Caleb Zigas of La Cocina, Ruth Reichl, and Alice Waters, at the Good Food Awards.

Ruth Reichl was standing in front of a gigantic American flag hanging like a banner along the wall of the Ferry Building on Friday, January 13th. It was a backdrop worthy of any Presidential hopeful stumping for votes in the heartland, but here, the stars and stripes were evoking not just Mom and apple pie but Mom's apple pie, and maybe great-granddaddy's moonshine, and now their kids' apple-whiskey chutney and curried cauliflower pickles. It was time to welcome the room of makers and media, gathered in San Francisco for the 2nd annual Good Food Awards, a celebration of the best of artisanal food production from coast to coast.

"Most of you are too young to have grown up in the white-bread world that I did," said Reichl. Every cheese was sliced and wrapped in plastic, all strawberries were huge and tasted like cotton. This changed, slowly, through the work of pioneers like Alice Waters, sitting off to one side of the podium, as well as dozens of other food pioneers. Reichl remembered the first time she walked into The Cheeseboard, in Berkeley and was handed a taste of Laura Chenel's Sonoma-made fresh goat cheese. Reichl lived on it all that summer, and knew that she had to meet the woman making something so new (to American tastes) and so delicious. Then there was "Artists of the Earth," an article she wrote for California magazine in the early 1980s, profiling nine men and women making a difference in the food world and beyond. "They are some of California's most valuable resources," she wrote then, "...perfectionists who work very hard not because they expect to get rich but simply because they expect to get the best."

Walking through Chino Ranch with Alice a few years later, she was amazed at the quality of produce surrounding them. Corn so sweet it needed no cooking. Strawberries so intensely fragrant that every fellow traveler on the small plane she and Alice were taking from San Diego to Oakland came up and begged for a berry off the flats they were carrying in their laps. "Every person said, 'I forgot strawberries could smell like that! Please, can I just have one?'" she recounted. "And I watched Alice give away that night's dessert for Chez Panisse, because how could she say no?"

"Back then, I never could have dreamed how huge the change was going to be. We now live in a country that has the best produce in the world...We are reclaiming our edible heritage. "Thank you for giving us the America we once dreamed we could have."

After this came the awards, 99 products in eight categories (coffee, chocolate, charcuterie, pickles, preserves, cheese, beer, spirits). There were no single winners; instead, each category had a fat handful of top picks, from seven coffee roasters to 14 preserve-makers. The winners, like food-world Olympians, got medallions stamped in the shape of the tools of their trade--a cleaver, a canning jar--strung on wide red-white-and-blue ribbons to hang around their necks.

It was hard not to feel a little hometown, homestate pride at the fine showing the Bay Area, and California, made in the final running. Two local beers made the cut, at opposite ends of the brewing spectrum: from San Leandro, Drake's Brewing Company's high-alcohol, rich-as-devil's-food Drakonic Imperial Stout, and from Petaluma, the Lagunitas Brewing Company's spritzy, grapefruity ale, dubbed A Lil' Sumpin' Sumpin'. In the coffee category, Equator Coffees from San Rafael won for its fair trade/organic Ethiopian Watadera beans.

In pickles, California snagged three of the 11 winning picks, including Farmhouse Culture's Smoked Jalapeno Sauerkraut, Emmy's Pickles and Jams' Turmeric Cauliflower, and the Devil Sauce made by Let's Be Frank, of grass-fed hot-dog truck fame. (And we'll give a California hug to OlyKraut, which was founded by Sash Sunday, a former San Franciscan who got into the kraut biz shortly after relocating to Olympia, WA. Plus, she makes nettle kraut!)

OlyKraut, from left: Sash Sunday, Alexia Crousnillon, Nate Massé (not pictured: Summer Bock)

We tied with New York in the cutthroat preserves category, winning for Artisan Preserves' Orange Honey Marmalade, Chez Pim's Blueberry-Golden Raspberry Preserves, and Wine Forest Wild Foods' Wild Elderberry Shrub.

Wylie Whiskey, from left: Matt Jones, Garrett Hale, Sarah Swearington.

It's a cascade of riches from our part of the Golden State: Costa Rican chocolate bars from Dandelion Chocolate in SF; white whiskey from Wylie Howell Spirits in Petaluma; Carmody (my favorite!) and whole-milk ricotta from Bellwether Farms in West Marin; yogurt cheese from Sonoma's St. Benoit, pork, rabbit, and duck terrine from Fatted Calf in SF and Napa; speck from Oakland wine bar/salumeria Adesso.

Dandelion Chocolate: Alice Nystrom, Todd Masonis

Come the next morning, many of the previous night's winners were out in force at the Good Food Awards Marketplace, a tasting/selling spread of tables organized by category set up under the archways of the Ferry Building. Reichl, who now runs the specialty food (and content) site Gilt Taste, was on hand with a keen appetite, even after a late-night dinner with Alice and friends at Locanda in the Mission. Already, she's tried the chilaquiles and shrimp ceviche at the Primavera market stand, and tells me, joyfully, of the "best breakfast sandwich" she's ever had, from 4505 Meats: a soft, buttery brioche bun piled with a maple-bacon sausage patty, an oozy-centered fried egg, and a frizz of snappy peppercress. Speaking of her talk the previous night, she laughed at the thought of trying to profile just eight makers now. "At the time, it was hard to find even eight people, enough to write about. I had to include a produce distributor, a guy who was raising pigs and lambs for Chez Panisse. Now, that would be ridiculous. You'd have to write an encyclopedia!"

If anything, she thinks we're underestimating the strength and staying power of the artisan movement. Already, the food makers' landscape has changed drastically in just the past five years. In the next five, ten years, what will it look like?

Kathryn Lukas of Farmhouse Culture

There's no doubt, though, that the movement is fostering ever-closer relationships between chefs, makers and farmers. These products, from basil vodka to sea-vegetable kraut, are only as good as their raw ingredients. Recounting a cabbage blight that decimated the California crop last year, Farmhouse Culture founder Kathryn Lukas quoted Let's Be Frank's Larry Bain, laughing, "It's hard when you're in business with God."

When the mission of a restaurant is to feed and nourish, starting with the staff just makes good sense. In The Family Meal, author and El Bulli chef Ferran Adrià describes how they actually call their staff meal “family meal: “we believe that if we eat well, we cook well,” he said. And as simple as that may sound, it’s really at the heart of it all.

It could look something like this: proper wine glasses, real silverware and white napkins. But it could also look like sandwiches and skillet cake. Staff meals, a common ritual and routine at restaurants around the country, vary dramatically. Not all small businesses can afford to serve their staff the same food that diners eat that evening, and yet, they want to feed them well. In this time of giving, how do small food businesses create meaning in an affordable shared meal that’s often prepared in the midst of kitchen chaos?

