Brambleberry Jam by Brazen Bounty

Brambleberry Jam by Brazen Bounty

As an introvert, I find my heart out in the woods where the only chatter is the rustle of sassafras trees and the trill of a distant woodpecker. Trees cover nearly every inch of my 5-acre patch of Ozark farmland, leaving a bare acre or two for crops. My hoard of chickens loves exploring the woods just as much as I do.

Foraging on my own land is one of the many reasons why I chose this out of the way spot. The October dawn brought in the cool air, heavy with the scent of dew-kissed grass and turning leaves. It was the perfect time to go hunting for wild berries. This morning, I tug on my worn flannel and grab my woven baskets, their handles smoothed by years of use, and head to the brambles that sprawl along the edge of my field.

The blackberries and raspberries cling to their thorny vines, plump and gleaming like jewels in the soft light, each one a tiny pledge of last Spring’s sweetness. Picking them is my meditation, my fingers stained purple as I lose myself in the quiet rhythm, the world narrowing to the gentle snap of berries and the hum of a lazy bee.

This year’s brambles bring in a Brazen Bounty of berries bursting with their juices. The name of my little farm chose itself. I never planned on having a homestead, or a farm for that matter. But ever since moving here, after all those years in Los Angeles, my life has been a bounty of blessings, brazen enough to put shame to the smoggy glitz of LaLaLand.

Back in my kitchen, the counters gleaming and polished, I turn those baskets of brambleberries into jam, stirring in light brown sugar for a warm, caramel depth that feels like autumn in a spoon. There’s something grounding about pouring my heart into these jars, each one a small piece of my land’s story.

I’m not one for crowds or small talk, but I love bringing a smile to people’s face and that’s where my booth at the local farmer’s markets and swapmeets come in. I was already excited for this week’s markets where I set up my table under a striped canopy, the air alive with the scent of kettle corn and the twang of a banjo from the square.

I sit crocheting at the back of my booth as my salesman works his social arts in the front. Folks sample my brambleberry jam, their eyes lighting up at the tart-sweet burst, and I feel a quiet pride. This jam, born from solitary mornings and the Ozarks’ wild heart, connects me to others in a way that feels just right: simple, honest, and full of home.

My little farm, with its rolling hills and whispering pines, is my sanctuary, a place where I can breathe deeply and let the world’s noise fade. Carrying my jars to the market, I’m not just selling jam; I’m sharing a piece of this peace, a taste of the slow, steady beauty I find in these fall days. If you’re in the Branson area, swing by my table at the farmer’s market; I might not be much of a conversationalist, but I’ve still got lots to share.