The Real Wealth
How to Make Amazing Blackberry Jam and a Beautiful Life
I had a dear mentor once, a second father really.
His name was Haas, and he was one of the wisest men I have ever known. A healer. A mathematics wizard who designed some of the
calculations for our missile systems. He could have lived his life in boardrooms and high-security labs, earning and spending in ways that make the headlines.
But he didn’t.
By design, Haas carved out a life of deep roots and deliberate simplicity. After a decade traveling the country doing healing work, he returned to Maine and created the most beautiful small permaculture farm I have ever seen which he named Emergence Farm. Five acres of abundance: fruit trees bending under the weight of apples and pears, long rows of asparagus, red raspberries that stained your fingertips, and even a cranberry bog that glowed ruby in the autumn light. His gardens were a living quilt of beauty and function, stitched together with care.
Every fall, we’d go visit him in Maine, and he would show us the life he had built. Haas was deeply rooted in his community—part of the Maine Organic Farmers and Gardeners Association—and he poured his time and heart into the land and the people around him. He once took us to the most extraordinary fair I’ve ever been to, the Common Ground Country Fair. Not just tomatoes there, but heirloom tomatoes in every color of the rainbow. Not just draft horses, but classes on how to work with them. I met so many remarkable people in those classes—farmers, craftspeople, seed savers—but most of all, I saw the way Haas moved among them, fully at home.
When he died, he was still giving back—working on their heirloom orchard, helping the town of Damariscotta prepare their seawall for climate change. That was the kind of man he was: powerful in quiet and sometimes not so quiet ways, always thinking ahead, always imagining what beauty could be made next.
Every year, he’d send us jam from his pantry and always lots of his elderberry syrup. He made the most extraordinary blackberry jam—old-fashioned and simple, just berries and sugar, nothing else. A truly old fashioned farm recipe with so much sugar it would make you blink, but it was perfection. Glossy and deep, tasting of August brambles and long golden afternoons. I would eat it any year, without hesitation, because it was crafted with such care and love. And really, how could you not eat something like that?
For years, I didn’t fully understand what he meant when he’d hand me something from his harvest and say, “This is the real wealth.” But now, I do.
Here in my own home, a huge 1926 duplex with a third of an acre of land, my son and daughter live next door. My grandson’s laughter spills across the yard. Four chickens wander among the fruit trees. The air is alive with bees and butterflies. The grapevines and the elderberry bush are heavy this year, and the harvest will be wonderful. I freeze what I want, eat fresh when I feel like it, and fill my pantry with jars that will bring the taste of summer into winter.
And I think of Haas all of the time.
He was right. You can make all the money you want—and yes, you need enough to live. But the easy part is earning. The deeper work, the real art, is learning how to feel rich in the broadest, most elegant sense of the word.
These days, that richness looks like this:
Slow mornings.
Meals eaten together.
A marriage or partnership that feels like home.
Work that matters without consuming your life.
Children and grandchildren who are healthy and loved.
A table that always has room for one more.
Food grown, cooked, and shared with gratitude.
I’m still learning. But each season teaches me a little more, and maybe that’s the quiet truth of it. Real wealth isn’t something you keep in the bank, it’s something you keep in your heart, in your pantry, in the soil under your fingernails, and in the way you love the people around your table.
From My Pantry to Yours
Haas’s utterly decadent Blackberry / Black Raspberry Jam
Old-fashioned, pectin-free, and full of summer.
Haas made jam the way he lived—simply, abundantly, and with no shortcuts on love. This is the style of blackberry jam I remember from his pantry: rich, deep, and cooked slowly until it could hold its own on a spoon. No pectin. No fuss. Just berries, sugar, and time.
Ingredients
2 pounds fresh blackberries or Black Raspberries (about 6 cups)
4 cups granulated sugar
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice (optional, for brightness and color)
Instructions
Prepare the berries: Rinse gently, removing any stems or leaves.
Mash or leave whole: Mash lightly for a smoother texture, or keep some whole for a rustic jam.
Combine and macerate: In a large, heavy-bottomed pot, stir together blackberries and sugar. Cover loosely and let sit for at least 1 hour (or overnight in the fridge) so the juices begin to flow.
Cook the jam: Add lemon juice, if using, and bring the mixture slowly to a boil, stirring to dissolve the sugar. Reduce to a lively simmer and cook, stirring often, for 20–30 minutes until the jam thickens.
Test for doneness: Place a small spoonful on a chilled plate. If it wrinkles when you push the edge, it’s ready.
Jar and seal: Ladle hot jam into sterilized jars, leaving 1/4-inch headspace. Wipe rims, seal, and process in a boiling water bath for 20 minutes—or refrigerate if you’ll enjoy it within a few weeks.
Yields: 4–5 half-pint jars.
Keeps: 12–18 months sealed; 3–4 weeks once opened.
When you open a jar of this in the depths of winter, you’ll taste the sun on the brambles, the hum of the bees, and the August air that makes blackberries so sweet. Haas would say, “This is the real wealth.” And he’d be right.
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