A little over a year ago, I had the privilege of going on a sabbatical through Hades. Thrilling. The River Styx is not to be missed. All cynicism aside, it was a dark time. At the worst moments, I used to dream of living in a cabin, far from anyone else making jam. I used to hold images of steaming sweet preserves and clean, vintage jars, and the cute labels I would make for them in my head. It was my sanity. Why jam? I don't really know how to explain why jam. Perhaps because it is so opposite from what I was doing. Perhaps because to me it was the quintessential homemaker-ish thing to do. Probably because I just like jam. (And cute labels)
Apricots? My grandparents used to have two apricot trees right next to their driveway. Some of my literally sweetest memories from childhood involve sitting up in those trees, eating the juicy sun-warmed fruit. They would be so ripe that they were nearly falling off the pit inside. Apricots like that taste quite truly like sunshine should. Interestingly we never made jam with them that I can remember. We would can them in syrup to enjoy over cottage cheese in the winter.
So perhaps the best explanation of Apricot Jam comes from the idea of escaping away and having the time to make homey, handmade-ness from blissful, sunshine fruit.
No comments:
Post a Comment