Jam out

In college (and still now really) my best friends used to make fun of me because when I was ready to leave the bar or their house or whathaveyou, I'd say something like, "I'm going to jam out" or "let's jam out" or "Lin, are you ready to jam out?" - something like that.

Then they'd point at me and laugh and ask me where in the world did I get that saying, it's so retarded.

Ok, they never said retarded, that was another word that only I use(d) because I'm insensitive and crass and they are elementary school teachers with hearts of gold who never say anything with any disparaging connotations but whatever.

Regardless, even though I used the phrase "Jam out" all the time, I still have no idea where I got it. No one else in the whole wide world says this as far as I can tell and I certainly didn't get it from SportsCenter or MTV, the two televised centers of my then universe. So, who knows BUT MAYBE it was a harbinger of a future time (now, for instance) when I would be obsessed with creating JAM OUT of everything.

Do you think?

Anyway, that would at least be a good story for me to tell while trying to distract my neighbors and friends while I pick their fruit trees to the bone so I can run off and make jam without any compelling purpose like a pending rough winter or natural disaster where we plan to live entirely on jam.

So far I've been prefacing every jam making session (pickling, too) by telling Bubba/the kitchen/the dog/no one in particular that I'll be giving jam at the holidays and so all this jam making and heating up of our Oven House in the middle of summer is all for a good cause because isn't that just what's on everyone's wish list: a random jar of jam.

Sure, people act all Ooh this looks so good - I can't wait to try this but sometimes I get the feeling they're like what the hell am I going to do with this because if I wanted jam couldn't I just buy it at the store what a cheap ass.

Oh well, that's the only good reason I have for heating our house to a rolling boil in the grand warm months of July and August and so there you have it: I'm making future gifts. Well-received or not.

This time I made apricot jam, thanks to a very concise and no-BS recipe in my Ball Blue Book of Preserving which we now call Blue Balls for obvious reasons and thanks to many suggestions.

The fruit was courtesy of my friend/neighbor/coworker who has a prolific apricot tree that was/is producing apricots at an unprecedented rate and so, needed help rescuing her patio from the impending doom of one million fallen and then soon rotting apricots.

Sure, they could eat some of them, but you have to be careful how many because I don't think I have to tell you what happens when one eats too many apricots. Yes. Ew.

And, as with all jam/pie making endeavors, the true best joy is in the harvesting. I don't know why I love this so much.

Seriously, the practice of standing under a tree full of fruit or next to a hillside full of berries or a vegetable bed full of tomatoes and picking until my hands are stained and sticky and I'm sweaty from top to tail because obviously it's summer and 100 degrees whenever I decide to do this, is like the best thing in the whole wide world.


I must have a pioneer or a homesteader or, well, a greedy thief deep down in my person because I love to harvest like it IS. NOBODY'S. BIDNESS.

The problem is then what do I do with all of this harvested stuff. Oh - I make jam. Because jam takes a lot of stuff and, hey, here's a lot of stuff I just picked. Tah dah, mystery solved about the jam.

Although what I found this time, my first time making apricot anything really, is that hot apricots smell like barf and/or baby food, which is really not that appetizing. Nothing like making blackberry jam/pie which smells like heaven and perfection and hot gooey YUM.


Plus apricots have to be peeled prior to jamming and there's a pain in my ass if I ever saw one. Lord. I do not have any fingerprints left thanks to the complete scorching I gave myself peeling blanched apricots even though I had a towel between my tender fingers and that molten fruit. I don't learn.



Whatever. I like the outcome. I have about half a dozen pints of apricot jam to go with my two quarts of pickles (tasting soon!) and, if my neighbors will allow me (or if they go out of town, whoopsy! thief next door!) maybe some plum jam, blackberry jam and, who knows, lemon pickles will join the sideboard so that I can feel all at home and ready to face catastrophic fallout with my fort of jam.


And, by the way, when did my life become all about disasters and canned fruit?