It seems my four-year old grandson had seen a cooking show on television where a woman made jam and he had been totally, completely fascinated. His mother told him that Grandma More Pie made jam and that was all he needed to hear.
I think he told quite a few Texans that he was going to Idaho to make peach jam. In fact, he told me that shortly after we picked him up at the airport. I promised him that we would indeed do that.
No one has ever asked me how to make jam before. That’s what grandchildren are for, I suppose. To ask you questions and make you feel old and wise.
I told him that scooping out the sugar by cupfuls was just like digging dirt. He liked that.
He liked stirring.
And he loved the magnetic stick that pulled the hot jar rings and lids out of the boiling water.
We didn’t make peach jam–I had 2 quarts of processed apricots in the freezer–but he didn’t know the difference. He was cooking jam and that was all that mattered.
We listened for the satisfying “pop” each jar made when it sealed. We high-fived each other for a job well done.
He ate his own jam on his toast every single morning.
And he took all 8 jars–wrapped carefully in bubble wrap– home for his peanut butter sandwiches and for gifts.
He also did a different kind of jammin’, but that’s another story….