People always tell me not to read the comments, but sometimes the comments section can be redemptive. I love reading all your stories, anecdotes, and reflections. In a few days, I'll take all the names, put them into a hat, and pick out two, and then I'll send those folks some jam. Thank you so much for these beautiful words and images!
This makes me think of the first time that I made jelly, probably 10 years ago when I was living in Indiana. This was also the *last* time that I tried to make jelly. We picked absolutely amazing Concord grapes, we juiced them all by hand, and we followed some Ball jar instructions on how to make grape jelly. Whatever we did, we cooked it so so so much longer than we should have. We ended up with a caramelized concoction that hardened as it cooled. We couldn’t eat it and we couldn’t even get it out of the jars, and I am still ashamed of throwing away what were — until that experiment — perfectly good canning jars.
My shelf now has books on pickling and preserving, but I still haven’t gone back to try more jams or jellies.
Congratulations on your strawberry success, and thank you for your thoughtful, generous writing.
My favorite jam is raspberry. My parents had a raspberry patch so I was never without. My mom used to give me a jar of my own as a Christmas gift. When my mom was older she switched to making freezer jam. I still have the last jar she gave me in my freezer. She passed 12 years ago. I don't plan to ever eat it. I just like to see it there. The way I like to eat it is on toast, made with a good quality bread, and a nice layer of butter under the jam. Now that is comfort food!
Have you ever had ube jam? Granted, it’s not really “jam” in the ordinary sense as it’s not really the result of the reduction of fruit and sugar. It’s just another way that we Filipinos get to have that purple deliciousness - a milky, sweet, spreadable delight. (I don’t bother with trying to find something to spread it on - a few tablespoons straight from the jar, like Nutella, is a quick hit of joy.) And, really, southeast Asians have cornered the market on ways to use condensed milk, and this just another (Colorful) expression of that obsession.
As a now Pacific Northwesterner, my memories of strawberry jam are tied back to my Midwest roots. My great uncle owned a strawberry farm in central Illinois, and I recall traveling the hour from our city to my parents' farming hometown to pick those berries that my mom would convert into the most delicious freezer jam. Even into our adulthood, my mom would still pack a cooler with frozen jam to deliver to my family on her visits when we lived several states away. Such a simple (and tasty) expression of her heritage and love.
My Mom will be 90 in October. She grew up on a farm in SW Missouri. Never traveled out of her native county until she married my Dad and moved West. She made wax covered jam when I was little...Apricot/Pineapple was the most exotic, in my mind, at the time. She now makes strawberry or raspberry freezer jam every year and brings several jars to our annual family gathering in Oregon each July. It's fondly just called Grandma Jam. Because of covid, we won't be together this year. At 90 that's a tough cancellation. Actually it's a tough cancellation for each family member, right down to my youngest grandson who is four. Perhaps I should make him some Grandma jam of my own. Thanks for these letters. I cherish them.
We have not started making jam yet. I guess we would if we made strawberry jam, but we tend to eat the strawberries fresh and make jam when the apricots are ready to pick. We have 5 gallons of cherries in our freezer, picked from our yard. We'll use those for pies and jam, but we usually make it as we go throughout the year. It's a good year for cherries if for nothing else. My 6-year old says we are rich in cherries. Your jams look delicious, and part of why I always open your newsletter is for the food talk 😊
Here's a story about jam: I grew up in the midwest, so we always called it jelly, even if it was jam (or even preserves/marmalade/compote for that matter). They were all just "jelly" in my house. Then I moved to the UK, and then to New Zealand where it's always "jam", because "jelly"= gelatin/JELLO. So I got used to saying "jam", even going so far as to call the quintessential American PB&J sandwich "peanut butter & jam", not "peanut butter & jelly"! We introduced all our kiwi friends to peanut butter & jam sandwiches and they still aren't quite sure what to make of them... But now we live in Hawaii; with that America-but-not-really vibe and my kids are so confused. What does PB&J stand for exactly? Is it jelly or is it jam? WHO IS RIGHT?! So we talk about the slight differences, and let them choose for themselves what to call it. :D Grateful for you Jeff Chu!
