Gami Jelly

What a difference six months makes. Half a year ago I found myself in these woods, barren of leaves, snowshoeing on two feet of snow, and thinking about my grandfathers. Today I’m back in the same spot, surrounded by dense summer growth, now a grandfather myself, and my thoughts turn to my grandmother and specifically “Gami Jelly”.

I love a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I don’t mean I like having one when there’s nothing else to eat. I mean I really love a PB&J. If I were to choose my last meal, it would likely be a PB&J.

My tastes in peanut butter and bread have evolved over the years. I’ve moved on from Jif and white bread to Teddie all-natural crunchy and whole grain. But my jelly choice has never wavered. It has always been and always will be black raspberry.

When I was growing up my grandmother, the one I called Gami, made lots of wonderful things. I remember fresh squeezed orange juice from her own trees, the best pickle relish I have ever tasted, and homemade root beer on occasion. But the thing I remember most is Gami Jelly. Gami made black raspberry jelly every year. Jars and jars and jars of it. I have no idea how many, but it was enough to keep this grandkid, and several others, supported in his PB&J habit year-round. I don’t remember ever having store-bought jelly in our house. “Jelly” meant “Gami Jelly”, there was nothing else. It was delicious and to this day, for me, a proper PB&J must be made with black raspberry.

Today these memories are flooding back, not because I am hungry for a PB&J, but because of what I am doing in these woods. When our machatunim visited recently, my granddaughter’s other grandfather took a walk in these woods and told me he thought he found some berry bushes. In over two years in this house, I had yet to explore these woods in summer. But thanks to his excellent tip, I am now on the hillside harvesting wild huckleberries and blueberries, and thinking about the black raspberries that made the Gami Jelly of my youth.

Although we lived in Florida, my grandparents moved there from Maryland when my dad was about ten years old. While wild, edible berries are not plentiful in Florida, there were wild black raspberries around Mount Airy, Maryland, if you knew where to look. And my grandmother’s brother, “Uncle Bo”, knew where to look. Every year he picked berries, processed and canned the juice, and got it to my grandmother in Florida to make the jelly. From a young age I knew that’s how the jelly came to be, but I didn’t appreciate the labor in this labor of love until today. As I pick and pick and pick these little berries and see how slowly my container fills, I picture Uncle Bo picking and picking and picking enough berries to keep a bunch of grand-nephews and nieces supplied with PB&Js for a year.

I didn’t appreciate just how much work it was and how much time he spent until today. As I enjoy the quiet of the woods and the steady rhythm of picking berries, I understand it may not have been burdensome work, but it was work all the same. And I also think of my grandmother finding time amid her wallpaper business or helping in my grandfather in his mechanic shop to make the jelly we all loved. It was shared effort in a labor of love.

My small harvest turned into only a couple of quarts of huckleberry ice cream. But I shared it with my family, just like Uncle Bo and Gami. Harvesting something wild from the land, turning it into something delicious, and sharing it with others made me feel a connection to my ancestors that I did not expect, but I am grateful for.

So my thoughts move from the past to the future. I am a grandfather now. Will my granddaughter someday pick berries on this hill beside me? Will she help me make ice cream? Will I ever harvest enough berries to make her some jelly? What memories will she have of me someday?

As my mind wanders back and forth between the past and future, I am brought back to the present. I’m at home now and there’s a knock at the door. Our neighbor is there holding a jar of black currant jelly, homemade from berries he picked himself. A simple, wonderful gift whose meaning runs much deeper than he knows. And although it’s not black raspberry, it makes a mighty fine PB&J.