Jammin'

Oh, nothing. Just made some jam. From berries I picked. And hulled. And mashed. And boiled. And skimmed. And then put into jars that I sterilized. And then boiled again. And then waited for the "pop." And then heard the "pop." And then decorated with puffy fabric strawberries.

If you are one of our seven nearest and dearest, a jar of jam is coming to you soon. It's a little runny, but it still tastes pretty great. Or at least that's what you'll tell me. Because making jam is a fucking production.

[edited to add: OK, I'm calling it strawberry sauce. Put it on your ice cream. Or pancakes. Or just eat it with a spoon. I'm done crying about it.]

Fifteen cups of strawberries waiting to be cleaned.

Halfway there.

The recipe says 13 c. strawberries and 6 c. of sugar. I did 15 c. of strawberries and 5 c. of sugar. Maybe that's why they didn't quite set up? Also, the recipe said I'd get ten jars, but I only got eight. I bought a pack of twelve Ball jars. You can bet I have some plans for the remaining four.

You can kinda see the boiling pan of jar lids, funnel and canning tongs in the background. The other two burners were boiling a giant roasting pan full of jars. I could have performed surgery in my kitchen with the level of sterility I was rocking.

Filled and awaiting their final boil.

Final boil.

Hello, cuties.