I have a mystical sort of reverence for people who make their own jam. Like those who turn old pillowcases into cute outfits for their kids or whittle their own four-poster beds out of driftwood, their skills inspire both admiration and envy. What are my meager domestic accomplishments next to such down-home expertise? Jam seems advanced. Lately, my inferiority complex has gotten worse. Jam-making used to live in the realm of Quaint Things Your Grandma Did, along with sewing buttons or knowing how to use a hat pin. Now it's suddenly hip. So in my newfound Greenie Pig spirit, I …
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