my modern artefact

I had been putting it off for long enough. Every time I entered the grocery store or grazed the farmer's market, I had put it off—grabbing only a single carton of strawberries for shortcakes, our morning cereal, atop Greek yogurt and honey, chopped into a salad—but never enough to make jam.

I knew I wanted to make strawberry jam the second I tasted Oregon strawberries while brunching at Accanto in northeast Portland. Their homemade jam spread over a salty, crumbly scone with ease and tasted like the wild summers of my childhood. In an instant, I was taken back to summer mornings spent barefoot in the garden sneakily eating the strawberries while I was supposed to be gathering chives for our breakfast eggs or tomatoes for our open-faced bagel sandwiches. My father would grow these tiny little strawberries of Polish origin that were about the size of my fingertip and that were sweeter than any other berry I had ever tasted.

And so finally, I borrowed a stock pot from a friend and made my move, just in time for the peak of season. (Strawberry season, after all, did come later than usual due to a very rainy spring.) Thank goodness for Eugenia Bone and her book Well Preserved, because with its help I made a delicious batch of strawberry balsamic jam that will be perfect for toast, pancakes, and future cheese plates.

[1. & 2. c_lynn]