Getting Picky

For anyone who has been living on the moon or hiding in a concrete bunker hoping to ride out the Eurozone crisis with their epic store of feta in tact, it is strawberry season.  On day one of our local pick-your-own we were there, baskets in hand, ready to pick some berries.

Despite some libellous suggestions made to the contrary I do actually allow my Dad to leave the fields and go into the world sensibly dressed and free of shackles.  On a glorious but not overly hot day we made our way up and down our assigned rows, picking the crimson jewels from beneath their shady canopies.  Though the berries are not super sized (which is good for lazy jam makers like me) they are fresh, delicious and packed full of sweetness (good for jam eaters like everyone else in my family).

The boys had a fun time finding the luscious treasures so neatly tucked away beneath the leaves, Neirin spent most of his time running up and down the rows to show Grampa the one strawberry that he had added to his basket since the last time he showed him.

And before anyone starts making any kind of suggestions, the above picture is of my Dad leaning down to stroke a magical puppy that had skipped over to grant him three wishes.  While he was down there he might have picked a few strawberries, but just a few.  Litres.  But only because he wanted to.

Before 24 hours had passed a third of the strawberries had been turned into a double batch of strawberry jam.  It is a recipe I have been faithful to these past few years as it always turns out well and is inhaled by my loved ones.  My jam is very much like me actually, sweet, perfectly formed  but with just the right amount of acidity.