On one end of the spectrum are staff meals at Alice Waters’s Chez Panisse. Things are different here. Holly Peterson, a café cook at the restaurant, says it didn’t take long for her to figure that out. She’s been at the restaurant for a little over two years, much of which was spent at the garde manger station where she planned, cooked, and enjoyed hundreds of staff meals. At 8 p.m., the cooks from the downstairs restaurant all sit down together and taste each other’s food with a glass of wine that compliments the meal.

Down the road a bit in West Berkeley sits Dafna Kory’s bustling INNA Jam kitchen. Like many small business owners in the beginning, Kory began working solo in the kitchen. There were busy days filled with long hours. But when she started hiring, Kory no longer felt right about subsiding solely on energy bars. “Having real meals didn’t start until I had real people working for me,” she said. “There’s a paradox that I don’t accept of being hungry and working in a kitchen. I wasn’t going to see that happen.” INNA Jam is different in that they make a condiment, so there isn’t extra produce or leftover meats, fish, or pasta in the walk-in. In this way, Kory has to actively plan for each meal. This planning has taken on many iterations in the last year, and it’s constantly evolving based on the seasons, the production schedule, and the extent to which she can find family and loved ones to contribute.

Across the bridge in San Francisco, Anna Derivi-Castellanos of Three Babes Bakeshop can relate to this kind of planning. They too are unique in that they’re producing a single product: pie. And they work long night shifts, so it’s important to have some savory options in the kitchen to keep everyone’s energy and blood sugar up. Derivi-Castellanos laments, “I wish that I had more time to plan our staff meal, but usually I try to keep it simple, and loop it in with part of our production. If we're making something that day that could be considered dinner, (a savory or pot pie, for example) then I'll make more of it.”

But it doesn’t always work out seamlessly. Derivi-Castellanos will often find herself making a special trip to her local co-op to pick up ingredients for the nightly meal. She’ll often end up grabbing some pre-made salads and raw ingredients—making a concerted effort to keep the meal simple but interesting. And affordable. Most of all, “it's important to me to cater to who's on our staff that evening," she says.

The key is really to find “a balance between the time you have and the quality of food that’s important to you and the variation you’re going to need," Kory says. When boyfriend Jesse Clark—who often prepares the meals—needs to focus more on his work, a member of the INNA kitchen will step up to maintain the sandwich station they’ve been doing or chip in with other seasonal ideas. The ultimate goal: “standard home-cooked high quality square meals.”

“Staff meals have taught me how eating well during the work day really makes a huge difference -- for our energy, moral, and good mood all around. Also, feeding the staff is a chance for me to show my respect and appreciation for all their hard work and dedication," Kory says. So while Chez Panisse, Three Babes Bakeshop and INNA Jam all approach their meals differently, they’re all making a conscious important decision. They’re making a statement about the kind of business they want to run and the small things they can do throughout the day not just to feed their staff, but also to nourish. Gracefully.

Inna Jam Skillet Cake. Photo: Dafna Kory

Jesse's INNA Jam Kitchen Skillet Cake
This skillet cake is made year-round in the INNA kitchen, rotating whatever fruit is in season at the time, from stone fruit to figs to plums to apples to berries. Buttermilk isn’t often on hand in the kitchen and yogurt works just as well—use whatever you have. The cake is simple to put together and showcases the best of the harvest. And, it’s nice to snack on throughout the day, too. Not just during staff meal.

Adapted from: Epicurious.com

Prep Time: 20 minutes
Cook Time: 40 minutes
Total Time: 1 hour

Serves: 8

Ingredients:
For topping
1/2 stick butter
3/4 cup packed light brown sugar
1 pound or so of fresh, seasonal fruit- enough to cover the pan.
(Apricots, plums, figs are halved, apples are sliced, berries used whole)
Raw sliced almonds, optional

For cake
1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 stick butter, softened
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
2 large eggs
3/4 cup buttermilk or yogurt

Directions:
1. Preheat oven to 375°F. Arrange the racks so that one is in the middle of the oven (for the cake) and another rack is below it. On the lower rack place a baking sheet to catch any drips from the cake.

2. Melt the butter in 10-inch cast iron skillet over medium heat. Sprinkle brown sugar evenly over the butter, then turn off the heat (you don't want all your sugar to be melted). Arrange as much fruit as you can fit, cut sides down, close together on top of the brown sugar. Sprinkle sliced almonds, if using.

3. Mix flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a small bowl (if you're a sifter, you can sift this. Using a fork works just fine).

4. Beat together the butter, sugar, and vanilla in a large bowl with an electric mixer at medium speed until pale and fluffy, 2-3 minutes. Beat in the eggs until mixture is creamy and doubled in volume, 2-3 more minutes. Reduce speed to low and add the flour mixture in 3 batches alternately with the yogurt, beginning and ending with flour mixture, and beat just until combined.

5. Pour the batter over the fruit and spread as evenly as you can. It might not look perfectly distributed right away, but don't worry -- it'll sort itself out in the oven. In any case, it's going to be the bottom of the cake. Bake the cake in the middle of oven until it's top is dark golden brown and a wooden toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean, about 40 minutes. It's hard to overcook this cake because of all the fruit juice that will bubble up- it's really the golden color on top that will help you judge when it's ready.

6. Let the cake cool in the pan for a bit to reduce the chance of molten juice/sugar running down the pan when you flip it. Place a large plate if you have one (I use a cutting board) over the skillet, using oven mitts firmly pressed the plate and skillet together, and flip the cake onto plate. Lift the skillet off the cake (knocking on it with a wooden spoon helps to release it). If any fruit stuck to bottom of the skillet just scrape it off and place it back on the cake. Cool to warm or room temperature. It's good right away, but even better the next day.

Being an enthusiastic jam maker means never arriving empty-handed. It also means heavy luggage that has to be checked, especially if you're being hosted by several different kind folks over the span of a week or so, as I was during an East Coast holiday jaunt last month.

But it's worth schlepping a dozen glass jars among the socks and sweaters, if you can send an old friend into eye-rolling, toe-scrunching ecstasy with one spoonful of last winter's Seville Orange Marmalade. Here, on an icy, slushy Manhattan morning, was the concentrated sunshine of a California summer, brought to full ripeness by the cold, simmered down into an aromatic, bronze-y gold essence.

Of course, it helped that this friend once owned a ruined castle in a glen and is mad for all things Scottish. Not everyone loves marmalade; like chutney, it has its diehard fans, who have strong opinions on whether the citrus peel within should be in meltingly fine shreds or rambunctious fall-off-the-toast strips, or if the marmalade itself should be cheery and sunny or bitingly bittersweet. I can give a jar of strawberry jam to anyone; with marmalade, I ask first, because there are many people out there who would rather put anything, even the cheap grape jelly found in those little foil tubs at the diner, onto their toast instead.

