Ranch Jam, Again

“That’s so much sugar,” JJ says. She pours the remainder of the four-pound carton of C&H into a yellow mixing bowl.

“It is,” says my mother from her seat in the corner. “And we need every ounce.”

It is jam-making day here at the ranch. At the start of every summer for as long as I can recall, mama has picked a day to make jam. Her children – and later, her grandchildren along with various spouses, lovers, and friends – are pressed into service in this noble work. Two dozen mason jars (once bought at Safeway, now ordered from Mr. Bezos’ outfit) are sanitized in bowling water and placed on paper towels. The plum juice that has chilled overnight is mixed in with eight pounds of freshly ground strawberries. Half a stick of butter and four packets of Sure Jell join the mix. The whole concoction is dumped in the same great stock pot that has done this duty since Nixon’s second term. It is brought to a boil.

My mother once stood a sturdy 5’5.” Today, at 88, she is perhaps 4’11.” She moves with a walker and cannot make herself tall enough to see into the great pot as it simmers and bubbles. No matter. She sees what she needs to in her mind’s eye. Mama taught philosophy and humanities for decades. She delivers her instructions with a professor’s clear cadence.

This day, mama has six young people at her service. My children, Heloise and David, are already sturdy veterans of this sacred process. My daughter has three high school friends who’ve joined us for this week at the ranch. JJ, Bella, and Kennedy are each older than Heloise, the latter two already graduated and off to college next year. And my son has his young cousin Carmen (an inquisitive and irrepressible eleven) to pester, to distract, and to ask a lot of generally sensible questions.

It is a hot day. The children will spend the day in their swimming suits. David, just 13, is accustomed to his sister’s friends, but to be in such close proximity to so many pretty, older girls in string bikinis is something of a novelty. Or maybe, the novelty is that this summer, he now has eyes that look differently on such a marvel. He is respectful in his awe, which pleases me. A boy with a popular older sister has a considerable advantage in life, and David is just beginning to understand this eternal truth.

Ranch jam must contain ranch-grown ingredients. We have a dozen wild plum trees (prunus subcordata) on the property and depending on when the last of the rain fell, they produce red and gold fruit sometime around midsummer. We had some late rain here in the East Bay hills this winter, and as a result, plum season is likely to peak closer to Independence Day. The Fourth of July is for fireworks and jingoism, not jam, so despite the earliness, we asked the kids to collect all the near-ripe plums they could find. They managed to gather just over a pound of passable fruit. The tart little orbs are boiled, and then strained; it is only the juice we will need.

Heloise and her friends have mashed the strawberries (Trader Joe’s, of course) in the Cuisinart, measured the butter, and added the lemon juice. When mama calls for the last of these ingredients, I hand Kennedy – the child with the most swagger -- the bottle. “Pour in two good shots,” I say, my tone meant to convey that I know darn well this ol’ gal – soon to be in sorority rush at the University of Oregon -- already knows exactly how much that entails. Kennedy snorts, the other girls laugh, and with two deft twists of her wrist, she adds the exact amount needed.

“Now, the sugar. Pour it slowly.” My mother issues the instructions, and JJ carries the great mixing bowl – once a wedding gift for my third marriage, now donated to general family service – to the stove. JJ does exactly as asked, and because it is 2025, my daughter and Bella position their phones to capture two different angles of the process. The girls are creating some sort of video blog of this week “in the country.” It seems to involve a mix of posing by the pool and heavy dollops of not-quite-ironic “trad wife content.” It is not for my eyes, and though the finished product will probably contain a blend of saccharine and scandal, I know full well it is entirely benign.

Though filmed from various angles -- and despite distracting and unhelpful instruction from the photographers - JJ gets every last sugar granule into the great pot. Bella begins to stir vigorously. “And now, we wait seven minutes,” says mama; “everyone must help.” All line up, and take a turn with the great spoon, and more or less as mama says, seven minutes later the boiling commences again. The smell is sweet, familiar, comforting. Was it not just yesterday that my daughter stood on a chair to stir this mix? Was it not just last summer that my first love, April – a shy but brave fifteen – stood shoulder to shoulder with my mother at this same stove?

For those of us lucky enough to reach late middle age, memory is usually something of the proverbial mixed bag. I know I’ve made jam in this kitchen when I’ve been fresh out of a hospital, or just off my latest divorce -- or latest disgrace. Many of those who took a turn adding the sugar or the fruit are gone, lost to varying disappointments or betrayals. A couple have gone to the ancestors, and perhaps they observe now, a small delegation of the cloud of the witnesses, come to see how this year’s plum-strawberry mix compares to those of yesteryear. The memories run together, though, and all the pain is edited out, so I’m left with five unsullied decades of scent, stir, and sugar.

My job will be to clean the kitchen when all is done, so for now, I get to observe and indulge my sentimentality.

“Skim, skim, skim!” Another instruction from mama, and Bella scrapes the jelling white froth from the top of the boiling liquid into a special dish. The “skim” is the first jam that can be eaten, and while it does not preserve well, it will do exquisite service on morning toast for the next two or three days. Everyone must dip a spoon in the skim, but the first taste is mama’s.

Skim.

Carmen and David may be youngest of the crew, but they have done a splendid job sterilizing the mason jars and lids in a separate pot of boiling water. Mama produces a special funnel, and Heloise places it atop the first jar. Each girl takes a turn ladling the boiling burgundy sweetness into a jar, wincing as the hot liquid splashes onto bare forearms.

Four minutes later, it is done. The jars are sealed and left to cool on the counter. The kitchen is positively broiling, and all six young ones are eager for a swim, so they are dismissed to that reward. Mama needs a lie-down. I will scrub and wash and dry and put away, and as I do, replay the necessary steps in this solemn procedure. Someday, the cast will be different, and mama will be a witness in that great majority, and I will need be the one in the corner, calling for more sugar.

Every tradition transforms. We might make ranch jam each June, but nothing is ever exactly as it was. The ratio of plum to strawberry shifts depending on the harvest. An old Cuisinart is retired, a new one called to service. An unsteady young hand grows surer; a once certain old hand grows frail. What constitutes a shot of lemon juice is less a scientific measurement than a teen’s giggling guesstimate. All that was will be otherwise, and that is the saddest and best thing I know.

The kitchen cleaned, I treat myself to a huge spoonful of skim.