My father was born in Hong Kong, 1949. His mother fled the mainland after watching her sister starve to death. My father’s name means “thanksgiving.” I imagine it takes courage to be grateful under those circumstances.
I love my homemade raspberry jalapeño jam, but the best jams are those little jars of love and effort that come from friends.
A little story of jam: My sister's name is Jan. When she was around 4 or 5 she had a friend the same age who pronounced her name "Jam." Jan would say, "No, not Jam -- Jan!" And her friend would say, "Hi Jam!" I can still see them, two little squirts standing face to face like Katzenjammer kids (see what I did there?) going back and forth, "Jam!" "No, Jan!" "Hi Jam!" "No, not Jam -- Jan!"
Happy Independence Day! I read part of your New York Times article. While not an Internet stalker, I became a bit curious about your past and your life, and found your homepage and now follow you on Facebook. I grew up in a very Dutch town in New Jersey and can identify with some of the things you talk about, including the judgment part, lol (although I am not Dutch Reformed). Your Facebook page says you are giving away jam--yum! Strawberry and peach are my favorite. Although, I am allergic to rhubarb, sadly.
Spiced peach jam - from a vintage Sure Jell packet insert my mom has, adds 1/2 t each of allspice, cinnamon and cloves. The absolute best ever. My childhood home had a giant peach tree that on good years would be so loaded that the branches would sag to the ground like a willow. Since moving to Illinois to be near us, my mom has stopped at a strangers home on the way home from work seeing peaches falling off their tree and rotting on the ground to ask if she could gather the good fruit and pick from their tree if she brought him back some jam. No shame! We bought her a peach tree and planted it in her back yard the next Mother’s Day.
When I was a kid my sister and I spent hours picking blackberries in my grandparent's alley. The bushes had taken oven the alley and it was no longer used. Grandma would make cobblers, crisps and jams out of them. Blackberries are still my favorite fruit.
Here is a beloved story about jam: the youth centre I direct has an urban agriculture ministry. Two summers ago, we were invited to attempt to restore one of the oldest (still standing)urban gardens in North America, a closed off large yard bordering the Notre Dame Cathedral in Old Montreal. It sits on unceded Indigenous territory of the Kanienkeha:ka. The gardens and land had been long neglected and nothing- and I mean- nothing was growing. We had to bring in a specialist to treat and repair the raspberry bushes, who were then baptized, “the saddest raspberry bushes this farmer has ever seen.”
In a moment of great despair after yet another crop of lettuce and beans died, after the squirrels dug up and ate the perennial bulbs, after the lilies refused to bloom because they had not been thinned in 25 years, we were told by a friend of the Chocktaw tribe visiting the land, that if we wanted to restore this garden we would first have to love it. Love was not coming. We were too busy fighting dead roots and depleted soil. But we could do one thing - we could love the red currant bushes, who miraculously, were producing fruit. So my head gardener lovingly and meticulously picked bags of red currants and then brought them home and made tart, delicious, syrupy red currant jam. She brought jars back to the gardens and we gave a few to the residing priests. And then we sliced some bread and some cheddar cheese and poured the jam over top. We sat in this disaster of a garden, with its difficult shaded areas, its ignored rose bushes, its fruit trees that needed trimming and its history of colonization and abuse, and we revelled in its beauty, savouring its red currant jam, and praying that we would love it. The roses eventually bloomed after much care and the next year, crops grew. We are no longer gardening there, and I will never know whether the garden will truly be healed. But I will never again underestimate the power of jam.
My mother has made strawberry jam all of my life and probably long before that. I spoke to her this week and heard how she risked the Corona virus to head to the strawberry farm. Now in her mid 80s, she no longer picks them herself (something we used to do as children) but bought them pre-picked. She spent the day making her jam. I miss getting jars of it from her. I applaud you making it yourself. Maybe someday I'll try that too 😁
People always tell me not to read the comments, but sometimes the comments section can be redemptive. I love reading all your stories, anecdotes, and reflections. In a few days, I'll take all the names, put them into a hat, and pick out two, and then I'll send those folks some jam. Thank you so much for these beautiful words and images!
