Why jam you ask?
A valid question.
Over the weekend I went to the Vivienne Westwood exhibit at the DeYoung with my friend Belen. After ogling at the profane t-shirts and shredded ballgowns, we stopped at the museum cafe for a glass of wine.
I told her that I was exhausted by the cycle of working late on spreadsheets, drinking $14 cocktails at Financial District bars, and collapsing into bed, only to wake the next day and do it again. One day I had a tough time figuring out an Excel formula, and when I finally nailed it I said, "Take that, bitch!" To the spreadsheet. Out loud.
So I needed something else, I told her.
"And that sometheeng...eees jam?" she asked. Spanish accents make pointed questions more charming, somehow.
Yeah, I guess, so that something is jam. I'm making jam in my little studio apartment in the Mission district of San Francisco. On Saturday morning I buy the fruit at the Alemany farmer's market, prepare it on Saturday afternoon, and bottle it on Sunday. At least that's the plan.