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I WAITED UNTIL THE BIG PAINTED RASPBERRY appeared, joining the sign with the big painted blueberry. I even waited until the sign with the big painted strawberry finished its long reign at the neighbors' berry farm and disappeared. After that, a few more days elapsed. Only then did I quit telling myself-- Okay, for sure I'm going to go today and get my jam-making strawberries. That's because by then I was telling myself--See, you procrastinating fool, you waited too long!

Ever since my good friend gave me a little jar of strawberry jam she'd made, and it was such a fabulous shade of red and tasted like a day in June and friendship and love and happiness and many other very good things I could think of if I needed to, I had determined to make some myself.

So I figured it was too late, but I stopped at the farm this afternoon to buy blueberries. Just for eating fresh. I supposed I could make jam with them; it would probably be good. But, hmm, I didn't think it would taste like friendship and love. And then! as it turned out, there were still some sweet little red gems basking in the sunshine. "Yes, you might still be able to find a few," the berry lady neighbor said, handing me a box. "Go all the way out to the rows beside the electric tower. There are some short rows there. Actually, just pick wherever you want, wherever you see any. This will be it for the strawberries."

And that's how, about a half-hour later, I found myself dashing to the store for a pack of Sure-Jell. And soon after that, I was doing this:

Lacking a potato masher, I was crushing the berries with a slotted spoon. And then, fortunately not lacking sugar, I added a small truckload of it to the berries.


Diligently reading the package directions, I stirred the sugar into the berries; then at the stove, I stirred the water into the Sure-jell.



If you're actually watching this stuff, you'll see that I was watching it, too, as I dutifully stirred and timed a minute--Mississippi one, Mississipi two, Mississipi three---getting a little frantic as it threatened to slip the bonds of containment and have a run down the side of the pan.

So stirring--that's what it's all about. As if saying Mississipi sixty times is not enough to make you want to take the state off the map and re-name the river, two steps later you've got to count and stir another three minutes.




Did I really have to do that? (I was feeling a bit rebellious) One glance at the directions, however, and I'm immediately put in my place. DISMAL FAILURE if one strays! Yes, throughout the nine "quick and easy" steps one is warned in no uncertain terms that one must follow each and every step to the letter or suffer dire consequences. Oh, alright, alright.

But then, suddenly I have other worries about the health and safety of my prospective jam. Along about Mississipi one-hundred-and-thirty-seven, a not-lovely creature buzzes by to check out the sticky sweet stuff--hot damn! (I'm sure I heard him say) I've gotta have me some of that! The nerve of him!



I interrrupted my very stirring activity to show you how he actually--actually!--had the audacity to smack his lips and rub his hands, uh...legs? together in anticipation. (Of course, at the time I was forced to let him continue with his fantasies of death by strawberry jam).

So then all I had to do, besides keeping my eye on Freddy Fly (I'm just guessing at his name), was to fill the jars with the would-be jam and tidy up the messy paraphernalia.


Later, (there may be a moral here--be careful what you wish for) I did let Mr. F. Fly take a little sample of the jam that spilled on the counter before giving him my usual admonition in such cases--"breath your last!"--and employing the swatter. I hope he died satisfied, still savoring the taste of a June day and friendship and love and happiness.

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