In my experience, though, people with an affinity for Scottish things, even just plaid and a tot of Ardbeg, are more likely than not to appreciate a good marmalade. According to "Maximum Marmalade," a well-researched and entertaining chapter in John Thorne's most recent book, Mouth Wide Open: A Cook and His Appetite, marmalade found its way onto the Scottish breakfast table at about the same time as the morning's masculine "wee dram" of chill-chasing whisky was being replaced by the gentler, more feminine pot of tea. What could, in its brawn and bite, slap a man's tastebuds awake and give him the strength to face the damp, the fog, and the accents of Glasgow? Why, marmalade, sharp and complex, tart and snappy with just the cheekiest edge of sweetness. (And if you want to celebrate Burns Night, coming up on January 25th, why not start the day properly with porridge, oatcakes, and marmalade?)

But what is marmalade, anyway, and how is it different from jelly or jam? First off, it's made from citrus, traditionally oranges but potentially any kind or combination of citrus fruit, from Rangpur limes to grapefruits. Unlike jelly, made from juice only, or jam, made from crushed fruit (or fruits) with all their juice, marmalade is made from the juice, pulp, and peel of citrus fruits, cooked with sugar and (usually) water. The peel may not always be visible in the finished product (it can be strained out for clarity after cooking), but the fragrant oils in the peel are what gives marmalade its unique flavor. Without peel, you'd just have orange jelly.

As noted earlier, you can make marmalade with just about any citrus fruit. But true-blue British marmalade lovers know that the most classic marmalade is made from just one fruit: the Seville orange, a knobbly, seedy, green-patched fruit cultivated not for its scant and sour juice but for its ravishingly aromatic peel. These Spanish-born oranges, which make a marmalade of rich complexity, were for a long time the only oranges used for marmalade in Britain. (For a deep and fascinating dive into the centuries-old history of British preserving, C. Anne Wilson's The Book of Marmalade is a must-read.) I've made numerous marmalades over the years, and nothing compares in depth and intrigue to one made with Sevilles.

Local jam makers like June Taylor do make wonderful marmalades, but alas, the high price of those itty-bitty jars can be prohibitive to a daily toast habit. Anyway, aren't we all making our own now? Making homemade marmalade can be a sticky business, but one cold afternoon's worth of effort can produce months of happy mornings. And if you have any oranges left over, you can make duck à l'orange, or the tangy, garlicky Cuban marinade known as mojo.

Seville oranges, lemons, sugar, and equipment (from left: jar lid, jars, wide-mouth funnel, muslin bag, jar lifter tongs)

Now is the time to find Seville oranges: they have only a brief winter season, and are grown on only the smallest commercial scale even in California. The only grower I've found with a steady supply of Sevilles in season is the DeSantis Farm from the Central Valley. They sell these and many other beautiful specialty varieties at the Alemany Farmers' Market on Saturdays, the Marin Civic Center market on Thursdays and Sundays, and the Heart of the City Farmers' Market on Wednesdays.

A warning: don't buy anything unless it's clearly marked and sold as a Seville orange. Unless they work for an orchard specializing in odd varieties of citrus, like Buddha's Hand or bergamot, few farmers' market sellers will have any idea what a Seville orange is. Just asking for Sevilles, or for good marmalade oranges, isn't enough; sellers are in the business of selling, and the easiest way to deal with a customer's weird request is simply to sell her whatever's already on the table, be it a navel or a satsuma. Currently, both Berkeley Bowl and Bi-Rite Market have Seville oranges for sale, for $1.69/lb and $3.99/lb, respectively.

If you make jam on any kind of a regular basis, you should already have the basic gear: a scale, a wide-mouth funnel, a jar lifter, a bunch of canning jars, and a wide, heavy pot for cooking. If not, make the small investment and go to the hardware store and at least get the scale and the jar lifter. Trying to wrestle slippery hot jars in and out of a potful of boiling water with a pair of tongs is a crazy-making endeavor, trust me. And to measure fruit and sugar accurately, you really do need a small, preferably digital kitchen scale, available at any well-stocked kitchen-supply or hardware store.

Something else to know about marmalade: sometimes, you do everything right, and it doesn't seem to gel up. Don't despair, and don't cook it to death trying to get it to thicken. Once you've added the sugar, cooking it longer (say, more than an hour) won't always give you better results. Overly long cooking can break down the pectin and/or caramelize the sugar, giving a heavier, darker taste that's not so bright and citrusy.

If everything else about it seems right, jar it up and put it away for a week or two. I've had this happen to me--imagining that I'll have to re-open the jars and try boiling down the whole mess a second time--only to find that, left to its own devices for a while, the marmalade has gelled up perfectly all by itself. It happens. So, don't despair right away.

Seville Orange Marmalade
Particularly heavenly with hot tea and toast made from last year's recipe for Easy Multi-Grain Bread.

Makes: 8 half-pint jars

Ingredients:
3 lbs Seville oranges, approximately 8-10 oranges
2 lemons
2 quarts plus 1 cup water
3 lbs granulated sugar, preferably the pale-blond, organic kind

Special Equipment:
• small muslin jelly bag or 8"x8" doubled square of cheesecloth
• wide-mouth funnel
• jar-lifting tongs
• 8 half-pint canning jars or 4 pint canning jars, with metal rings and flat lids
• a wide, heavy, non-reactive pot, such as copper, stainless steel, or enameled cast iron
• a tall, deep pot
• candy thermometer (optional)
• a few saucers, in the freezer

Preparation:

1. Wash oranges and lemons well. Halve fruit and squeeze juice into a bowl. Pour the juice through a strainer, and drop the seeds into a separate bowl.

2. Using your fingers, and possibly a serrated-edged grapefruit spoon if necessary, pull out the remaining pulp, seeds, and membrane from inside the fruit halves. Using the spoon, scrape out as much white pith from the inside of the fruit halves as you can. Put the pulp, seeds, membrane and pith into the bowl of seeds.

3. Cut the now-scraped halves into quarters. If you have a food processor, shred the quarters using the slicing disk. Otherwise, use a mandoline or a very sharp knife to slice the peel into fine strips.

4. Scoop the pulp, pith, and seeds into a muslin bag or a square of cheesecloth. Tie the bag shut, or knot the pointed ends of the cheesecloth square together firmly.

5. Pour the juice, water, and shredded peel into a large, heavy pot. Add the bag of pulp. Bring to a simmer over medium-low heat. Cover and let simmer gently for about an hour, until peel is very tender.

6. Remove pot from heat. Lift out bag, put it in a bowl and let cool for 15 or 20 minutes, until it can be comfortably handled.

7. While bag is cooling, add sugar to pot, stirring until dissolved and mixture is clear.

8. When bag is cool enough to handle, hold bag over the pot and squeeze firmly to get all the liquid out. Yes, it will feel slimy; this is a good thing. That slimy-feeling stuff is the natural pectin present in the seeds and membranes, and it's what will make your marmalade gel.

9. Bring pot to a fierce boil, stirring frequently to make sure it doesn't burn or stick. It should reach the setting point in about 20-30 minutes. Visually, it should look dark amber in color, with a maple-syrupy consistency. The peels should look thinned down and translucent.

