Who Will Make the Strawberry Jam?

The Invisible Gifts We Give

What do you do every year that no one really thanks you for—until the one time you don’t?

Is it the coconut cake you bring to every holiday? What playlist do you make for family road trips? The perfectly wrapped gifts? The Easter deviled eggs? The Fourth of July blueberry pie?

We all have something. That quiet tradition we uphold without applause. We do it because it matters—even if no one ever says it out loud. And when do we stop doing it? They notice.

Life, Deadlines, and a Late Blog

I was late writing this week’s blog, but not because I’ve been lounging around. Life hasn’t stopped for a moment.

My book proposal for “Confessions of a Crazy Woman” is due on June 5. While I’ve been working on it all year, the final deadline snuck up on me. Our annual HOA meeting required pages of preparation. Gabby’s walks are non-negotiable. The patio isn’t ready for summer yet. The garden is waiting. Those things don’t have deadlines.

But my life has always been deadline-driven. Journalism school trained me for it. You write for the edition or the 5:00 news broadcast, and you make it work. I even have a paperweight that says, “The ultimate inspiration is the deadline.”

Strawberry Season Waits for No One

Spring brings its own set of non-negotiable deadlines. Take strawberries.

This past week, my niece and I made 60 jars of jam. We froze 12 gallons of berries for the year. Because strawberries don’t care about your schedule, they ripen when they’re ready—and if you don’t act, they’re gone.

So the jam got done because it had to. Because it always does.

Every May, I make strawberry jam. In June, it’ll be peach preserves—another 40 pints. I might use three jars all year. It’s not about me. It’s about giving the gifts of the season to family and friends. I do it because I still know how, and it brings me joy.

When Traditions Go Missing

Last Christmas, I didn’t paint a card. I didn’t even send one. I figured no one would notice.

But they did.

“This is the first year you didn’t do a card.”
“No art or photo this time?”

They weren’t upset—just surprised as if something small and sacred had gone missing.

Preserving More Than Jam

A few years ago, my brother asked his daughter to start collecting family recipes from me, before they were lost.

The most important? Coconut cake.

Now, the day before every holiday, I get texts or calls:

• “How do you make your rack of lamb?”
• “Can you walk me through the dill potato salad?”
• “You’re doing the divinity again this year, right?”

Now my niece Jennifer comes to learn. This week, it was jam. Before that, divinity. An herb garden last spring. She’s learning. I’m teaching.

And somewhere in the middle of the sugar explosions in my kitchen, I realized: I’m not just making jam. I’m preserving memory. Culture. A way of knowing.

Because when we go, whole traditions disappear with us. Not just the recipes, but the stories that go with them.

Women as Tradition Keepers

That’s the real weight women carry—not just the work, but the meaning behind it.

We’re the tradition keepers. The memory holders. The women who still know, without Google, when strawberry season peaks.

And yes, we get tired. Yes, we wonder how much longer we can keep doing all of it. Sometimes we say out loud, “One day, I won’t be able to keep this up.”

And someone (usually my brother) says, “Why not? Of course you will. Why would you stop?” We shall see.

Choosing What Matters

Here’s what I’ve learned: Some deadlines are absolute. The paper goes to print. The strawberries won’t wait.

But some of the other ones?

The spotless patio.
The picture-perfect garden.
Maybe those can wait.

This isn’t an article about doing too much; it’s about beauty and tradition. It’s about love that comes in the form of 60 jars of jam that everyone looks forward to. It’s about choosing what matters when everything feels urgent.

What’s Your Version of the Jam?

So this week, pause and honor the “thing” that you do for others.

The pie.
The playlist.
The handmade centerpiece.
The card that’s uniquely yours.

Maybe no one ever taught you how. Maybe you’re the first in your family to try to keep anything going at all.

You’re not just doing it for the family.
You’re not just doing it for tradition.

You’re doing it because you know how.

And that knowing? It matters more than the unfinished garden.
More than the pristine patio.

Because one day, when you finally stop, someone will say, “This is the first time she didn’t do it.” And they’ll notice.

They’ll miss the jam.
The messy patio? Probably not.