This makes me think of the first time that I made jelly, probably 10 years ago when I was living in Indiana. This was also the *last* time that I tried to make jelly. We picked absolutely amazing Concord grapes, we juiced them all by hand, and we followed some Ball jar instructions on how to make grape jelly. Whatever we did, we cooked it so so so much longer than we should have. We ended up with a caramelized concoction that hardened as it cooled. We couldn’t eat it and we couldn’t even get it out of the jars, and I am still ashamed of throwing away what were — until that experiment — perfectly good canning jars.
My shelf now has books on pickling and preserving, but I still haven’t gone back to try more jams or jellies.
Congratulations on your strawberry success, and thank you for your thoughtful, generous writing.
My favorite jam is raspberry. My parents had a raspberry patch so I was never without. My mom used to give me a jar of my own as a Christmas gift. When my mom was older she switched to making freezer jam. I still have the last jar she gave me in my freezer. She passed 12 years ago. I don't plan to ever eat it. I just like to see it there. The way I like to eat it is on toast, made with a good quality bread, and a nice layer of butter under the jam. Now that is comfort food!
Can you email me your address (jeff@byjeffchu.com)? Tristan drew your name out of the bowl, and I will send you a jar of jam!
Jam is (finally) on its way to you. Apologies for the long delay!
Have you ever had ube jam? Granted, it’s not really “jam” in the ordinary sense as it’s not really the result of the reduction of fruit and sugar. It’s just another way that we Filipinos get to have that purple deliciousness - a milky, sweet, spreadable delight. (I don’t bother with trying to find something to spread it on - a few tablespoons straight from the jar, like Nutella, is a quick hit of joy.) And, really, southeast Asians have cornered the market on ways to use condensed milk, and this just another (Colorful) expression of that obsession.
https://www.kawalingpinoy.com/halayang-ube/
As a now Pacific Northwesterner, my memories of strawberry jam are tied back to my Midwest roots. My great uncle owned a strawberry farm in central Illinois, and I recall traveling the hour from our city to my parents' farming hometown to pick those berries that my mom would convert into the most delicious freezer jam. Even into our adulthood, my mom would still pack a cooler with frozen jam to deliver to my family on her visits when we lived several states away. Such a simple (and tasty) expression of her heritage and love.
My Mom will be 90 in October. She grew up on a farm in SW Missouri. Never traveled out of her native county until she married my Dad and moved West. She made wax covered jam when I was little...Apricot/Pineapple was the most exotic, in my mind, at the time. She now makes strawberry or raspberry freezer jam every year and brings several jars to our annual family gathering in Oregon each July. It's fondly just called Grandma Jam. Because of covid, we won't be together this year. At 90 that's a tough cancellation. Actually it's a tough cancellation for each family member, right down to my youngest grandson who is four. Perhaps I should make him some Grandma jam of my own. Thanks for these letters. I cherish them.
We have not started making jam yet. I guess we would if we made strawberry jam, but we tend to eat the strawberries fresh and make jam when the apricots are ready to pick. We have 5 gallons of cherries in our freezer, picked from our yard. We'll use those for pies and jam, but we usually make it as we go throughout the year. It's a good year for cherries if for nothing else. My 6-year old says we are rich in cherries. Your jams look delicious, and part of why I always open your newsletter is for the food talk 😊
Here's a story about jam: I grew up in the midwest, so we always called it jelly, even if it was jam (or even preserves/marmalade/compote for that matter). They were all just "jelly" in my house. Then I moved to the UK, and then to New Zealand where it's always "jam", because "jelly"= gelatin/JELLO. So I got used to saying "jam", even going so far as to call the quintessential American PB&J sandwich "peanut butter & jam", not "peanut butter & jelly"! We introduced all our kiwi friends to peanut butter & jam sandwiches and they still aren't quite sure what to make of them... But now we live in Hawaii; with that America-but-not-really vibe and my kids are so confused. What does PB&J stand for exactly? Is it jelly or is it jam? WHO IS RIGHT?! So we talk about the slight differences, and let them choose for themselves what to call it. :D Grateful for you Jeff Chu!
