Ch 7 I don’t want to give homemade jam to Doris because I am a bitch – there is no way to sugar-coat it

I have a pear tree in my back yard that produces abundantly. I hate to waste food and there are only so many pear pies[1] a person can make so I take a canning class, buy canning jars and equipment from a downsizing couple I found on Craigslist, and spend hours and hours putting up dozens of jars of pear compote/preserves/jam.

There are also only so many jars of pear preserves a person can eat[2], so I have been giving jam friends. To people I like. To people who are worthy. Canning is hot, sweaty, tedious work and I do not give my labor lightly.

Me: Make sure to pack these jars of jam.

Primo: For who?[3]

Me: For Stephanie and for her dad.

Primo: Are you going to take some for my mom?

Me: Noooooo.

Primo: Why not?

Me: Because it's all designated already?

Primo: For who?

Me: My sister. My brother. My mom. My aunts and uncles. Other people.

Primo: Why not my mom?

Me: Because.

Primo: My mom likes jam. You gave me jam to take to ex-wife's mom when I went to California for work last month and you've never even met her.

Me: Well I thought you should take her something and she sounds like such a nice lady.

Primo: I could have taken her some pecans.

Me: Pecans aren't special. Homemade jam is special.

Primo: My mom doesn't deserve something special?

Me: We're paying $500 to fly there and we are renting a car and you are spending your vacation days cleaning out their garage and fridge and cat box. That’s special enough.

Primo: I'm just messing with you.

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[1] It’s actually a lot of pear pies. You can eat a pie a week, easily. And then switch to pear crisp when you are bored with pie. Except who gets bored with pie? Not me. I make awesomely good pie. And I don’t peel the fruit.

[2] Not that many. Pie is easier to eat than preserves.

[3] Primo knows proper grammar, but most people don’t say “whom,” even when it is the right word.