It’s true. I am a Domestic Goddess.

It is not too often that I can crow about some domestic accomplishment. I don’t cook. I am not a stickler for dust bunnies. I am not militant about folding clothes. But yesterday I learned to do something that I have wanted to try for nearly 12 years. I learned to make jam. Yes ma’am, that’s right. Jam! I picked the apricots, rinsed them, cut them up, stewed them and then plopped the warm goo in jars. Next I am going to design labels and everybody is getting jam for Christmas this year. To say I am beyond pleased with my Inner Martha would be an understatement. I am so excited that I feel like going up to strangers on the street and yelling, “Hey, did you know I can make jam? Duh, I can!” Not too unlike Devon when he gets a new Buzz Lightyear toy.
Now I didn’t get a wild hair up my butt and decide to take on this task, one which my mother has said would leave me with severe burns all over my face and arms. I was at our friend’s house cutting up dead chickens when she learned of my jam inabilities. Horrified by my obvious deficiencies, she took it upon herself to kick me out into her front yard to gather the apricots and then make the jam. She was so patient while I read the directions over and over and asked obviously stupid questions. But then last night? Oh yeah, I made another batch all on my own! I so rock I can hardly deal with myself.

This is one of the chickens we whacked. It was my first butchering experience and I must admit that the smell of warm, fresh chicken innards is not the best.