Strawberry jam, Part 2: A success story or knowing when it's time to ask for help

Last week, when I wrote I asked everyone I know about making strawberry jam, I was fibbing a little.  I never asked Madame Gousse, our dear friend.  She knows everything, whether it be about plants, the cuisine, or her new hobby, cultivating bees.  So why didn’t I ask her for help when I was making strawberry jam that would be better used as mortar?  Shame.  As small and simple as that might be: shame.  If everyone kept telling me that making strawberry jam was that simple, how could I build any culinary trust between us if I couldn’t get this first step right?  I’m trying to learn all I can from her about the Catalan cuisine, so I needed to show her I could get the little things right.  Like, who’s going to show you how to make a soufflé if you can’t crack an egg?

Boy, was I wrong for not asking sooner.  She gave me no blank stares, no bulging eyes, no jaw dropping – she just simply told me how to do it and what I was doing wrong.  To sum up the lesson: I was Americanizing the process.  I was thinking too big.  I was hording the berries in the freezer so I could make a batch as big as possible to say how much I’ve made and how efficient I have been.  Wrong.  The process is small; use only the berries collected that day to make the jam.  Most of the time, it means only making a jar or two at a time, no more.

Since my lesson, I’ve made strawberry jam twice now, once creating two jars and once just a single jar.  Each time, it has come out perfect.  It’s clearly more time consuming, but I can be proud of the product I have created.  In fact, I can actually eat it. 

It’s all about adapting.  I’ve learned that sometimes applying what you know to something new works, but knowing when to step back and try a new method is even more important. 

Stick to your ribs strawberry jam

Strawberry jam: one of the basics of jamming.  It’s the starter jam everyone begins with before moving onto more complicated ones.  It’s the first hole in miniature golf, the kiddie hills of skiing, the splash pool, the old mere horse, the beginner’s stage of everything, you know: the easy stuff.  And each time, I mess it up.

I just made my first batch of the season and I have created stick to your ribs strawberry jelly, not jam, but cement like jelly.  The kind of stuff that would be better sliced and served like cranberry sauce at Thanksgiving dinner.  Yep, I messed it up that badly.  Each and every time I make strawberry jam I have a problem; it’s way too thin, the berries don’t cook right, or, I get mortar.  I can make the more complicated jams.  Chestnut jam is firmly set in my repertoire, and I quickly mastered quince jamming, which is not easy, but there is something elusive about strawberry jam to me.  I just can’t get it right.  Maybe I’m too impatient since it’s also the first fruit of the season.  Maybe it’s because Chantal, who showed me how to make all the other jams, only explained this one to me.  I’ve asked everyone I know who makes jam what they do, and everyone tells me the same thing, “Oh, it’s easy”.  Then, their eyes get wide when they hear how badly I’ve messed it up.  It doesn’t bother me, but I’m getting worried as bags and bags of strawberries are starting to accumulate in the freezer.  Maybe, just maybe, I should turn to tarts - but they seem like such less of a challenge for me.  At least this way, I won't have strawberry scented cement at the breakfast table.