damn good jam

I was in Target with all my kids. You'd think I'd learn. But I don't.

So I was in Target and harried and trying to get out as fast as possible but I needed to get some pectin to make the strawberries into jam.

The strawberries had been sitting on my counter, ripening for two days.  Strawberries rot all too quickly if you ask me. I always feel it's me against the time clock of rotting berries.  Waste not, want not. Or whatever.

The berries were picked mostly by yours truly. I learned that taking two seven-year-old boys as cheap labor to the berry fields does not yield good results.   I think they picked a combined total of thirteen measly little green berries.  Jokers.

Anywho, the berries were ripening and I was under the gun and by damn I needed some pectin stat, along with other miscellaneous sundries.  And the babies were causing a ruckus in Target even after popcorn peace offerings were made. So I resorted to asking an employee.

"Hey do you carry pectin?"

"I'm sorry, what do you need?"

"Pectin"

"Um. How do you spell that?"

"P-E-C-T-I-N."

"Hum. One minute. (Gets on her walkie-talky.) I have a guest here who is asking for pec-tin."

Here's where Birdie lets out her trademark pterodactyl screech because someone has touched her bag of popcorn. And the Boy has found a box of latex rubber gloves he can't live without.

And the employee on the other end of the conversation appears to help the first employee figure out how to type on her little handheld gadget.

"Pectin? What is pectin?" employee #2 says to me as if I were asking for uranium.

"It's used to make jam. It would be in the canning section if you have one."

"Oh. Let me see. (And now she's back on her walkie-talky asking someone named Shayla if she knows anything about pectin.)

At this point the popcorn has been dumped. Frankie's got his mouth on the handle of the cart getting all kinds of diseases and the Boy is mad because there are no rubber gloves in his future.

And here comes Shayla. And she looks promising. Like she is in charge and knows stuff.

"What is it? Pec-tin?"

And now she has the handheld gadget and she's typing away.

"Yes," I say, "it's used in canning."

"It's used in canning." Says employee #1 as if she knew all along.

"Oh yes. We do have that. Just a moment though. Just let me show these girls what I did here..."

I'm dying now. I'm so ready to pull out the ugly witch scream and let all my children have it. But you know, I'm in Target.

So finally Shayla leads me to the other side of the store, down the baking aisle.

And she hands me a box of gelatin.

Now. People. It took all I had to nicely say that isn't what I need and walk away.

As I drove home to the market I was thinking to myself, who doesn't know what pectin is? I mean really? Who are these people? 

But then I realized something. I'm lucky.  I know what pectin is because my mother taught me to make jam. I have never bought jam or jelly from the store. And maybe that's one of the many, many ordinary amazing things about my life.

And P.S. I make damn good jam.

Oh and P.P.S. Target does not carry pectin.

sat*tis*faction

You cook. You clean. You fold laundry and pull weeds. You put the same plates in the dishwasher day after day.

And do you get satisfaction from all this?

I don't.

But I know a little secret. One of the easiest ways for a domestic engineer to acquire the satisfaction that so alludes us is to can.

Jams and Jellies are the easiest.


Yesterday I finally got around to making my pomegranate jelly from the fruit that I juiced and froze last fall.

It had been nagging at me. Every time I open the freezer there it was peeking out underneath the frozen chicken breasts. It would say to me, "Helloooo? Are you going to do anything with me or what?"

And folks, I don't need that monkey on my back. I've already got two, as in kid monkeys, not addictions. Although I have my fair share of those too. Nothing serious. Don't send the cops.

I tell ya, there is soooo much satisfaction in looking at those deep crimson jars sitting on my counter like precious gems. And they are precious. I get a ton a mileage out of divvying this jelly out to friends who crave it's sweet tartness on their morning toast. You know who you are, you jelly fiends, you!

Oh, and I couldn't help myself, I had to carve a stamp for the tops of the jars. I make this jelly every year, and every year I write on the top "Pomegranate Jelly". Blah. How boring. A stamp is much better, don't you think?

The jelly is done. I don't have to do it again tomorrow.

The next crop of pomegranates will be ready to pick in October, but I'm pretending that's a long way off.