My father was born in Hong Kong, 1949. His mother fled the mainland after watching her sister starve to death. My father’s name means “thanksgiving.” I imagine it takes courage to be grateful under those circumstances.
I love my homemade raspberry jalapeño jam, but the best jams are those little jars of love and effort that come from friends.
A little story of jam: My sister's name is Jan. When she was around 4 or 5 she had a friend the same age who pronounced her name "Jam." Jan would say, "No, not Jam -- Jan!" And her friend would say, "Hi Jam!" I can still see them, two little squirts standing face to face like Katzenjammer kids (see what I did there?) going back and forth, "Jam!" "No, Jan!" "Hi Jam!" "No, not Jam -- Jan!"
Happy Independence Day! I read part of your New York Times article. While not an Internet stalker, I became a bit curious about your past and your life, and found your homepage and now follow you on Facebook. I grew up in a very Dutch town in New Jersey and can identify with some of the things you talk about, including the judgment part, lol (although I am not Dutch Reformed). Your Facebook page says you are giving away jam--yum! Strawberry and peach are my favorite. Although, I am allergic to rhubarb, sadly.
Spiced peach jam - from a vintage Sure Jell packet insert my mom has, adds 1/2 t each of allspice, cinnamon and cloves. The absolute best ever. My childhood home had a giant peach tree that on good years would be so loaded that the branches would sag to the ground like a willow. Since moving to Illinois to be near us, my mom has stopped at a strangers home on the way home from work seeing peaches falling off their tree and rotting on the ground to ask if she could gather the good fruit and pick from their tree if she brought him back some jam. No shame! We bought her a peach tree and planted it in her back yard the next Mother’s Day.
You have so many beautiful memories posted here! My mom makes apricot jam for me, and strawberry rhubarb for my husband - our favorites.
Thank you, Jeff, for sharing your heart through your words.
When I was a kid my sister and I spent hours picking blackberries in my grandparent's alley. The bushes had taken oven the alley and it was no longer used. Grandma would make cobblers, crisps and jams out of them. Blackberries are still my favorite fruit.
Here is a beloved story about jam: the youth centre I direct has an urban agriculture ministry. Two summers ago, we were invited to attempt to restore one of the oldest (still standing)urban gardens in North America, a closed off large yard bordering the Notre Dame Cathedral in Old Montreal. It sits on unceded Indigenous territory of the Kanienkeha:ka. The gardens and land had been long neglected and nothing- and I mean- nothing was growing. We had to bring in a specialist to treat and repair the raspberry bushes, who were then baptized, “the saddest raspberry bushes this farmer has ever seen.”
In a moment of great despair after yet another crop of lettuce and beans died, after the squirrels dug up and ate the perennial bulbs, after the lilies refused to bloom because they had not been thinned in 25 years, we were told by a friend of the Chocktaw tribe visiting the land, that if we wanted to restore this garden we would first have to love it. Love was not coming. We were too busy fighting dead roots and depleted soil. But we could do one thing - we could love the red currant bushes, who miraculously, were producing fruit. So my head gardener lovingly and meticulously picked bags of red currants and then brought them home and made tart, delicious, syrupy red currant jam. She brought jars back to the gardens and we gave a few to the residing priests. And then we sliced some bread and some cheddar cheese and poured the jam over top. We sat in this disaster of a garden, with its difficult shaded areas, its ignored rose bushes, its fruit trees that needed trimming and its history of colonization and abuse, and we revelled in its beauty, savouring its red currant jam, and praying that we would love it. The roses eventually bloomed after much care and the next year, crops grew. We are no longer gardening there, and I will never know whether the garden will truly be healed. But I will never again underestimate the power of jam.
My mother has made strawberry jam all of my life and probably long before that. I spoke to her this week and heard how she risked the Corona virus to head to the strawberry farm. Now in her mid 80s, she no longer picks them herself (something we used to do as children) but bought them pre-picked. She spent the day making her jam. I miss getting jars of it from her. I applaud you making it yourself. Maybe someday I'll try that too 😁