To check the set:
• Use a candy thermometer. The setting point should be reached around 220 degrees F. Or,
• Remove pot from heat. Take a saucer out of the freezer and drop a spoonful onto the saucer. Return it to the freezer for a minute or two. Push the spoonful of marmalade with your finger. If it feels like warm honey and sets in one place rather than running all over the saucer, it's done. If not, return pot to heat and cook, stirring, for a few more minutes, then test again. Don't expect it to be as thick as store-bought marmalade at this point; it won't fully gel up until cold.

10. Let the marmalade sit for 30 minutes, in order to keep all the peel from floating up to the top of the jars. Meanwhile, fill a large, deep pot with hot water. Sink jars into the water--they should be covered by at least an inch. Bring to a boil and simmer for 10 minutes to sterilize jars.

11. Lift jars out of the pot. Using a ladle and a wide-mouthed funnel, fill jars to within 1/4" inch of the rim. Wipe rim with a wet paper towel or clean dish towel dipped in hot water. Top with flat lid. Screw on ring finger-tight.

12. Replace jars in pot of hot water. Bring pot to a boil and simmer for 8 minutes. Cover a tray or nearby counter with a clean, dry dishtowel. Lift jars out of hot water and let cool completely on towel. Don't disturb the jars while they're cooling. As they cool, you should hear a sharp popping noise from each jar as it seals.

13. When jars are completely cool, check lids for seal by pressing in the middle of lid. Lid should not move. If lid pops up and down, it didn't seal. Store any unsealed jars in the refrigerator and eat within a month.

14. Loosen rings and wipe off any accumulated moisture. Replace rings, if desired, and store sealed jars in a cool, dry, dark place. Once opened, store in the refrigerator and eat within a month.

Steph Squared Cafe: Stephanie Rosenbaum and her wares at the InDIYpendent Culture Faire. Photo by Stephane von Stephane

Total strangers--pleasant people all, I'm sure, but still, to me completely unknown--are waking up this morning and starting their day with jam from my kitchen. Lemon Lady Marmalade on their scones, perhaps, or Citrus Commotion on their whole-wheat toast, perhaps a little Strawberry Beautiful stirred into their goat-milk yogurt.

Before, you had to know me pretty well to score a jar of jam. I made my jams and jellies in very small batches, often from backyard or foraged fruit (blackberries from China Beach were a particular favorite), and bestowed them on holidays and birthdays to family and a few select pals. I wasn't above snooping through the recipients' cabinets a few months later; if the jam was still there, dusty and unopened, they were off the list. There were too many other people (mostly my blood relations, but still) who inhaled the stuff and promptly returned the empty jars, nudging for a refill.

But what Moliere said about writing is just as true for jamming: First you do it for love, then for a few close friends, and then for money. After the second Underground Farmers' Market, I had to send a rather abashed note to my circuit of jam fans. "Remember that jam I gave you for Christmas? I hope you liked it, because there isn't any more. I sold all the rest to strangers. For money."

This week's foray into jam-commerce was a fun and funky one, the first-ever InDIYpendent Culture Faire up in Napa. Organized as a benefit for local arts organization Wandering Rose, the Faire is a two-day event continuing today from noon to sundown. On a small-town scale, it's part Burning Man, part Maker's Faire, part all-ages, hands-on, anything-goes art class.

Just look for the spray-painted signs and the skate park set up on one side of the parking lot, next to a taco truck (a real one, not a hipster-ironic one) doing a brisk business in tortas and carne asada burritos.

Along the walls of the old furniture warehouse there were murals being painted, a bike-repair workshop in progress, a local community garden demonstrating easy backyard composting with buckets of leaves and lawn clippings, a guy drawing an elaborately detailed eight-foot-tall Egyptian mummy in colored chalk, and loads of spray-paint, chalk, and markers to share. A girl in a top hat, looking like Emily the Strange, dreamily marked a pentagram in blue chalk by the entrance. Another pair of girls chalk-traced the outlines of their sneakers, writing "Have Fun!" with an arrow pointing inside, and "No Fun" with an arrow pointing away.

Inside, a dozen tables were loaded with art supplies from feathers and tissue paper to paints, markers, crayons, and ink stamps. A woman sat on the floor in one corner, gluing scraps of cardboard and colored paper onto a panel labeled "Garbage Art". Jewelry makers displayed their necklaces draped over old baby dolls and mannequin torsos. There were zines--zines!--and poetry chapbooks, and kids lying on the floor with their arms sleeved in sock puppets. Upstairs, in a warren of small rooms, was a more formal gallery show of paintings photographs, and video art. Of course, there were bands, and teens Dumpster-diving every aesthetic: 80s punk, 90's grunge, guys with Jesus-in-Godspell hair and superhero tights.

And among all this art was the Steph Squared Cafe, offering homemade jams, cool gypsy art furniture painted by Stephane von Stephane, and copies of my honey and astrology cookbooks. And yes, the jam did sell, and I hope everyone that bought some is a little happier this morning because of it.

But the real sleeper hit of the fair was our last-minute brainwave: bowls of whipped cream and organic strawberries, dished up for $3 a pop.

Who wouldn't like strawberries and cream? For such a punk event, there were a whole lot of regular moms and kids, and we were the only dessert in town, and an organic one one at that. The inspiration was a simple one: a kitchen full of too many berries, no room in the fridge and not enough time to turn them all into jam. Enter a half-gallon of cream, a handy whipped-cream dispenser, and sticky-sweet happiness for a whole lot of kids and their parents.

While it's hard to improve on the simple perfection of strawberries and cream (the folks at Wimbleton do know their stuff), adding a biscuit and turning the affair into strawberry shortcake is the way to do it. Now, first off: to me, a true strawberry shortcake is based on a biscuit, gentle and flaky and just barely sweetened. You may think that strawberry shortcake is rightly made with those puffy yellow spongecakes sold six to a package in the supermarket, but you'd be wrong. The biscuit's buttery sturdiness of the biscuit against the intense sweet-tartness of the berries, all under a sliding avalanche of real cream just barely whipped: that is what beckons in summer with a true flourish.

For Memorial Day, coming a couple of weeks, or the 4th of July, you can add a sprinkle of blueberries for the patriotic red-white-and-blue effect. Biscuit cutters shaped like stars or hearts can give the whole presentation a little whimsy with no more effort than cutting simple circles or triangles. As for the exact layering of the berries and cream, it's up to you. Berries first (to soak the fluffy split biscuit innards with juice), a dollop of cream, then the biscuit top precariously balanced and topped with more cream and berries would be my modus operandi, but really, there's no way of not to get it right.

Do go to the farmers' market for your berries, and taste around to find your favorite variety and grower. Right now, I'm in love with the organic Albion berries from Yerena Farms, a family operation that sells at the Ferry Plaza, Civic Center, and Alemany markets in San Francisco. But I wouldn't kick the flavorful organic Chandler and Seascape berries from Tomatero Farms out of bed either. You can find them at Oakland's Grand Lake, Marin's Civic Center, and San Francisco's Alemany Markets, among others.

