My family has always been staunchly in the strawberry jam camp. Thick slices of warm, homemade bread are accompanied by a frosty mason jar filled with that crimson goodness.
However, a few years ago, my sister made a foray into the land of raspberry jam and came back with stained fingers and happy taste buds. My Christmas present that year was two pints of raspberry jam, a string of raffia tied jauntily underneath the rim. I ate them sparingly, saving them for especially delicious treats like fresh bread and oatmeal scones. It was a sad day when I finally spied the bottom of the second jar and tried scraping out the last, few globs.
