Always Jam Today

You know what's different in a small apartment as compared to a large house?  Well, I'll tell you:  one of Mr. Muscato's jam sessions.

No, in the old days, we didn't change into our chintz kitchen frocks and sensible hairnets as above - well, not quite - but we had a table of comparable proportions and - as I've discovered, even more importantly, lots and lots of non-jam-related spaces to which someone only marginally involved in the process (I'm trusted only to stir at non-crucial points and, if I'm very, very good, to pour the hot mixture into the little jars) could retreat.

It all started on Sunday morning, when the Mister and I went to the Eastern Market, a not enormous and more than adequately touristified but nonetheless rather satisfactory local institution at which one can, with a little careful looking, find some very good fruit and veg.  We came home with sacks of peaches, apples, tomatoes, and strawberries, and, from the look in the Mister's eyes, I knew we were in for it.

And so it was; when I came home this afternoon, I caught the first steamy whiff of boiling fruit well down the hall, and when I opened the front door, it was like walking into an aromatic sauna, one made all the more pungent because there was also a magnificent seven-pound chicken roasting in the oven (the butchers at the Eastern Market almost - almost - meet Mr. Muscato's standards).  Oh, I'm not complaining, mind you, and no one enjoys the results more than I (except, when it comes to the chicken, the terriers, of course), but oh, my - the stickiness.  Still, one taste, and you know it's worth while.

So now we have a dozen or so jars lined up neatly on the counter, half peach-cinnamon and half varicolored-tomato-strawberry-clove.  The dogs have had a little chicken with their supper, and maybe, if we're lucky, before we move out, we'll get the kitchen clean again.  Maybe it's a sign that this bland little rental is turning into home...