Jammin’

THE `COTS ARE ON!!! So says our wandering neighbor Frank (ha, that makes him sound like a Fraggle). We never know where Frank is going to turn up, but he lives around the corner and always pops up when you least expect him, ahem--cigarettes in hand, dogs roaming and yipping. He has at least 3 apricot trees in his yard, and he always lets Jeff’s dad Dan pick them. Dan took Jay, Rose, and I along this year and we got a large bowlful of soft, blushing apricots from the heavily-laden trees. We hardly made a dent in the trees’ abundance.

They were the tenderest, sweetest, smallest apricots I’ve ever had. I had one successful batch of apricot jam last year, and ever since we ran out of it, I’ve been watching the apricot trees like a hawk, waiting to pounce, pluck, and JAM it up.

Aren’t they cute? So little and soft.

Last year’s jam experiment was shockingly undocumented. Making jam last year was my last waltz before the prego-sickness kicked in, though, so I think by the time it was done I didn’t want to write about anything foody. But I learned a lot from the 4 batches I made (only 1 of them turned out), and did my best to apply that knowledge this time around. My recipe of choice is the one on the label of Ball’s Low-Sugar Pectin. Low sugar apricot jam is deliciously fruity and tastes and sets much better than full-sugar apricot jam (at least in my very limited experience). This morning, I turned on some tunes, tied on my apron, and started JAMMING.

The ingredients are assembled (except the ones I forgot and dashed around for while the jam was bubbling and splatting precariously). That’s a hotplate on the stove for the water bath canner because the directions say it destroys flat top stoves. I put the hot plate on our stove because even though it’s supposed to be for countertop use, it felt really really hot underneath it when I used it last year. So onto the stove it went, as a precaution.

TODAY I made 2 batches of low-sugar apricot jam. Removing the pits was child’s play—the cots were so soft I just opened each one with my bare hands. I may have snacked some down while I worked.

Here they all are: 22 half-pints, one 12-oz jar, and one baby food jar for same-day tasting. 12 pints of jam! One pint per month. Yay! Since the apricots were free, all of next year’s jam for toast only cost us about $14. Now we can take the rest of next year’s breakfast jam budget and apply it to our new air system. What a relief. $50 down, $6,000 to go.
(I actually don’t have a yearly jam budget, in case my sarcasm was lost in cyberspace)

Even though this job was much easier than last year, I still was yelping and squealing around the kitchen, catching hot splatters with a dishrag, singeing my fingertips on sterilized lids, and dashing around the house, grabbing forgotten ingredients and supplies. By the end of the 2.5 hours, I felt like Hermione when she went up against Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince during Potions class. My hair dried from my morning shower as I worked, and it frizzed and frazzed just like Hermione’s while I frantically simmered and stirred.

     

The frizz                                                                     annnnd the frazz.

Ok, in the picture my hair doesn’t look as crazy as it felt while I was hovering over the steaming pots and pans. But still. I feel like I understand Hermione on a whole new level now.

Ah, the beautiful apricotty orangeness.

Confession: there was one crisis, right near the end of the last batch. I had boiled it all perfectly, with nary a splatter, when I looked and saw the measuring cup full of forgotten sugar. Whoopse! I dragged the pot back onto the burner, dumped in the sugar, and boiled it for another minute. But the pot was too full and before I knew it, the jam was Mt. St. Helens-ing all over the stove and sizzling and burning everywhere! I wish I had a video, because it was kind of awesome the way it oozed and sizzled. But it was far to tense and sticky of a situation for cameras. I dragged the pot off to the side (through the puddle of jam) and dumped cold water all over the stove to keep the jam from baking onto the flat top (a trick I acquired during the long-ago summer I spent working at Wendy’s). It mostly worked and I managed to salvage my shiny stovetop. Barely. Even though I was gasping and squeaking while I took care of the mess, I was nonetheless rather pleased with myself for handling it so well. I don’t even have any burns—a few tender spots, yes, but no blisters.

So far batch #1 is firming up much better than batch #2, but even batch #2 is nearly set enough for knifing and spreading, so I think we’re in the clear.

Now during the chilly mists of winter I can enjoy sunny summer sweetness on my toast every day.