While making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I was overcome by sudden and deep sadness. Sounds weird, I admit, but it’s true. And the reason was the jelly. I remember when I was growing up I would get homemade beach plum jelly. My immediate family usually had a jar, and if we didn’t, my grandfather did. It was a great addition to the peanut butter, and I ate it all the time.
Well, this year for Christmas, my uncle gave everyone in my family a jar of the 2013 jelly. Yes, much like the wine I consume, it had a year on the label. I don’t know if he realizes how much I enjoy that jelly. On my next trip to Shop Rite I bought bread and Skippy peanut butter for the sole purpose of making a sandwich for work today.
Now, why would this make me sad? Well, the only two people I know that actually made the jelly were my Grandfather and his brother. My grandfather died of cancer a few years ago, but his older brother, my uncle Ferd, is still alive and kicking. But the man is over 90 years old. I don’t know how much kick he has left in him. And once he does pass away, I may never have beach plum jelly again. And, that makes me sad. It may also make me a little selfish, but it is some damn good jelly. I really do not know if anyone else in the family has the recipe, but I know that no one else has recently picked beach plums by hand.
I will have other fond memories of my uncle, and I have plenty of fond memories of my grandfather. But thinking that this may be the last year I get my hands on this jelly is a little depressing. And I really can’t save it. I don’t think jelly ages as well as wine.