When life feels difficult or strained there are 2 things I like to do–go for a walk, and make jam. I’m not so sure why, but both things bring me back to my center, cultivate a connection to my childhood, to the earth, and the sea, and to what feels important. Now that I live in the city, I have to add–going to the farmers market. It is, perhaps, besides walking and cooking, the thing that gives me as much pleasure, where I experience an abundance of color, texture, new tastes and where I feel utmost joy. None of this is to say that I don’t take pleasure from so many other things, like writing and painting, as they too fulfill some great need in me, cater to an unsettling urgency that is hard to explain, or even my children (a more complicated fulfillment). The farmers market reminds me of the gifts of nature, the importance of food, and farmers, and organic cultivation–of old and new relationships and making do. And yet, it is during my long walks where my mind slows, shores up new ideas, sheds others, experiences first hand the season’s new growth, and generally rejuvenates, and it is when cooking (often when making jam, or marmalade or some kind of cooked confection) that I feel content, relaxed, deeply connected to my work and all that I love about food and making.

I have often wondered what it is about making jam that draws me in. Is it how the bowls of fruit on my counter look before I begin the process, the shape and cheery quality of lemons that when painted are so inviting, and when juiced and combined with sugar, as in lemonade or lemon curd, are divine? Or is it the deep ruby color of a cut, blood orange, it’s juices pooling on the counter, or spring’s first strawberries slowly simmering on the stove, their sweet perfume permeating the house? Or perhaps it is the field of memories that spring forth, like picking blackberries with my aunt as a young girl on the side of the road and returning home to make jam, the gleaming jars ready to be given as a gift; the discovery of an apple tree in my first town house yard for apple butter and apple pie, or the sack of clementines on my friend Kate’s counter for marmalade, to eat with cheese, to have for dessert? Or is it remembering watching my children, their pockets full of sweet fruits, merrily skipping across the hills? 

Last weekend the days were filled with sunshine and we had a wonderful celebration of our family’s story and life in Big Sur. Yesterday it was raining, and today it was too, and the excitement around that celebration, not unlike a fantastic vacation you don’t want to end, has already begun to fade. It is not a bad thing, it is just what it is. When the weather finally broke this afternoon, and the sky lifted somewhat, I headed out for my walk, into the now familiar cemetery, all the way up the hill where you can look down and across the bay, view the city scape, and on a good day, see the peak of Mt. Tam rising above everything like some great hope. This is how life is. One day it is one thing, the next it is something else. It’s cyclical. Out front on my small terrace are pots of herbs and lettuces waiting to be planted in larger pots. Since buying them they have survived a heat wave and torrential rain, and even days without water. Everything is green and feels alive. I’ve had my first pink roses appear nestled against the pineapple sage; new buds on my lemon tree tell me that I will have my first lemons too. The rosemary is a bright evergreen and the apricot nasturtiums next to the thyme are making their own come back. In the kitchen, I have washed and sliced the last of the winter’s blood oranges–a surprise market find–and placed in a big pot, covered with water for an overnight soak.  

Life’s seasons bring a renewed sense of wonder to each day if I stop long enough to notice; remind me to capture the essence and beauty of each moment, each flutter of a butterfly’s wings, to stay present in where I am right now, not to wait until tomorrow, nor spend too much time in yesterday. It is hard, though–isn’t it? When life feels tough, and jobs are scarce, the bills are mounting, the kids are in harmony one moment, and falling apart the next. At times anything and everything seems better than what is on our plate. Where do we turn to during these challenging times, what brings us back home, to the simple pleasures of each hour, to every day; to what cultivates kindness and generosity in our communities, in our homes? Today, it is my marmalade, my simmering pot of jam, the bowl of lemons on my counter, the sweet scent of strawberries in the kitchen, going to the farmers market, writing, and my afternoon walk.

Have you seen my cousin Erin’s paintings of lemons?  She often has a bowl of lemons on her table, and her paintings are quite lovely, and also evoke a sense of home, a return to the simple life. You can view them and her Big Sur landscapes on Erin’s website, as well read her own stories of cultivating home on her blog, the Big Sur Fix.