Look for berries that are red from stalk to tip (white shoulders and white tips are sure signs of underripeness). And take a deep whiff before you buy: strawberries that smell good, taste good.

Strawberry Shortcake
Assemble just before serving, so the biscuits don't get soggy. You can also pass the biscuits, cream, and berries separately and let each person divine their own perfect proportions of biscuit to cream to berries. If desired, you can play around with flavoring for the biscuits. Orange rind? Cardamom? Whatever you like.

Serves 6 to 8

Ingredients
For the biscuits:
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 cup cornmeal
2 1/2 tsp baking powder
1/4 cup sugar
1/4 tsp salt
6 tablespoons butter, very cold, cut into cubes
1 egg, lightly beaten
1/3 cup heavy cream or half-and-half, plus a little extra for brushing tops of biscuits

4 cups strawberries, hulled and sliced (2 to 3 pint baskets)
2 tablespoons sugar

For the cream:
1 cup heavy cream
1/2 to 2 tablespoons powdered sugar, to taste, optional
1 tsp vanilla extract, optional

Preparation
1. Preheat oven to 425F. In a large bowl, whisk together flour, cornmeal, baking powder, sugar, and salt.

2. Using a pastry blender, a pair of butter knives, or your fingers, cut butter into flour mixture until the butter bits are pea-sized. (You can also pulse briefly in a food processor--faster, but more stuff to clean afterwards.)

3. Add egg and cream and stir lightly until mixture just holds together. Knead gently two or three times. On a floured countertop, pat out into a round about 1 inch thick. Using a biscuit cutter or a knife, cut out into rounds or other shapes. Place on a baking sheet and brush lightly with cream.

4. Bake 12 to 15 minutes, until pale golden. Remove to a rack to cool.

5. While biscuits are baking, mix strawberries and sugar, crushing a few of the berries with a fork, and set aside. As the berries sit, the sugar will draw out the juices to form a garnet-colored puddle that you can dribble inside the biscuits as you go. Lovely.

6. Once biscuits are warm, not hot, to the touch, whip the cream until just thickened. If desired, add sugar and vanilla to taste.

7. Split each biscuit and place on a plate. Add a spoonful of berries, with juice. Dollop with cream. Top with the other half of the biscuit, some more berries, and more cream. Serve.

Six o'clock on Friday night, and the line outside the door at 17th and Capp was snaking down past the motorcycle repair shop and around the corner. Clutching brown paper bags of Sam Adams and Tecate, the crowd was a typical Mission mix: young guys in goatees with bike locks slung through their messenger bags, cool dads with baby strapped to their chests in slings, women staying warm in hand-knitted scarves and stripey fingerless gloves, even a few used-bookstore-looking folks with wild gray hair and heavy glasses.

What was the scene? An iPad giveaway? Lifetime free coffee at Four Barrel? A Radiohead jam session?

No, no, and no...instead, it was the second Underground Farmers' Market, organized by ForageSF's Iso Rabins. Essentially, an extra-groovy bake sale, held for no reason except to showcase the fun stuff being made by your friends and neighbors. What was on the table? All kinds of delights: kombucha by the jug, bags of peanut brittle and beef jerky, bergamot marmalade, white-grapefruit vanilla jelly, onion-bacon relish, lemonade, butternut-squash lasagna, little bowls of rice and mung-bean stew scooped out of Mason jars, acorn fudge, made-while-you-wait Indian chaat, corned-beef sandwiches, pumpkin pie by the slice, raw chocolate truffles, cupcakes, cucumber marmalade, kale, fresh chanterelles, granola, chipotle popcorn.

Photos by Wendy Goodfriend

Well, awesome, you may say. But this is San Francisco, hardly a place starving for access to raw-chocolate truffles and artisanal chicharrones. Between our dozens of farmers' markets, our thousands of restaurants, and our many, many gourmet stores, why would anyone need to stand in line on Capp Street to score good food?

Because walking into a store and handing over money is easy. Anyone can do it. To get to the Underground Farmers Market, you had to know about it—through Rabins' own 1000+ person email list, through a re-tweet from a street-food cart, or from one of the many blog or media mentions that had been buzzing around the concept since the first market, held last December. Just like at a show by a new band, though, a lot of the attendees seemed to have gotten there the old-fashioned way: they had a friend selling stuff, or knew somebody who knew somebody who told them to check out this cool scene.

So there was the buzz factor, and the undeniable urban urge to be in at the beginning of the next new thing. And, like a warehouse show, there was a little of the Permits? We don't need no stinkin' permits feeling, too. After all, this was outlaw food, made by artisans canning on the far side of the law—in other words, brewing the 'buch or popping the corn in their home kitchens, uninspected by the health department.

Few of the vendors make their product professionally in commercial kitchens; for most, it's a fun side gig, something they were doing anyway for friends and family, a way to make a little extra money from a particular passion for chocolate or kimchee. (Of course, the continued stream of layoffs have made more and more people seek profit in their passion; at a recent SPUR panel discussion on the economics of street food, Imelda Reyes from the Department of Public Health said she gets 12 to 16 calls a day now from would-be street-food entrepreneurs curious about the permitting process, up from 2 or 3 a week a year ago.)

Is this how twentysomethings are rebelling now? As outlaw onion-bacon relish-makers, flaunting the law with their organic flax-seed crackers or park-foraged miners' lettuce? Whatever the reasoning, the scene was amazingly cheerful. This was a church social of a different stripe, bringing together like-minded urbanites eager not just to shop and nibble (although shop they did) but to to put a face on their food, talking pickling, swapping project ideas, sharing chicken coop innovations and enthusing about the excellence of Fatted Calf's butchery classes. That bunch of mustard greens? Grown and bunched by Patricia on an eighth-of-an-acre vacant lot in Berkeley, thanks to a friendly landlord happy to see vegetables sprouting instead of weeds and trash. That lemonade? Made by Robin from lemons picked in her friend's backyard, and served up with peanut brittle "made from stuff I just had in my kitchen."

Selling my own hot-from-the-oven homemade bread, apricot jam and vanilla pear butter from a card table in the corner, it was easy to feel like instant friends with everyone to whom I handed a warm loaf. After all, I'd kneaded and shaped each bread just a few hours before, peeled every single pear after it was picked at an orchard I knew.

The recession may be fueling a renewed interest in home cooking and small-scale entrepreneurship, but money was definitely being spent. By 10pm, Becky of Urban Preserves estimated that she'd sold over half of the 150 jars she'd brought; Kitty of Kitty's Creations, who makes her products in her church's kitchen in the Sunset, had maybe 5 dozen left of the 14 dozen jars of jam, chutney, and relish she'd walked in with. Slow Jams, on the verge of going pro, charged $10 and up for their sleek jars of sweet and savory jams and relishes; by 9pm, they were sold out and packed up.

