Jam Wars

Mmmmm. 

Sweet, tasty stickiness.

It categorizes you.

Marks your place in the family.

Even decides if you will be granted admission to the family.

It provides delicious accompaniment to your breakfast, and, at times, other meals during the day. (Members of my family eat it the Swedish way, with grilled cheese. Ick!)

It is yummy, and, if not eaten in copious (Ooo, good word!) quantities, is even very good for you.

I'm talking about jam.

Tasty, sticky, always lands toast-side-up. Jam.

More particularly, strawberry vs. raspberry.

It is the family 'Maginot Line'.

You can be on one side or the other.

Both of which are tasty.

Or so I'm made to understand.

But wander over to the other side in times of dire necessity, like when your server has run out of packets.

My Husby and I realized very early in our marriage that we needed to have a jar of each on the breakfast table.

His - strawberry. Mine - delicious.

Oops.

I mean - raspberry.

And, as our kids grew, they learned to take sides.

Mine.

Except for our second son, who is Switzerland.

And prefers apple jelly.

We don't talk about him.

Moving on . . .

Once the lines were duly drawn in the family nucleus, it was time to start challenging prospective additions [i.e. fiancé(e)s] to declare their preference.

I should point out here that it is a grueling test.

The nervous neophyte is seated at the breakfast table. The two jars are brought forward. The family waits, breathlessly.

And I do mean breathlessly.

If anyone takes their time making a choice, family members have been know to pass out cold.

I won't tell you what we do to them while unconscious.

Teeheehee.

But I digress . . .

The prospective member of the family makes a choice.

And my side cheers.

It's true.

Every single one has chosen raspberry.

Until our last son-in-law.

Who chose . . . poorly.

I maintain that he was coached.

Money might even have changed hands.

So the score now stands at : strawberry - two, raspberry - 10.

And one son who will not be mentioned.

Now for the next generation.

Our eldest granddaughter is eight.

Time to make a choice . . .