beets from the Hutterites for beet pickles. It wasn't enough for him to get involved, but this year there's been way too much, I mean WAY too much produce coming our way.

We've spent every waking moment of the last two weekends canning. In one afternoon my better half single-handedly juggled two kinds of salsa, pear butter and elderberry jelly while I tended copious amounts of pears and tomatoes. And it's far from over.

We still have about 50 pounds of plums, 50 pounds of apples, 30 pounds of pears and probably the same amount of tomatoes waiting to be canned. It's been a banner year for local fruit trees and garden produce, and we can't seem to say no when people offer up their surplus.

My husband's addiction to canning everything but the kitchen sink isn't all his fault. He comes from a long line of canners - it's hereditary. The Hintzes are recreational canners, I learned not long after we were married. I've probably written in past years about the legendary Hintze marathon canning sessions.

In case you missed them, there was the time my in-laws showed up, on a whim, with 100 pounds of black cherries they'd gotten somewhere out West. As we sweated in the kitchen on a scorching July afternoon to can the blessed berries, my father-in-law and my husband scoured nearby neighborhoods and came back with bushels of crabapples that we made into jelly. It was never-ending.

Then there was the time I had envisioned a relaxing Labor Day weekend soaking at the Ainsworth Hot Springs Resort in British Columbia, which we did.

But on the way back to my sister-in-law's place in Idaho, we somehow wound up buying close to 300 pounds of fruit at roadside stands.

The Hintzes proceeded to can away, and I can remember sneaking away and taking a hot bath in protest.

We almost missed the train in Sandpoint because the applesauce wasn't done - true story. We lugged several cases of canned fruit home with us and I'll admit it was nice having it that winter.

When I was gone one weekend in the early years of our marriage, I returned to find the kitchen table stacked with a multicolored pyramid of vegetable jars that was at least three feet high.

"Ta-dah," he said, pointing to the table. "I've been busy." It was one of the sweetest things he's ever done for me.

When our daughters were young we canned meat, too - chickens (including some tough old roosters) and venison. My in-laws canned suckers caught in the cool waters of Michigan lakes.

We used it to make mock salmon loaf and it wasn't bad.

While we were raising kids food preservation took a back seat, but now that we're empty-nesters it's game on. Our daughters love getting the excess and are skilled canners in their own right.

Remember, it's hereditary.

Although I lament so much time being spent in the kitchen, I really can't complain. That's what my co-workers say anyway. When I tell them my husband would rather can or cook gourmet meals instead of watching football, they look at me incredulously and ask: "Where can I get a husband like that?"

So thanks, honey, for your industrious ways. Oh, can you stop at the store for more jars?

Features editor Lynnette Hintze may be reached at 758-4421 or by e-mail at lhintze@dailyinterlake.com