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12 pints of freshly cleaned berries.

It’s nearly the solstice and we have only had a handful of sunny days since April.  I’m seriously tired of the gray skies and rain.   Strawberry season has always come with sunshine and heat.  When I went to the grocery story today I couldn’t resist the two lonely half-flats of strawberries left in the produce section.  They looked like they’d been left out of a party or something.  I adopted them and took them home right away.

These weren’t the same-old Driscoll Brand California strawberries, either.  They were the petite local jewels that come and go in the blink of an eye.  If you don’t buy them when you see them, they seem to just disappear.  I have another week, maybe, of finding them fresh at the store before they are   replaced by the familiar plastic clam-shell packaging.

These were all turned into jam.  Berries and sugar and heat.   It took several hours to coax the combination into jellying, but it finally did just after dinner.  Between the berries and the roast I was cooking for father’s day, our kitchen smelled positively medieval.    In spite of the cool weather, it felt a bit more like summer today.  Well, at least it smelled like it.

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