The Very Sad Story of the Rhubarb Jam

I may have mentioned once or twice that life in Dominica is different than life in the United States.  Yeah, yeah, it's an island, it's surrounded by water, it's hot and steamy, it's a third world country, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.  What it really comes down to is stuff.  Americans have lots of stuff.  And we like being able to buy more stuff.  We also tend to buy stuff that moonlights as food (aka processed food that makes cooking simple-de-dimple).  We are generally very stuff-y, we Americans.  Where life on the island gets tricky is in the lack of stuff.  All things American are, quite understandably, imported.  This cuts down on the variety and availability of stuff, while significantly augmenting the price.  It would make sense for us to live on locally produced food while we are here (or really anywhere, since apparently eating locally is more important than eating organically [except for this article I read that talked about how to feed that trend local farms are going to all kinds of crazy lengths to produce things that are not native to their climate, which requires treatments that negate all the positives of eating locally so you have to eat not just locally, but what should normally grow locally, not oranges grown in Idaho or something crazy like that]).  But we don't always. 

One thing that is an interesting issue is jam.  The local jam can be good; it can also be weird.  Guava and pineapple are definitely more common than grape or strawberry.  However, sometimes grape and strawberry can be found.  They are generally quite expensive, not the brand we would normally buy, and full of sugar and/or (gasp) high fructose corn syrup (absolutely not good for you).  We buy it and eat it anyway. 

Last Saturday brought an important campus event - The Fourth Semester Sale.  This is where students leaving the island sell off all the stuff they brought with them that they aren't taking back to the states.  I love buying food at this sale.  There is always some awesome stuff there that you just can't get anywhere else (like chili seasoning mix [I didn't even know it existed], thanks Sindy!).  One especially good find this time around was a jar of strawberry rhubarb jam made with sugar (not corn syrup), and not too much of it at all.  I was thrilled.  It cost us 8 EC, which is about $3 USD.  I love rhubarb pie, and had to assume the jam would be just as delightful.  I am salivating just thinking about it.

The next day, during breakfast, I got the jam out to look at it lovingly, read its label, and ponder how it should be eaten.  Bean was perched in her little chair (that I LOVE, what a great purchase), grabbing at things, as she is wont to do.  Her reach increases daily, as does her ability and strength.  However, she also spends quite a bit of time just patting anything and everything she can reach, with great gusto.  The idea seems to be, if you can't grab, pat.  Pat may be too soft of a word.  Slap?  Smack?  Bang?  You get the idea.  At times she reaches for things that are not particularly baby-friendly, but that are unfortunately baby-appealing (it's a cruel, cruel world).  The jar of jam was one of those things.  I put it next to her thinking, "Ah, she can enjoy the patting of it and I will keep an eye/hand on it to keep it safe."  Have I mentioned it was a glass jar?  Yeah.  The wildly swinging mitts of Bean were too quick for me.  I swear I actually had my hand on the jar and she somehow knocked it backwards off the counter (yes, I put her little chair on the counter, and yes I swear it's solid).  I reached just as wildly, but too late.  I saw, gratefully (well, hopefully), that it was going to hit the couch that is right behind the counter.  Not only is the couch softer than our tile floor, it was also piled with laundry (who would've ever thought that my laziness could be a blessing?).  If it hit the couch and rested, all would be well and Momma would've learned a lesson painlessly.  But that's not how lessons go, is it?  It did hit the couch.  And it bounced.  And broke open on our tile floor.  It had never even been opened.  I'll be honest, I considered tasting the bit that was on top and I could tell wouldn't have any glass or floor-dirt contamination.  I refrained, but very sadly.  The jam is gone.  Now we are left with nothing.  And I just made bread, too.

Conclusion:    The edge of the cliff really is as dangerous as your seminary teacher told you.