Diary 12October2025
The whole house turned into a battlefield over a few jars of jam.
Throw them away? Are you out of your mind? That was raspberry jam! shouted Margaret Harper, flinging her hands so wildly her spectacles nearly slipped off the chain.
My mum, those jars have been sitting in the pantry for five years! Emma Thompson sighed, running a hand through her hair. Everythings moulded by now, can you see that?
Margaret snapped back, Nothings moulded! I check my preserves every time. This was the finest jam made from the raspberries we picked at Aunt Valeries cottage in the Cotswolds. You wont find berries that sweet now, even in the height of summer!
I, Victor Thompson, let out a quiet sigh and tried to slip out of the kitchen. The squabbles between my motherinlaw and my wife have become a regular feature ever since Margaret moved in after her husband died. But this time the argument escalated faster than Id expected.
Where do you think youre going? Margaret barked, turning her glare on me. Do you think this doesnt concern you? Who rearranged the pantry shelves last month? Who told everyone that the old stuff must be tossed?
I froze in the doorway like a schoolboy caught cheating. I had indeed suggested a deep clean of the pantry, where dozens of jars of jam, pickles and marinades had accumulated, but I hadnt imagined it would spark a fullblown family feud.
Margaret, I was only trying to tidy up. Some of the jars have actually changed colour, I attempted to explain.
Changed colour? she narrowed her eyes, a sure sign of trouble. Are you an expert on homecanning? I have forty years of experience! Forty! I was already preserving when you were still a toddler, and I knew every trick of the trade then.
Emma rolled her eyes. Shed heard that line a thousand times, just as shed heard stories of wartime rationing when homepreserves were a family lifeline.
Mom, calm down. I only threw away what was obviously spoiled. The rest is still there, Emma pleaded, trying to keep her voice level while her stomach churned.
And who gave you the right to decide whats rotten and what isnt? Margaret pressed her palms against her hips. These are my jars! I sealed them myself!
In our flat! In our kitchen! Stored in our pantry! Emma snapped back, unable to hold the rising tide of frustration.
A heavy silence fell. Milo, our cat, who had been dozing on the windowsill, opened one eye, surveyed the scene and retreated to a quieter corner.
Fine then, Margarets voice dropped to a chilling whisper. If this is your flat and your pantry, perhaps I have no business here.
She marched to her bedroom. Within a minute the clatter of drawers being pulled out echoed down the hallway the unmistakable sound of Margaret packing her belongings.
Emma slumped into a chair, covering her face with both hands.
Here we go again, she muttered. Shell be heading off to her sister in York again. Thats the third time this month.
I placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Maybe shell actually go this time? I said, trying to inject a little hope.
She sighed, Shell haul her things, then start complaining about how hard it is to get to her flat with all the bus changes, then mention Lucys cramped apartment and by evening itll be forgotten until the next row.
From Margarets room a thud sounded as a suitcase hit the floor, followed by a tirade about ungrateful children who dont value a mothers care.
It feels more serious this time, I observed. She calls it her strategic reserve, you know how she trembles over every jar.
Emma exhaled heavily. To Margaret, jam wasnt just a sweet spread; it was a badge of pride, a tangible link to the past. Each jar carried a story berries picked on a trip to the Lake District, apples of the Golden Delicious variety from a lateyearneighbours garden.
Im going to speak with her, Emma decided, rising from the table.
She entered Margarets bedroom to find an open suitcase on the bed and Margaret methodically folding clothes into it.
Mum, thats enough. Lets talk calmly, Emma began.
Whats there to talk about? Its obvious. Im in the way. My jam takes up too much space in your precious pantry, Margaret emphasised the word your with a sharp inflection.
No one said you were in the way. Its just that some jars have been sitting so long theyre no longer edible.
Thats what you think! Margaret flared. Just last year I opened a tenyearold jar and it was perfectly fine! Do you know how many chemicals are in storebought jam? Mine is all natural, homegrown!
Emma perched on the edge of the bed, choosing her words carefully.
Mum, I understand these jars mean more to you than just food. But we really are short of space, and some of these preserves have sat untouched for years.
People dont eat them because they dont appreciate their value! Margaret retorted. Youre used to those supermarket sweets with preservatives. If disaster ever struck, the first thing wed need would be our own stock!
What kind of disaster, Mum? War? Flood? Emma asked, halflaughing.
Margaret chuckled, Remember the nineties? We survived because of my preserves. Do you recall the cherry jam you loved at Christmas when the shops were empty?
Emma remembered that jar, and also how Mum once traded a jar of pickles for school notebooks. Times had changed.
Mum, todays world is different. Shops are open all year round. We dont need massive stores of jam.
Thats why you dont value my work! Margaret exclaimed, snapping her suitcase shut. I spend the whole summer at the stove, cooking, sealing, and you you throw it away!
Tears welled in her eyes. I felt a pang of guilt; for her each jar was a small triumph, a way of still caring for us.
I didnt throw everything away, Mum. Only what was clearly unusable, Emma said softly. Let me show you whats left.
Margaret hesitated, then curiosity won. She followed Emma to the pantry.
Look here, Emma pointed to the shelves. All your jam thats still good is right here. These are the ones I was about to open.
She lifted a few amber jars of apricot jam.
Remember you made this three years ago? David and I love it.
David, our fourteenyearold son, usually stayed away from Grandmas culinary experiments, preferring burgers and chips. Yet apricot jam was his guilty pleasure.
Margaret inspected the jars, counting them aloud.
