Blood, sweat and jam

Sick of hearing about jam yet? Too bad!

Two old geezers came into the park last week and told me the black raspberries were ripe. Not just two ordinary old geezers, but two very particular old geezers -- known locally as 'the jelly guys.' These two old guys devote most of their free time in the summer to making jelly. They know the local hot spots, checking them throughout the season for readiness. They aren't in it for the money; they don't sell any of it. They give it away. The first year I met them they gave me a jar of chokecherry jelly. That was some dang good stuff.

So when these two old geezers told me the black raspberries were ripe, I knew I had to act fast. I had a pretty good idea of where to find them in the park, thanks to a trail-building excursion a few years ago. I've never picked them before, mainly because whenever I've thought of it, it was either too early or too late in the season. Raspberries don't last long, at least not out here.


So Sunday afternoon after work, I took a hike through the woods with a bucket in my hands. I found the raspberry patch, and lo and behind, the old geezers were right. The black raspberries were ripe. I started picking, carefully winding my way through the bramble patch, my clothes and hair catching on the thorns, my hands and arms getting scratched to pieces. When I looked at my forearms I couldn't tell the difference between squished berry bits and coagulated blood. I'd scratch at the dark red blob, and if it came off easy it was berry juice. If not, it was blood.


It was muggy out in the bramble patch. Hardly a breath of wind. Temps in the low eighties, mosquitoes in the low thousands. Sweat trickled down my back. The only sounds I heard were the buzz of mosquitoes and the distant roar of a power boat cruising down the lake. After two hours of picking I had about two quarts of berries. Not a lot, but enough for a batch of jam.

Sunday night I made five half-pints of black raspberry jam, and six half-pints of blueberry jam from blueberries I bought at the farmers market. The black raspberry jam turned out wonderful, with a strong berry flavor. The blueberry jam was much more bland, with hardly any taste of blueberry in it. Just a mundane berriness about it, unidentifiable and nondescript.

I guess that's the difference between wild and cultivated berries. Wild berries are much more flavorful than their domesticated, pampered cousins. Or maybe I just think the wild berries taste better, since I work a lot harder for them. Two hours picking berries on a hot afternoon, vs. one minute buying berries at the market. Blood and sweat add something to the flavor, in my mind if not on my tongue. Food is more than just taste on the tongue, though. Food is an experience -- the growing of it, the harvesting, the preparing and the eating.


I want to label my jam accordingly. I want to write out 'Farmers Market Blueberry Jam,' and also 'Black Raspberries picked on a muggy afternoon in the woods surrounded by sun and mosquitoes and bramble thorns Jam.' Food is always better when it tells a story.