Nana-Jam

Sweetness that didn’t end with her

A jar of Nana’s raspberry jam rarely stays in one place for long.

It moves through neighbors, cousins and strangers. It travels home, clinking and clanking in tote bags. It leaves the house with dinner guests and returns weeks later, empty and rinsed, begging to be refilled.

So when my father stood at her funeral to deliver the eulogy, he didn’t begin with dates or a biography. He began with preserves.

Nana-jam, as it’s known colloquially, is more than a recipe. It is a moral philosophy built on relationships, patience and a perfect blend of her signature Southern kindness and Jewish stubbornness. You do not just make this jam. You wait for it. You plan for it. You know people for it. Community is an ingredient.

To produce it requires a precise moment in late summer and a specific person: a farmer at the Union Square greenmarket named Franca, who knew Nana well enough to reserve berries for her in advance and who my dad called “literally batshit crazy,” prompting laughter from a mourning congregation.

Growing up, my dad would pick berries from the bushes on Mercer Island, bring them home and Nana would make jam with them. “It always felt like pure magic,” he said.

When Nana was sick, but still with us, he and I went over to her apartment to learn how to make Nana-jam.

“I decided this was something I wanted, no, needed, to learn how to do, to carry forward,” my dad said. “Now that I know how to make it myself, it’s no longer magic, but it is actually even more amazing.”

My dad has kept making Nana-Jam. Not ceremonially, just regularly—a pot on the stove, fruit breaking down, the kitchen windows fogging. My mom made mint-green labels reading “Nana Jam, made with love,” and suddenly the jars looked official, even as they moved from hand to hand.

“We’re in the third generation of this jam,” he told me. “And you’ll make it for your kids too.”

Losing my Nana felt like losing my sense of taste. Slowly, though, the jam brought it back. With every spoonful from the jar and thin layer on sourdough, I felt her with me and my grief sweetened.

Ingredients:

1. 6 cups raspberries (preferably acquired at an inconvenient hour from a “batshit crazy” farmer)

2. 5 ¼ cups sugar (yes, really—this is not the place to get principled)

3. 1 box fruit pectin (1.75 oz.)

Recipe:

1. Wash and thoroughly dry your jars. You will eventually give these away and then ask for them back.

2. Place raspberries in a large bowl and mash well with a spoon or masher.

3. Measure the sugar into a separate bowl, then stir it into the mashed raspberries. Let it sit for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally.

4. In a saucepan, combine the pectin and ¾ cup of water. Bring to a full rolling boil over high heat, stirring constantly, and boil for 1 minute.

5. Remove from heat and immediately stir in the raspberry mixture. Stir continuously for 3 minutes, until the sugar dissolves and the mixture looks glossy.

6. Pour jam into prepared jars, leaving about ½ inch of space at the top and seal with lids.

7. Leave at room temperature for 24 hours.