Bread, Freezer Jam and Spit

            I just finished making four lovely, tan bricks.  I’m not sure what I’ll do with them, but I’ve got a few ideas.  I could tie them to my cookbook and throw them in a lake;  I’ve got this door that won’t stay open, or I could get a couple of colorful sharpies, add some highlights, and pass them off as fruitcakes in a couple months.

            I got this recipe from the Deals to Meals Lady.  Apparently she has given it to hundreds of people in 5 different states and it is foolproof.  Until now.  I happen to be very good at ruining foolproof recipes.

            My friend taught a class on how to make strawberry freezer jam.  She said, “This recipe is foolproof.  I’ve only ruined it once when I was making it with Jill. . .”  I thought my jam was okay.  So what if I had to drink it instead of spread it. 

            My sister-in-law makes strawberry freezer jam to die for.  My children all request their own bottle for their birthdays.  On the way home with the coveted freezer jam from my domestic sister-in-law goddess, I had one child eat the whole thing with her tongue and bare hands.  This way, she would not have to share.  Not that I would stoop to anything so low.  Not that this sister-in-law and I have ever locked ourselves in a room and downed a whole container of Ben and Jerry’s so we wouldn’t have to share. 
     The sticky, (then 14-year-old) in the back seat of the car is not the only one who has a difficult time sharing.  I have seen the aunt’s freezer jam in our fridge bearing a sign that says, DO NOT EAT.  I HAVE SPIT IN THIS.

            Spitting in food dates back to when our children were quite small.  One night while sitting at the counter prolonging bedtime by slowly eating dishes of ice cream, my husband said, “Five more minutes, then the ice cream is mine.”  Without conversing, they simultaneously spit in their bowls.  That is pure, natural, raw animalistic instinct.   What else could it be?  We didn’t teach them that.

            Anyway, I am sure my bread will not need a sign that says, “Do not eat.  I spit on it.”  In fact, my children are doing a small victory dance and chanting, “Store-bought, white bread! Store-bought, white bread!”  The husband is silently gleeful. 

            I think I will spit on the loaf and send it to the Deals to Meals lady.