I first published a version of this post back in June 2011. Sadly, Grandpa is no longer with us, but we are still making this delicious condiment, while the rhubarb patch continues to give generously. 

As a Brit, I’ll admit my palate is rather different from that of many North American friends and family; think Marmite, fish and chips, black pudding, and Indian cuisine, to name a few essential food groups. Over time, some of these traditional flavours have been happily adopted by my Canadian household. The clearest example? A proper roast beef dinner with Yorkshire pudding.

But this time of year brings a particular delight for many Brits: rhubarb season.

It’s the first week of June, and we’re already onto our second, or is it third? rhubarb crumble of the year. The twenty or so crowns in our perennial vegetable and fruit garden just keep on giving. So, as tradition dictates, it’s time to make rhubarb and ginger jam.

Ever since moving into my first flat (that’s “apartment” for my North American readers), I’ve been making preserves of one sort or another. Given my love of Indian food, pickles and chutneys have always topped the list, but when fruit is abundant: strawberries, blackcurrants, rhubarb, out comes the jamming pan.

Yes, I do freeze plenty for later, but there’s something deeply satisfying about having your morning toast slathered in jam you made with your own hands. That simple pleasure, paired with a cup of coffee, is hard to beat.

My all-time favourite preserve book remains The Penguin Book of Jams, Pickles & Chutneys by David and Rose Mabey, first published in 1976. I’ve acquired many others over the years, but this was my first – and I return to it again and again.

One notable difference between UK and North American cookbooks is the way ingredients are measured. North American books use volume – cups, tablespoons, etc., while British texts rely on weight. When I first moved to California, this forced me to buy a set of measuring cups and introduced all sorts of anxiety about measuring chunky foods like beans or cut rhubarb by volume. I’ve since adapted, but my kitchen scales remain front and centre. I still find myself drifting back to the traditional recipes of my twenties.

The Mabeys’ rhubarb and ginger jam recipe is simple and elegant: just rhubarb, sugar, lemon juice, and a muslin bag of bruised root ginger. Over the years, though, my love of that spicy root has led me to make some adjustments. I now chop the fresh ginger directly into the jam and toss in a generous handful of crystallized ginger as well.

The process is straightforward. I layer the rhubarb and sugar in a large ceramic bowl, that once belonged to my grandmother, pour over the lemon juice, and let the mixture sit overnight. The next day, I transfer the resultant syrupy and fruit into my preserving pan, add the fresh and crystallized ginger, and bring it all to a rolling boil. The setting point usually arrives quickly, and the result is twelve 250 ml jars of thick, tart, spicy jam with a texture and flavour unlike anything else.

This family tradition of making and devouring rhubarb and ginger jam may only go back thirty-odd years, but it now spans three generations. Each spring, someone inevitably exclaims, “We have to keep a jar or two back for Grandpa’s visit!” as the breakfast jars begin to empty.

Looks like it’s time to plan a second batch.

I learned over the years to fill a number of 125 ml jars for guests as gifting 250 ml of this delicious manna from the heavens is just too generous, even for visiting family. I was also lucky enough to acquire a hardback copy of the Mabey book a few years ago, and it’s never far from my side.