My favorite part of summer is making jam. I know it sounds crazy, sweating over a hot stove in ninety-plus degree weather, but there's no pleasure like picking, mashing, dicing with a steady stream of woman-talking and finally counting up gleaming jars of jam at day's end.

My jammin' buddy is an ex-neighbor whom I rarely see during the school year when kid and school activities drag us in different directions. But when strawberries begin to ripen so do our plans. We remember the sweetest berries, the best jam tastes and textures, when fruits ripen, and how far we drove to secure our fruit.

Locales change from year to year. When we first began berrying we trekked to Mr. Brook's fields in Efland. I always called it, Elfland, which somehow evoked the magic of our berry journeys. Mr. Brooks once taught berry making at NC State and his farm had it all. A small sunlit lake was bordered by perfectly trellised raspberries vines on one side and bushes tall and fat with almost thumb-sized blueberries on the other. Some days were filled with quite talks murmured with my friend across the row of berries as we picked. Other days our children accompanied us and ate, played, and picked. A couple mornings I scooted out alone before sun scorch when the dew still sparkled on raspberries that looked more like rubies than fruit. I relaxed into a meditative steady picking, occasionally pleasantly interrupted by women picking together, chatting about their big and small matters of life.

There came a tragic day when we learned the property had been bought. It took forever to find a new phone number and when we visited we were devastated by the sight that met our eyes. Mr. Brooks' neat rows were choked with weeds and the berries looked shriveled and sad. On our last visit, the new owner mentioned that she was thinking of selling the property to developers.

We searched further, even calling the state department to receive a list of berry growers from all over the state. These took us as far as Wendell where we discovered the farm of John Earp, who also once taught berry-making at State. We picked countless raspberries, enthusiastic about having refound the glorious red berries, never having price-checked we just about fell down when our pounds were weighed. To add to the drama, the precious cargo bled juices all over the back of my car. But like many events, this made our personal jamming history.

Berries come in interesting ways. This year we found a family run strawberry business near Chapel Hill because a friend told us of a roadside sign. We discovered our favorite blackberry place by begging to pick from a farmer who sold wares at the Carrboro Farmer's Market. He's become a friend and appreciates the jam we bring him to celebrate.

Most people know of our summer addiction. In certain circles we've become famous for our jam. Teachers look forward to our presents and many a Christmas Tree has been graced with our berry jars. My friend has the taste buds and can differentiate between good and bad batches and is mostly responsible for quality control. She pours jam into jars because I'm sloppy. I measure sugar and pectin to prepare her.

We have rituals. We alternate houses depending on which is closest to the fruit. Each year we travel to Raleigh's Farmer's Market to haggle over peach prices while our children disappear into the candy stalls. I always try to end peach day with a couple of yummy crisps and my berry partner can whip up the most incredible fruit smoothies I've ever had. We love it when our children help, though getting peach juice off the floor can take months when the children set their chopping knives aflying.

Each year seems to bring new rituals. This year, tired of trying to remember details we began a Jam Journal, noting prices, pounds, difficulties, and discoveries.

One peach jammin' session invited we another woman to work with us. She brought a host of new stories about family and life and sacrificed two "jam slaves", her daughter and a friend. We chopped, laughed, tasted, and chatted for almost a whole day that passed quickly and joyously. It turned out that her family wasn't even a huge peach jam fan, she just wanted in on the fun.

This summer I taught jam and goodies making to children. The director of the camp took a chance and she and I wondered together if anyone would sign up. Ten did and adored it! They loved the messiness of chopping and smushing, egg-cracking, stirring, folding...and especially tasting. Our baking was its own advertisement. We had children lined up outside our door, sniffing and salivating, and begging to take the class next year. My only regret was I'd timed it so that fruit was fading and I did much of the gathering and had only fruit enough for our projects.

So best of all, I loved it when one generous parent offered his blueberry grove for our picking pleasure. It was an orchard he'd planted ten years ago, pre-children, when there was more time and energy. We walked on carefully cut paths, through woods thin enough to allow in lots of light, and were ushered through to a glorious haven filled with peach, pear and apple trees, and ten huge blueberry bushes. The temperature was perfect and mid-picking when the humidity gained on us, a lovely summer sprinkle cooled us. Later that day, we made jars of jam, blue berry buckle, lemon-blueberry pound cake, and a fresh fruit pizza from a recipe a friend had given me. But the best was watching the children dipping their fingers into our fruit with abandon, the huge basket of shimmering purple-blue jewels they had picked themselves.