And wheres the raspberry? Im sure there were six, I remember three still being here.
Emmas heart sank. She had quietly discarded a few jars; some had tiny insects, others showed a faint mould ring.
The raspberry we ate it, she lied, hoping Margaret wouldnt press further.
All three in one week? Margaret asked suspiciously.
At that moment David stumbled into the kitchen, hair a mess from his latenight study session.
Whats all the shouting about? he asked.
Grandma wants to know where the raspberry jam vanished, Emma replied, giving him a sharp look.
David thought for a moment, then grinned. Oh, that I shared it with my friends before the test. They were over for a quick snack.
Margarets eyes widened. Really? You liked it enough to share?
It was brilliant, Grandma, David said earnestly. Well make more next year.
She seemed to relax a little, though the disappointment lingered.
Do we have the blueberry jam? she asked.
Emma hesitated.
David, quick on his feet, confessed, I knocked a jar over one night and it broke. I cleaned it up, didnt tell anyone.
Margaret shook her head, muttering, Kids these days, so clumsy.
I watched the scene, feeling a mix of relief and exhaustion.
Later that afternoon, as Emma walked back into the kitchen, she found the very jars she thought shed thrown away now neatly lined on the table, Margaret standing with a triumphant smile.
Good morning, Margaret chirped. Look what I dug up!
Emma stared, stunned. Where? I saw them being taken to the bin.
In the skip, of course! I went early to check and found them still intact, Margaret said, tapping the lid of the raspberry jar. The jam smelled faintly sour, with a thin white film on the surface.
Its ruined, Emma whispered, trying not to inhale the smell.
No, its just the sugar crystallising. In the old days we let jam go a bit thick for longer storage.
The conversation stalled.
Fine, Mum. Keep the jars; Ill see what I can do with them, Emma replied, already planning to discard them later when Margaret was out with her weekly bridge club.
But Margaret seemed to read my thoughts.
Ill make compote out of them, she declared.
Compote from old jam? I asked, eyebrows raised.
Yes, just add water and heat. Itll be lovely.
I realised the only safe route was to divert her enthusiasm.
Mum, how about we buy fresh berries and make a new batch together? Like when I was a child, remember?
Margaret froze, a pot in her hands.
Together? You always say you have no time for preserves.
For a special occasion well find the time, I said, smiling. You taught me how to sort the berries, to measure the sugar correctly
Her eyes lit up.
Of course I remember! You were always a keen student, she replied proudly. Modern cooks rely too much on the supermarket.
Itll be a good chance to prove homemade is better, Emma added, grateful for the shift in topic.
David? Margaret asked, looking at our son. Hell help?
He laughed, Im more into video games, but Ill give it a go if theres a chance to taste the result.
I knew David was unlikely to stay long in the kitchen, but the promise of jam was enough to keep him interested.
Alright then, Margaret said, the market today has excellent strawberries. Arthur Whitaker mentioned his daughter brought a big lot.
Lets go after lunch, Emma agreed, feeling a weight lift.
Margaret nodded, then added, And those jars from the skip Ill just discard them. My neighbour Pam warned her that her granddaughter got sick from threeyearold jam.
I let out a sigh of relief.
We bought four kilos of fresh strawberries and returned home buzzing with activity. Margaret took charge, barking at David to wash the berries first, then to Emma to sterilise the jars.
First the work, then the reward! she chanted.
Victor, returning from work, found the kitchen transformed: a mountain of cleaned fruit, Margaret stirring a massive pot, Emma sterilising jars, and David snatching a few berries to taste.
Can I join the team? he asked, inhaling the sweet aroma.
Only if you wash your hands first, Margaret replied sternly. And change your shirt; strawberry stains are stubborn.
He obeyed, and soon we were all kneading, filling, and sealing jars together a scene none of us had seen in years, not since Margaret first moved in.
When eight jars of fresh strawberry jam finally cooled on the counter, Margaret declared, Now thats proper work! Not those cheap supermarket spreads.
Theyll fit nicely in the pantry, Emma said, smiling. Theyll last a while, but not forever.
Exactly! David shouted, licking a stray spoonful.
Later, after the kitchen lights dimmed, Victor and I stayed in the bedroom alone. I confessed, Ive realised something today. Mum isnt being difficult just for the sake of it. Those jars are her way of feeling useful, of caring for us.
What do you suggest? Fill the pantry with her stock? Victor asked cautiously.
No, I laughed. But perhaps we could give her a dedicated shelf, a little cabinet just for the preserves she truly trusts. The rest we can manage together, gradually clearing out the old stuff.
That sounds reasonable, Victor agreed. And today was oddly pleasant. I forgot how much fun it can be when we all pitch in.
The next morning I proposed the reorganisation to Margaret. To my surprise, she welcomed the idea.
Its about time! We could label the shelves so we dont mix raspberry with strawberry again.
We drew up a plan, and Margaret agreed that some jars had indeed overstayed their welcome and should be used or given away.
But Ill decide what goes, she insisted, and well make new batches together, like yesterday.
Deal, Emma said, relieved.
That evening, with fresh jam warming our throats, Margaret announced, Maybe we should invite Aunt Lucy for a week. She always says my jam is the best.
Victor choked on his tea, and I silently prayed she wouldnt bring another mountain of jars.
In the end, I realised that a few stubborn jam jars arent the real threat to a family. Sometimes you have to bend a little, accept each others quirks, and find a way to keep the peace.
Lesson learned: respect the traditions that give people purpose, but also set clear boundaries so love doesnt turn into a kitchen war.
