Our theme for the month of June is “snapshots.” Writers were asked to submit a piece with a cover photo that they took or created.
My senior year of college, I kept myself alive almost exclusively on sweet potato fries and mac ‘n’ cheese purchased from Aldi. I had no money, a debilitating fear of uncooked chicken, and zero aspirations as a housewife. I chafed against the mere suggestion of housewifery. I was terrified of marriage with unshaved legs and no culinary skills. And at the time, I was invigorated with the prospect.
Somewhere along the way, I had fully indoctrinated myself into the feminist mindset. At this point in my life, I had steeped myself in traditional feminist literature, wrote a research paper on the gender pay gap, and friendzoned a fellow nineteen-year-old because he didn’t like feminists. I actually got into a fight with the entirety of my DCM class about the fact that the main woman in Henrik Ibsen’s A Doll’s House was an oppressed woman, not a neglectful housewife.
And yet here I find myself in 2023 in New Jersey, with this marvelous spread before me: a vintage tupperware full of sugar, a full set of canning supplies, a freshly juiced grapefruit, and a bowl of finely sliced clementines. Somewhere along the way, I have become a jam-making fiend. Every spare moment I am researching and experimenting with homemade jam recipes. How could I have let this happen?
There’s a particular brand of nostalgia that surfaces when you leave the culture you grew up in. Perhaps it’s the fact that you no longer grate against the expectations of your home: no one is forcing you to bake cookies with your church group. Perhaps it is the maize-tinted glasses you can now look back upon Iowa with: entranced by that sod farmstead you toured four times in elementary school. Perhaps it is a newfound respect for Midwest culture, akin to the feeling of a college freshman who finally appreciates their mom’s cooking.
This doesn’t mean that I am hankering to move back to Michigan: as a matter of fact I love biking through Central Park after school and rummaging through itty bitty bookstores in every corner of the city. It means something more along the lines of reclaiming a few aspects of my Midwest culture that actually fill my heart with joy. And one of these involves the quest for jam.
There’s something about sifting through my book of jam recipes in search of the perfect new twist to try. Nothing quite like watching apple puree thicken beneath my wooden spoon. I actually dream of the day I can get my hands on some quince so that I can try my hand at the infamous quince jam. Quinces permeate my quiet unfilled moments, and six months ago I was ignorant to its very existence.
These things do not have to be mutually exclusive. I can work to weave feminist voices into my lesson plans while stirring a pot full of softening raspberries. I can rail against the gender pay gap while spending my salary on handmade jam spoons and new jars. I can have the urge to scream across the East River when women share with me about the daily harassment they experience while scrolling through Google trying to locate a quince.
I don’t want to be confined to a life of housewifery. But I do want to confine sunshine into a jar of clementine marmalade.
Susannah currently lives in New Jersey and works as a 7th grade ELA teacher in East Harlem. When she is not teaching or writing, she can be found exploring independent bookstores, going backpacking, and trying to roller-skate on all the cool trails in the city. She is also recently experienced in the art of citrus skunk repellent (I know you’re impressed).
