The Jam

I was turning hot and bubbly sourdough pancakes onto a plate for breakfast one recent Saturday morning, when Lydia remembered The Jam. Not just any jam, mind you. The Jam. The Jam we made from the strawberries we picked this past June. She ran down to the basement freezer and came back with a glass mason jar, glistening with a thin layer of frost. We made The Jam with very little honey, so spread on layers of it thicker than the pancake itself.

Interestingly, we never ate jam prior to this past June. Yet somehow I found myself driving on a country road, between the crankiness of right-after-nap time and dinner time, to spend an hour paying to be a migrant worker.  Surely this is not cheaper or more efficient than purchasing jam at the store, I thought, but it must be healthier. Oh, wait, I forgot–we don’t even eat jam!

“It’s for the children, Angel [exhale]…it’s for the children.”

When we got home it was a race to make the jam and pour it into jars before they rotted in their cardboard boxes. Another hour or so passed before we were finally licking spoons and placing jars in the freezer with satisfaction and pride.

Five months later, as we were enjoying another newly opened jar of our homemade jam, Lydia said, “Every time I eat this jam I think of the day we picked the berries and made it ourselves. I love it. Let’s do it again next year.”

Was it worth it?

Every single minute and penny.

Some things are more important than efficiency:  creating something with your own two hands, experiencing the magic of nature, understanding history and how the world works, and working and experiencing life together as a family. Do you have to make jam to do this? Of course not.

Slow down to enjoy the journey and you’ll discover that you’ve already arrived at the place everyone else is rushing to get to.