By 10:30pm, organizer Iso Rabins looked equally exhausted and thrilled, if a little stunned by the turnout. A lot of advance press and a savvy use of social media, combined with a particular young-urbanite quest for authenticity, had made the night's market popular beyond anything he'd imagined. For the next one, a bigger venue will clearly be necessary. How big can it go and still feel underground? How many of the novelty seekers will come back? How much jam and jerky does the city need? For the moment, it seems, that if you make it, they will come.

Watch This Week in Northern California tonight, Friday January 29 at 8pm to see Leslie Sbrocco, host of Check, Please! Bay Area in a new segment on local food and wine trends. This week, a conversation about restaurants and the recession and underground food markets with Bay Area Bites bloggers, Michael Procopio and Stephanie Rosenbaum.

Underappreciated fruits and vegetables will always have a special place in my heart. Rhubarb, nettles, quince: all these things, so tasty when cooked, used to be very popular until they got shouldered aside by easier pleasures that didn't sting the unwary picker into welts, or weren't so sour or astringent at first bite as to make you wince. Artichokes' dip-scooping leaves were probably its saving grace. But for its use as a nifty delivery system for melted butter and lemon mayonnaise, it would be a forgotten thistle today.

Apricots, while more accessible, still have a certain forgotten-fruit quality to them. Just as quince gets described as apple's tough, weird older sister, so apricots are often just a placeholder for peach-lovers, something sweet and orange with a pit that will do until the real goodies come along.

But apricots are good for cooking in a way that peaches aren't, their flavor intensifying into an ineffable tangy sweetness that leans just right against a crumbly, buttery short crust or a piece of whole-grain toast, especially one spread with mild fresh chevre. Too often, though, all that the marketplace offers is the big bland Patterson, so smooth-skinned, so bright, so uniform and so utterly dull.

What you really want, especially for jam, are Blenheims, also called Royal Blenheims. You have to trust in these, because they're not so pretty. Mostly they're small, often green-shouldered, often freckly. At peak ripeness, they're almost deliquescent, their pulp turning to jam right inside the skin.

But, oh, what juicy, sticky-dripping flavor! Slurpy-good right off the tree, they're sublime for jam. I like to use the same overnight-sugar macerating technique as for strawberries, although these apricots don't throw off enough liquid to make straining necessary. Instead, they subside gracefully into a pool of satiny slush that's part pulp, part skin, part juice, and all divine.

Being wildly uncommercial—too small, too funny-looking, too mushy, too short a season—Blenheims have to be hunted out, either from soft-hearted orchardists or friends with an old tree in the backyard. Everything Under the Sun (the folks with the "Sampling is Mandatory-We're Watching!" sign) at the Ferry Plaza Farmers' Market had them last week, and probably this week, but not for much longer. Carpe diem! Get out your jars!

Apricot Jam
Of all the jams I make, this one remains my favorite. Letting the fruit and sugar macerate together before cooking mellows the sweetness and helps thickens the final product without the need for long cooking. This preserves the fruit's naturally vivid flavor and color.

Yield: 4 to 5 8-oz jars.
Prep Time: 15-20 minutes, plus 10-16 hours resting time
Cook Time: 30-40 minutes
Total: 1 hour, plus 10-16 hours resting time

Ingredients:
3 lb apricots
2 1/2 cups sugar
1/4 cup fresh lemon juice (1-2 lemons)

Preparation:
1. Halve apricots and pop out pits. Cut fruit into quarters if large. Toss apricots, sugar, and lemon juice together in a glass or ceramic bowl. Cover with a towel and set aside for several hours at room temperature, or overnight in the refrigerator. Stir occasionally to help the sugar dissolve evenly, if you feel like it.

2. When all the sugar has been dissolved, pour the mixture into a wide, heavy-bottomed nonreactive pot and bring to a boil over medium heat. Reduce heat to low and simmer 10 minutes, stirring gently but frequently. Cook for another 8 minutes, until the fruit looks translucent and is beginning to break down. It's easy to scorch it at this stage, so stir frequently and don't wander off.

3. Pour mixture back into the bowl, let cool, then cover with a towel and set aside at room temperature for at least six hours, or overnight in the refrigerator.

4. Return fruit mixture to the large pot. Over low heat, bring to a simmer, stirring frequently. Cook for another 10-12 minutes, until fruit has mostly broken down and juices look syrupy. Scoop a small amount of juice onto a clean metal spoon. Tip the spoon sideways and let juice run off the edge. When juice has reached the jelly point, the last few drops will look thicker and run together into one viscous drop. Remove from heat. Ladle into clean, sterilized jars.

5. Set jars on a clean towel and do not touch or move them until they are completely cool. If you're using canning jars, listen for the slurpy sucking pop of the jars vacuum-sealing. Sealed jars will keep up to 1 year in a cool, dry place. If jar isn't sealed, store in fridge and eat within 2-3 weeks.

Chickens pecking around the backyard, kombucha fermenting on the shelf, beer brewing in the closet: there's been a lot of interest in DIY urban homesteading lately. For months now, I've been meaning to get into the slow-process stuff, like curing my own olives and making my own vinegar.

Then again, my homestead is a wee share house in Bernal, already stuffed with other people's tchotchkes. I've commandeered the tiny back patio with my buckets of tomato and potato plants; adding an olive crock and a vinegar barrel might be pushing it.

And honestly, I'm still wedded to the easy delights of jam. Like pie, it's a little bit of a production, but just like pie, no matter what you do, fruit+sugar=sweet fruity goodness. And like homemade pie, homemade jam is better than anything you can buy. Why? Because anywhere this side of Smuckers, you're using more fruit and less sugar when you make your jam at home.

Ah yes, the sugar issue. First off: most cookbooks call for way too much sugar. Why? The more sugar you put in, the easier it is to get a firm and reliable set. Sugar is also a preservative, and jam with a lot of sugar will last longer in your fridge. But capturing the essence of beautiful fruit is the whole point of jam, rounded out with just enough sweetness to bring a smile to your toast. Halve the amount of sugar in most recipes, and you'll do just fine.

For the same reason, I never use commercial pectins, like Sure-Jel. There's nothing wrong with pectin itself; it's a natural compound found in varying levels in all fruits. However, commercial pectin requires a lot of sugar to jump-start that jelling reaction, and the precise formulas turn canning into chemistry, with no adjustments for personal taste.

But with less sugar and no added pectin, won't your jam be a runny mess? Nope! There's an easy, just about foolproof way to get good jam every time, and all you need is sugar, lemon juice, and time.

Take a look at this bowl.

That's 4 pints of strawberries, sliced, mixed with sugar and left to sit overnight until they've shrunken into little berry quarters bobbing in a sea of juice. All that liquid was originally trapped in the berries themselves, and you'd be boiling it mightily for a long time if you just threw the fruit and sugar together and tossed them on the stove.

But separate the liquid from the fruit, add a little lemon juice (which is rich in pectin), and--here's the trick-- cook down the liquid, not the fruit. By cooking the liquid by itself first, you can evaporate any excess water without exhausting the fruit's delicate flavors. There's also less risk of burning and sticking when you're just simmering juice.

