Springtime in a Jar

Though I've spent more than half my life in California where fresh locally grown strawberries, (and very good ones too), are available year round, I still associate that most beloved of fruits with spring. (Seriously, have you ever met anybody who didn't like strawberries? If so, I wouldn't trust them.)

Springtime drives 'out in the country' with my mother, whatever their actual purpose, frequently turned into foraging treasure hunts; for whenever we passed a likely looking abandoned farmhouse, she'd slam on the brakes, pull off the road, and, as often as not, we'd find an overgrown strawberry patch somewhere on the property, teeming with fruit ripe for the taking. (I later learned she'd lived in one of those houses during her first marriage, so she knew where to look, but that's an entirely different story.)

If we had any left by the time we got home, there'd be strawberry shortcake for dessert, (luck being with me), or Mamma's special take on strawberry chiffon pie, (a culinary abomination if ever there was, and a disservice to both the berry and the Cool Whip), which everyone else professed to love. No great matter, since I preferred them straight from the hand, maybe dipped in a little brown sugar or dragged slowly through a melted Hersey bar.

By late June (sooner if the birds were particularly ravenous) the local berry crop would be done, but by then so much else was going on in the garden they wouldn't be missed until later; when somebody pulled a soggy stash out of the freezer and tried to duplicate the Strawberry parfait from Easter, and it was just all wrong.

Better were the berries that had been turned into jam in their prime, and, in the days before jam became synonymous with Smucker's, just about everybody who had a plot and a pot 'put some up.' Strawberry jam was, and is, a no-brainer; strawberries, a little lemon juice, a whole lot of sugar. It was easy, it was fool-proof, and everybody's tasted about the same. And it was all good, like springtime in a jar.

When it came to making my own, however, I wanted something a little different. Like this one. Call it springtime in a jar with the promise of a red-hot summer coming on. So good I sometimes bake a couple of biscuits just for myself and pile it on. Other times, I eat it straight from the jar with a spoon.

Hank photo bombs the strawberry jam shoot

BALSAMIC STRAWBERRY JAM WITH CRACKED BLACK PEPPER
(Makes about 8 half pints)

5 pounds strawberries, lightly crushed
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
3 tablespoons good quality balsamic vinegar
6 tablespoons powdered fruit pectin
5 cups granulated sugar
2 teaspoons freshly cracked black pepper

Wash and hull strawberries and crush lightly. (I like a few chunks of actual berry in my jam, and you wouldn't believe how satisfying it is to crush a bowl bull of berries with your hands until you've tried it.)

Combine crushed berries with lemon juice and balsamic vinegar in a 6-to-8-quart saucepan. Mix fruit pectin with sugar and stir into berries.

My cracked pepper secret, inelegant but effective

Bring to a full rolling boil over high heat, stirring constantly until sugar/pectin mixture is completely dissolved. Continue to boil hard and stir for 3 to 5 minutes. Remove from heat, skim foam if necessary, and stir in cracked black pepper.

Ladle into sterilized jars and process in boiling water for 10 minutes. (For more detailed canning instructions see:  http://nchfp.uga.edu/how/can7_jam_jelly.html)

Note to the health conscious:  The amount of sugar in the recipe still gives me pause, but I've recently learned of a super sweet California variety, the Gaviota strawberry, which, rumor has it, can cut the sugar requirement by half. (One local canner even claims to make a respectable Gaviota strawberry jam with no added sugar at all, but, like those who professed to love my mother's strawberry chiffon pie, I suspect she may be exaggerating a bit.) Gaviota strawberries are available only in the spring, even in California, so stay tuned.