Damson jam My mother is leaning over my shoulder, reminding me to keep stirring lest it catch. I don’t recall that she ever made damson jam, but she’s not one to let that get in her way; that or being dead these thirty-odd years. She’s here in the hot kitchen, watching her pan as the fruit thickens, making sure I have a clean saucer to hand for testing, that I know to tilt it so I can see if it runs. Does the skin wrinkle? Yes? Quickly, now. Take the jars out of the oven, and don’t forget to add a knob of butter and stir it in. Then pour. The full jars are cooling on the bench, wiped clean. You missed a few stones. Like almonds in a pudding they shine; a pale reproach in the purple jam.
2 Comments
No posts
Captures a relationship so well. All the better that you don’t recall her ever making damson jam.
That first stanza break - the crucial qualification reduced to nothing or stretched into a compact forever, depending on the way you look at it!