Violet looked at me tonight on the way to soccer and said, "I really wish Nana and Papa were my parents and that you and daddy were my grandparents."
Thanks for that, Violet. Actually I totally get it. Grandparents are pretty awesome. Parents just can't compete with them!
Last weekend I made jam with my husband, my mum and my girl. How lucky are we? Three generations of jam makers all washing, cutting, mashing, stirring, boiling, straining and licking our fingers together. These are the things that memories are made of. They are also the things cavities are made of, but I digress.
When Jeff and I got married my grandparents helped make little jars of jam for each of our guests. They also got up at the crack of dawn to make biscuits for everyone. That is just the sort of people they are, always doing things for other people. I have never met more generous folk, or better cooks for that matter.
I love that little traditions, like making strawberry jam as a family, are passed down from generation to generation. It makes the whole process feel almost sacred. I think it makes the jam taste better too.
So there you have it, an overly sweet post about an overly sweet preserve. I don't know what it is but this strawberry jam has me feeling sentimental.
xo
Em
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