This is a technique I first picked up from Helen Witty's invaluable, library-available collection, The Good Stuff Cookbook. In my copy, the jam chapter is wrinkled and spattered on every page, with annotations, additions, and comments in pen and pencil from years of messing around. I use a lot less sugar than Witty does, but her method (streamlined here) still works like a charm to produce delicious jams just thick enough to cling to your biscuit, redolent of ripe, sunwarmed summer fruit.

Since strawberries are ripe and wonderful this week, now's the time to grab a case of jars, a flat of fruit, and get your birthday-and-holiday gifts nailed down. I love Albion berries in particular, but Seascapes, Tristars and Chandlers, all varieties that do well in our cool coastal climate, won't do you wrong, either.

If you want your sealed jars to be able to sit around in the pantry, you need real canning jars topped with two-part lids. Otherwise, if you're just going to stick your jam in the fridge immediately and eat it soon, you can reuse any clean, cute glass jar you have. For best results, sterilize any jar in a boiling-water bath for 10 minutes before using.

Strawberry Jam

Ingredients:
4 pint boxes whole strawberries (2 1/2 lbs)
1 1/2-2 cups granulated sugar, depending on sweetness of berries
juice of 1 lemon, about 2 tablespoons

Preparation:
1. Rinse, drain, and hull strawberries. Slice in halves or quarters. In a nonreactive bowl, toss berries with sugar and lemon juice. Cover and let stand for 3-4 hours at room temperature or 6 hours to overnight in the refrigerator. Stir occasionally, scraping the bottom of the bowl to distribute and dissolve the sugar.

2. When sugar is dissolved and berries are floating in a bright-red syrup, pour into a large nonreactive pot. Bring to a frothy simmer, stirring frequently. Let simmer for 2 minutes, then pour back into bowl. Let cool. Cover and let stand for 2-3 hours at room temperature, or in the refrigerator for 6 hours or overnight.

3. Meanwhile, sterilize your jars, lids, and rings. Set a colander or strainer over a wide, large, and heavy stainless steel or enameled cast-iron pot. Pour berries into colander, letting all the syrup drip into the pot. Remove colander full of berries and set aside.

4. Bring syrup to a boil over medium heat, stirring frequently. Once syrup comes to a boil, stir and watch: it will move from what looks like a pot full of Kool-Aid to a seething, deep-garnet mass of thick, glossy bubbles. Dip a metal spoon into the syrup and let syrup drip off the side of the spoon; it's ready when the last few drops are fairly thick and sticky.

5. Pour in reserved berries. Bring to a boil, stirring constantly. If you'd like a thicker jam, mash berries lightly with a potato masher. Simmer for 5-8 minutes, until berries are translucent and mixture has thickened slightly. Scoop into jars and seal.

6. Set jars on a clean towel and do not touch or move them until they are completely cool. If you're using canning jars, listen for the slurpy sucking pop of the jars vacuum-sealing. Sealed jars will keep up to 1 year in a cool, dry place. If jar isn't sealed, store in fridge and eat within 2-3 weeks.

"A specter is haunting our cities: barren landscapes with foliage and flowers, but nothing to eat. Fruit can grow almost anywhere, and can be harvested by everyone. Our cities are planted with frivolous and ugly landscaping, sad shrubs and neglected trees, whereas they should burst with ripe produce. Great sums of money are spent on young trees, water and maintenance. While these trees are beautiful, they could be healthy, fruitful and beautiful."

-- From the Fallen Fruit manifesto


Fallen Fruit identifies where you can find free fruit that has fallen and encourages public consumption. The movement began in Los Angeles but public jam making events take place in various locations.

At Yerba Buena Center for the Arts you an will bring your own fresh fruit and clean jars and learn to make jam with the folks from Fallen Fruit. Fallen Fruit will also lead a discussion about the basics of jam and jelly making, pectin and bindings, the aesthetics of sweetness, as well as the communal power of shared food and the liberation of public fruit.

What: Public Jam, a fruit jam and jelly making event

Where: YAAW Lounge, Yerba Buena, 700 Howard St, San Francisco

When: November 1, 2008

How: Free, but tickets required call YBCA box office 415.978.2787

Why: Learn how to make jam, and at the end of the event trade jars with other participants.

One of the most common fruit found in backyards around the Bay Area is plums. Use purple plums for this recipe to make a small batch of fresh jam.

Plum Freezer Jam
3 cups pitted, coarsely chopped plums
1/3 cup sugar
1/3 cup water
2 tablespoons lemon juice
1/8 teaspoon cinnamon
2 tablespoons honey

Combine all the ingredients except the honey in a medium saucepan. Bring to the boil, reduce heat and simmer. Stir and mash occasionally with back of spoon for about 15 minutes, or until thickened. Remove from heat, stir in honey and taste, adjust seasonings as desired. Allow to cool to room temperature and pour into clean jars. Refrigerate for up to 2 weeks or freeze for up to one year.

"splat"
"splat"
"splat"

Every night, for the past week, we've been awakened by the sound of fat, juicy plums plummeting from the trees in our backyard to the ground. We pick them as fast as we can, but some are simply out of reach, and others just sneak up on us, ripening suddenly and then hurling themselves out of the tree.

We somehow managed to pick about six pounds of plums before I decided that something must be done.

So, as I did last year, I decided to make plum jam.

A few things have changed, though, since I last made jam. First of all, I moved. Last year's plums were harvested in the heart of the Mission: small yellow plums that were subtle and pleasantly sweet-tart. We managed to spin those into many jars of jam and chutney before we moved.

Secondly, I realized that over the past year I've learned a bit about pectin. The jam we made last year, while delicious, was a bit thin and watery. I wasn't about to make that mistake again. Pectin causes jams and jellies to gel, and some fruits have more and some have less. Apples, it turns out, have a lot of pectin. So when you are trying to make jam with fruits that are low in pectin, like berries or plums, it's a good idea to use an apple, peel and all (trust me, you will never know it's even in the jam). Also, you need the right balance of pectin, acid, and sugar with the fruit to make it all balance and gel correctly.

Anyway, here in our new house we have not only one, or two, but four different plum trees. Lucky for the trees that I love plum jam too, since they've been somewhat neglected over the years (we unfortunately moved just after the plum harvest last year and missed the whole thing). And lucky for me that my husband is tall and can reach all those rogue plums, even though we still wake up every morning to a smattering of plums.

Plumalicious Jam

Makes: 13 half-pint jars

Ingredients:
About 12 cups (about 6 lbs) pitted and roughly chopped plums
1 or 2 green apples
Juice of 1 lemon or lime
2 lbs granulated sugar
2 small plates in the freezer

Preparation:
1. Cut up all the plums and put them into a heavy, 5-quart stockpot.

2. Grate the apple, skin and all (but not the core), on a box shredder-grater. Add the apples, lemon or lime juice, and sugar to the plums.

