Having Great Depression parents, the garden was considered sacred and the vegetables we grew epitomized the family thrift rule: “Waste not, want not.” Nothing produced in the garden was to be disposed of — sort of like those dribs and drabs that always lurked unappetizingly in the fridge. In late summer, those agents of food prep (canning and freezing) sped up to full throttle for weeks on end.

As the oldest child (and also female), it was expected that I would contribute to the annual rituals. There was always a hated job to be completed before I was “free” —blanching tomatoes, grinding suet, slipping beets, snipping beans for mustard pickles, scrubbing cukes for dill pickles. It seemed endless and thankless. I considered it an escape to ride my bike to the store to buy something my mother had run out of and needed in a hurry — especially if I was allowed to keep the change (think fudgsicles, here!).

My family took food thriftiness to quite exalted heights. In our suburban bungalow, my dad built a special cold storage room which was vented through the concrete to the outside. Here, the fruits of all the summer labours were stored every fall on appropriately engineered shelves which housed multiple pints and quarts of home canned goodies. The giant tombsized chest freezer also lived in the cold room, usually guarding a half a beef and a whole pig butchered to spec.

Soon after the first frost, the whole family would be commandeered to some local farm to pick potatoes and carrots from select sections that the farmer had already turned over. You should also know that proper potato and carrot picking etiquette nvolves lessons in how to shake off the excess dirt. Even so, if the ground was too damp, the vegetables would be spread out on tarps on the driveway until enough dirt could be jiggled off. When everything was just so, the mostly dirt-free potatoes and carrots were stored in the cold room bins in Zonolite which was topped up from year to year. Yes, ZONOLITE! Given what we now know about Zonolite and asbestos, it’s likely some kind of miracle that none of us are running around permanently tethered to a portable oxygen tank.

I never get over how the past really does come back to haunt you. I thought I had managed to give up all my passive-aggressive attitude towards the month of August when Frank discovered the joy of jam. I’m not quite certain how it all began. It may have been the case of mangoes I got for “free” when I spent $250 at Superstore. It may have been the allure of the bountiful blackberry patch discovered literally on our front doorstep. Who knows? But Frank has taken up jam making with a true vengeance and his routine passion for doing things to excess. And perfection. So far in the 2019 season we are pushing 50 jars of jam. His two personal favourites are raspberry (local berries only) and blackberry. Having been gifted with beautiful yellow plums this year, his plum jam is a jewelled thing of beauty. I’m hoping for some marmalade but will be willing to settle for either his green or red tomato chutney, both of which are fabulous.

You’re likely be wondering what two adults do with all these preserves when it’s all we can do to get through a jar (or maybe two) a month. Well, Frank shares his jam! Even I don’t know what special dispensation it takes to be gifted with Frank’s jam, but I do know the mail lady is especially nice to us.

Just recently, we had a special SOS request from our nephew in Edmonton for his mother to bring some Uncle Frank jam home to Alberta. My sister did not have checked baggage — so in another first, Frank’s jam was deemed potentially a bomb and was confiscated. (I wonder who’s enjoying it?) Not to fear, though; we are bigger than Air Canada and we actually managed to replace the jam within 24 hours. But that’s a whole other story for another time.

If we were other people (and from another generation) it’s conceivable that Frank’s jam would be all over Instagram. He could even be a jam influencer. But Frank’s basic take on his jam making activity is that it’s better than therapy, way more fun, and it harkens back to a time when people took pride in creating something homemade and delicious — as far away as you can imagine from Skip The Dishes or UberEats. Some of you might consider following Frank’s lead in becoming a jam hero.

Let’s face it — it’s definitely win-win.

-Anne Letain