A jar of jam wearing a tiny floral bonnet
I have never been very good at passing a farmers market without stopping.
There is something about those little tents and wooden tables that makes me believe, with my whole heart, that I suddenly need a loaf of sourdough, three jars of jam, a bouquet of flowers, a basket of tomatoes, and enough fresh honey to see me through winter.
And if the jam jars have little scraps of fabric tied over their lids?
Well. I never really stood a chance.
We are in Seaside, Florida often, and one of my favorite things to do there is wander through the farmers market. The produce is piled high in the most glorious colors—yellow peppers, red tomatoes, green beans, corn still tucked inside its husks—and there is always something homemade waiting nearby.
Fresh bread. Honey. Cakes. Jellies and jams.
I tell myself I’m just looking.
This is almost never true.
I especially love fresh honey. There is something wonderfully old-fashioned about buying honey from the person who knows exactly where the bees have been. It feels like bringing home a tiny jar of sunshine.
But the little plum jam in this painting actually came from a different adventure.
This summer I visited a farm stand in Glastonbury, Connecticut, and I’m quite convinced that New England farm stands are enchanted.
Perhaps it’s the weathered wood and crooked baskets. Perhaps it’s the handwritten signs and the vegetables that still have a little dirt clinging to them. Or maybe it’s the rows and rows of homemade jams and preserves, each one wearing a different little fabric hat as if the jars themselves dressed up for market day.
Whatever it is, I wanted to paint everything.
And somewhere between the jam and the eggs and the leafy branch, I found myself thinking about home.
When I was growing up, food didn’t arrive looking perfect beneath bright grocery-store lights.
We shucked corn.
We shelled peas.
We picked blackberries and brought them into the kitchen, where they eventually became jam.
There were bowls and pots and sticky spoons and jars lined up on the counter. There was always somebody who knew how long something needed to boil without looking at a timer. And there were recipes that weren’t really recipes at all because the person making them had done it so many times that measuring seemed unnecessary.
And then there was mayhaw jelly.
My favorite.
If you grew up knowing mayhaw jelly, you probably understand. That beautiful rosy-red jelly on a hot biscuit tastes like something much bigger than breakfast.
It tastes like home.
Isn’t it funny how that happens?
When we’re children, we don’t realize we’re standing in the middle of memories.
We think we’re just shelling peas.
We think we’re just shucking corn.
We think someone is simply making jelly in the kitchen again.
We have no idea that years later, the smell of berries cooking on a stove or the sight of a homemade jar of preserves at a little farm stand will open a door we had forgotten was there.
Suddenly, we’re back.
Maybe that is one of the reasons I love to paint ordinary things so much.
A jar of plum jam.
A carton of brown eggs.
A branch clipped from the garden.
A bowl of apples.
The things we walk past every day without giving them much thought often turn out to be the things that carry our stories.
There’s something almost magical about making jam, when you think about it.
You take something that belongs to summer—plums or blackberries or peaches or mayhaws—and tuck it into a jar so you can find summer again later.
Perhaps painting is a little like that too.
You notice something lovely.
You sit with it for a while.
You add a little water and color.
And somehow, you save it.
Not perfectly, of course.
But maybe perfectly isn’t the point.
Maybe the point is simply to say,
I noticed this.
I loved this.
I wanted to remember.
And goodness knows, I hope I never become too grown-up to be delighted by a jar of jam wearing a tiny flowered bonnet.
A little jam goes a long way.
Apparently, so does a memory.
And now I’d love to know—what was the food from your childhood that tasted like home?
