Happens every year- our fig trees produce enormous numbers of figs. And every year I swear that this will be the year I do not make fig jam. And of course I do.
This year was special.
Two people in the world really loved my fig jam- my father and my daughter. Oh others rave about it, but those two were passionate about fig jam. I used to make several jars for each of them, always giving my father the largest jar- knowing that Jody would probably be at his house and eat some of his portion, as they sat at breakfast or at tea. They ate it on crackers, with chevre, on bread. Happy occasions made sweeter by side by side conversations and a passion for my preserves.
So this year I was not going to make fig jam- until my mom, sitting at the table, reminded me how much Dad loved my jam.
So, this year I made the jam, with extra care, and extra love, and labeled each jar “Zaida’s Fig Jam”. And I know that each time my daughter or my mother taste a bite of this jam, they will have a sweet, oh so sweet memory of my dad, husband, Zaida.