Strawberry Season

It was a group effort: the picking, the mashing, the stirring and pouring, the counting and gazing, and of course, the tasting.  This sticky, beautiful red stuff brings me back to my Grossmama's kitchen.  I remember sitting at the counter, on those high, 50s style bar stools, the same counter where she served me buttermilk (straight) and orange juice mixed with cranberry juice, and crunchy brown toast with crunchy bacon.  Those were the same chairs I sat my little self in to watch Mr. Roger's on TV (a novelty, since we had no TV at home).  I can remember not only the way that kitchen looked, but the smell of it.  I watched her make this very jam, after we had picked the berries just down the road from her country home.  In winter, I watched her perform the art of chocolate candy making.  And for some reason, I remember her feeding her dog, Crosby, in that kitchen.  And I remember how the dog food smelled.

So, making strawberry jam is not just about the delicious result, or about preserving the freshness of the berries.  It's more of a heritage.  Moo has quickly learned the specialness of this jam.  When we were on a flight home from South America, and were offered a meal in the middle of the night, she asked if they had jelly.  Then, do they have strawberry.  Then, do they have fresh strawberry jam.  No, sorry, they don't.