My Friend Goo

There’s an art collective within walking distance from my house called The Machine Project, and once a year they hold a Fallen Fruits jam-making party. The deal is: you bring your own fruit, brew it all together, jar it, and then trade off with other jam makers. The only question is how experimental you want to get with the flavor. We went with strawberry-mint, winsome on the palette and just untried enough to pass.

When we arrived, there was a long row of tables set up on the sidewalk and the jam-making had already commenced. People were using all kinds of wacked out combinations, like lemon-fig-pepper and nectarine-kumquat-lavender-basil, so we sat down to cook. Making jam from scratch is a pretty sloppy process, but it actually takes no time at all. And there was the chance to mingle with neighbors, get involved in the community and whatnot.

One jam master in particular asked if we grew our own fruit. Typical Californian question. Like it’s not enough to be out there in the middle of the street, with the sun stabbing through you, making your own jam -- you have to grow your own fruit, too. No, I answered defensively, but was quick to tell her that we bought it at the local farmers market the day before.

Since then, I’ve been eating PB&J all week, which never really gets old, I think. And I have to admit, quite frankly, that our jam is the best. The consistency, the simplicity, the taste, no doubt about it.