Every Sunday morning I go to the Sunnyvale Farmer’s Market.

My wife, fresh off her triumphant manufacture of plum jam, remarked that I could get any fruit I wanted to turn into jam, and she would do her magic.

I asked: How much fruit should I get?

And she replied: Whatever you think is appropriate.

You would think that after 9 years of living together she would know better. I bought 12 pounds of strawberries. Yes, 12 pounds. Why? Because I am Greek male, and that makes me incapable of buying the right quantity of anything unless someone tells me exactly what to do.

After an hour of cutting, followed by 10 minutes of stirring, we had a pot full of proto-strawberry jam stewing over a simmering fire.

My poor abused wife sat and slaved over a hot fire

( okay, she’s not that abused

)

to produce an excellent jam

that she then put into plastic containers

to be eaten over the winter.