The Minnesota Farm Woman

I envy those men and women with the patience to make jelly. Yesterday, I cooked and mashed a large pan of grapes, gifted from my neighbor, who was “all graped out, ” then simmered and strained them through cheesecloth. My parents used to make jelly out of various fruits of the woods, so there was always a jelly bag dripping colorful juices around the kitchen. Once Dad retired, the job was all his. (Good move, Mom!) Having been raised during the depression with a “waste not, want not” philosophy, he saved the foam that he skimmed from the top and had a cook’s snack of sticky jelly foam and saltine crackers, which he often shared with us. It was not only a treat, but a way to tell if the jelly was going to set. Today, this child of a depression survivor who is now a grandmother used gifted grapes and expired pectin (a pandemic stockpile leftover, but “waste not, want not”, you know), made the jelly, skimmed the foam, and water bathed the filled jars. Since I don’t eat sugar, I started to scrape the foam into the trash, but thought about that long ago childhood treat, grabbed the saltines, and spread on a layer of purple grape foam. I don’t know which was sweeter…the jelly or the memory. I hope it sets, but if not, there will be some delicious grape syrup in our future. Either way, I raise my cracker to you, Dad.

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