3. Stir the plum mixture thoroughly, place over medium-high heat, and bring to a boil.

4. Lower the heat to medium and let boil, skimming the foam occasionally and smashing the fruit as it cooks. Boil for about 20 minutes.

5. When the jam starts to look thickened, start testing it by spooning a small amount onto one of the chilled plates. This will chill it quickly and let you see how thick it is. Keep testing it until the jam is thick enough, but don't cook it longer than about 30-35 minutes. If it's not thick enough for your liking, next time add an extra apple. Don’t worry, the jam will still be great.

6. Once the jam has thickened, get your clean jars set up. You can re-use the glass jars, but you should get new lids and rings each time. If you have a canning funnel, it makes your life a lot easier for filling jars.

7. Fill each jar to about 1/2 inch from the top, leaving a little breathing room. Screw on the lid, but not too tight.

8. Turn the jars over at once so they stand upside down on their lids and let them cool to room temperature. This should seal the lids. If the lids are sealed, the top will be indented. You can store the jam in a cool dark place for up to a year. If not, store in the refrigerator and use within about 1 month.

Earlier this year, I read about a jam made by two guys from an apricot tree in their backyard. It was seriously small-batch -- think 100 jars a year -- and the only way to get it was to sign up for the waiting list. "A waiting list, for jam?" I thought to myself. "That's nuts!" But I figured what the hell, and signed up.

Fast forward to the summer, when I got an email from Eric and Phineas at We Love Jam telling me their apricot jam was almost ready, and I could buy up to four 8-ounce jars. I bought the maximum, and sat back to wait.

When it arrived, it took a few days for me to try it. One morning I nonchalantly asked my jam-loving boyfriend if he'd tried it yet. "It's good," came the reply.

So I was in no way prepared for the unsurpassably delicious, unconscionably good, irresistably perfect taste sensation that hit my tongue when I finally tried it. I swear, I nearly fainted. It tasted like apricots, honey, and gold. It was so smooth, it glided over my tongue like a silk cloth over polished wood. I tossed manners to the wind and started eating it straight from the jar.

As I licked pure happiness off my spoon, I wondered about the guys who made this amazing stuff. I'd already been in touch with them a few times and I liked their sense of humor, hiding jars of jam in the San Francisco main library for people to find. So I decided to interview them and learn more about the operation. What I found out is that they are totally devoted -- to their jam, to small farmers, and to saving the Blenheim apricot. They are also a total hoot.

Who is Eric?
The son of crazy art collectors. My dad is Swiss, from the French region, so I grew up on French cuisine and desserts. My mom is an amazing cook and I grew up helping my mom in the kitchen where she spent lots of time experimenting. Our jam, and the food products we will be offering are all the result of relaxing and having fun in the kitchen.

Who is Phineas?
Former educator, barista, part-time writer, amateur baker. Up until the jam-making started, I always lived in places with a non-functional kitchen. It wasn't until being in a full working kitchen that I started to do anything other than microwave popcorn. Go figure, but I'm pretty good with food. One day it would be nice to open up a small bakery/cafe.

When did you first make your apricot jam?
We met in March of 2002 and took a trip throughout Europe shortly thereafter -- a true test of our relationship! Anyhow, [at] a tiny, deserted restaurant in Grasse, a mind-blowing white peach dessert Eric ordered lingered in our minds. When we returned from Europe, Eric ventured into Phineas' Santa Clara backyard and saw a fruit tree. "What is that?" he asked. "An apricot tree," Phineas responded. "What do you do with the fruit?" Eric asked. "Nothing. My mom eats it -- the rest falls on the ground and rots," Phineas said. "Let's make jam!" said Eric.

So we picked the fruit and took it up to San Francisco and cooked up a batch. The white peach dessert served as our inspiration and the rest is history.

Tell me about the apricots.
We didn't know what variety it was right away but did some research and discovered it was Blenheim -- the most flavorful but most delicate apricot variety. Most of the Silicon Valley area was Blenheim and cherry orchards. Only a few remain and Slow Food USA classifies the Blenheim as endangered. One of the orchards we called told us they ripped up all their trees and planted a more profitable crop. It was then we knew our jam-making wasn't just about making delicious jam, but saving a way of life. We feel passionately about keeping the Blenheim a viable crop and giving these farmers a reason to continue growing it and not selling their land for housing.

When did you start selling the jam?
We had been making this jam for almost five years from the backyard tree. Each year we made around 100 jars and just gave them away. For some crazy reason we decided to send out a press release to two food magazines about the jam being for sale -- just 100 jars for 2007. In November of 2006 we had a voicemail from Food & Wine saying they loved the jam and wanted to write about it. All of a sudden the idea that this was now a business hit us and we had no idea what to think. They had us ship a jar to be photographed. Several phone interviews took place with lots of questions like how we were going to sell it. We told them it would be online. We built the website in a weekend. They asked since we had so few jars if we had a waiting list. We said yes. When the blurb came out in Food & Wine we were simply deluged with requests. Thousands of people emailed us. It took us by complete surprise.

How much time did you spend making jam this year?
This year, between our tree and the fruit from the other orchard, we processed about 7000 pounds of jam. Completely by hand. Washing individual fruit, hand pitting the fruit, using water bath canning. This is a very labor- and time-consuming method. Our priority this year was to make people happy no matter the expense on our end. So far, we have succeeded with this and that has made all the disasters that happened (there were countless) worth it.

What was the hardest thing about jam-making this year?
The sheer stress and labor. We went from making about 100 jars in a few days to making around 6000 -- in three weeks. The fruit doesn't last very long in the refrigerator, so we had to work basically day and night to make the jam. There was a huge sense of urgency.

You also sell a BBQ sauce. Might you expand your food enterprise any further with more products?
We have a whole lineup of products planned, all based on what we have made for years for friends and family. These include not just jams, but our pickles, biscotti and cookies, a taste bud-shattering preserved Meyer lemon Mediterranean rub that makes any chicken dish an instant cult hit. We also want to sell products from very small farms or from farms that maybe just have a few trees. We want to establish relationships with farmers and get excellent quality stuff that normally would never be available. We also want to work with tiny vineyards selling wine. We know one farmer who grows his own grapes and makes only about 7 cases a year. That is what we are looking for -- extremely small production and extremely high quality. And to always have something new available that you can't get anywhere else.

I know there are still a few jars of jam left online, but how do you get on the mailing list for next year?
Anyone who purchased jam from us this year is on the waiting list for life. [Whoever] wants to be on the list just has to email us. It is all chronological, who emailed on what day. And we work down the list like that. There will always be a waiting list and our website will be the only place to buy it. We deeply value the personal connection with our customers through emails and phone calls and that could never be preserved if someone else sold our product. For example, if a customer says they like a certain variety of plum jam, we will find that fruit and make a small batch and put it up for sale. This very close contact with customers and working with them to make them happy is the greatest joy of this venture.

To join the mailing list, email contact@welovejam.com