Hello strawberry shortcake,

I never imagined I’d live next to a forest making jam, chasing away bears at dinner parties, or sunning in an Elvis-themed reading nook in an old one room schoolhouse in Vermont, but here we are. In winter I luxuriated in stillness, exploring the power of paying attention and tapping into my agency to create and find joy in the seemingly mundane—moments of everyday opulence. And as I began settling into spring, our landlord informed us they decided to sell the home we were renting for the past two years. The calm of the year of the rabbit was overtaken by the fiery year of the dragon. Romaine, Gaston, and I were thrown into a series of changes once again: boxes, packing, storage units, moving, and looking for a more permanent home. We face a housing shortage in this country, especially in Vermont, and we know many who’ve been in the same predicament—at the whim of those who have the most.

When we first lived together, Romaine and I would leave our apartment as early as we could manage. We grabbed iced coffees at our favorite coffee counter, and sat in front of the Brooklyn Public Library to chat with each another, or with friends who knew of our weekly ritual. We’d muster up the courage to brave the crowds and shop at the Prospect Park farmer’s market. This is where I began paying attention to the parade of beauties arriving from the farms as the seasons changed. First the strawberries, then tomatoes, blueberries, peaches, sweet corn, melons, and the sugar plums. I love Romaine’s excitement around all things related to farming and food, and could never bring myself to temper his enthusiasm around purchasing peak season fruit. So, we had ample practice figuring out how to enjoy, preserve, and of course, share our bounty. 

Peach was the first jam I ever made. Intoxicated by the scent of these warm fuzzy Jersey queens sunning in the Brooklyn heat, we bought too many, and worked together to make a batch of jam. We had a fabulous time spending our day blanching the peaches, peeling off their skins, and separating the fruit from their pits. We cut and macerated them in sugar to release their gorgeous juices, eventually mixing the syrupy fruit over the hot stove. Making jam isn’t something I grew up doing. As a child jam was Smuckers—tasteless, cloyingly sweet, and strawberries were fleshy sour things that came in plastic packaging that I also didn’t pay much attention to. I grew up eating my mother’s cooking. Though I learned our traditional techniques and methods of preserving food, making kimchi and banchans, foods that connected me to the Korean diaspora and my ancestry, I hadn’t learned methods of preservation outside of what she taught me. 

Last week, In the midst of transition, chaos, and change, Romaine did something familiar: he came home with seven quarts of strawberries. He picked up one from the grocery store, and six from a deal at Walker Farm. As I learn more about gardening and farming, my appreciation for fruit has deepened. Last year, one night of frost in destroyed the delicate blossoms of nearly all the apple trees in our region, devastating our local crop and farmers. Then, the torrential rains of last summer washed away many of our local strawberries. When we were farm interns trying to growing blueberries, we lost a majority of our crop to adorable but vexatious little chipmunks and squirrels. Fruit has become more precious to me. They are marvels of nature that require the right conditions to grow and thrive. A peak in-season ripe, juicy, deep ruby red strawberry is something I eagerly wait all year for. They’re the first fruit to ripen in spring and early summer; a celebration heralding the beginning of my favorite fleeting season.

Together, Romaine and I washed and prepared our strawberries, popping several in our mouths, chatting while our hands worked together. We macerated them in sugar overnight, and the next day I made the jam. Some say strawberry jam is difficult to make because it creates a lot of foam, but if you have a good skimmer it’s not a big deal. I stirred the pot, skimmed, controlled the heat, and tended to the jam. The fruit cooked in the sugary liquid, and eventually the water boiled out as the mixture reduced into a thick burbling concoction. I take great joy in these long cooks. They feel meditative. Slowing me down; forcing me to be present with whatever I’m making as the world swirls around me. 

While I’m no expert at jam making, I have some experience and of course, opinions. I’ve put together a guide with resources, a few tips, and my favorite tools for making jam. These jars are time capsules that transport me to the beautiful sunny days of early summer and the lush green canopy of Vermont, and remind me of the hard work of our farmers, friends, workers, locals, immigrants, and migrants—their labor providing us with bounty from the earth.

I hope you’ll consider making jam, or supporting local farmers and artisans who’ve made some for you to enjoy. Thank you for spending time with me, and please let me know if you end up making jam this summer! 

Warmly, 

Jen

Share Le Dinner Party with your loved ones & encourage them to show support by subscribing to le newsletter!