Dear Diary,
Today the jam jars in Mums kitchen became the spark for yet another family storm.
Mum, what do you mean threw away? Are you out of your mind? That was raspberry jam! shouted Margaret, her hands flailing so wildly I nearly knocked the spectacles hanging from her chain to the floor.
Mom, those jars have been sitting in the pantry for five years! Five years! I said, running a tired hand through my hair. Theyre mouldy now, you know?
Nothings mouldy! I check my preserves every time. That was the finest jam made from the raspberries we picked at Aunt Valeries cottage in the Cotswolds. You cant find berries like that these days, not even in midsummer!
James, my husband, let out a quiet sigh and tried to slip out of the kitchen. Since Margaret moved in after her husband passed away, the clashes between motherinlaw and daughterinlaw have become a regular feature of our household.
What are you doing? Margaret snapped, turning on James. Do you think this doesnt involve you? Who rearranged the pantry shelves last month? Who decided that all the old stuff should be thrown out?
James froze in the doorway, looking like a schoolboy caught cheating. He had suggested tidying the pantry, where dozens of jam jars, pickles and marinades had accumulated, but he hadnt anticipated that the cleanup would erupt into a fullblown family argument.
Margaret, I only wanted to organise things. Some of the jars have changed colour, James tried to explain.
Changed colour? she narrowed her eyes, a warning sign. Are you an expert on homepreserves? I have forty years of experience! I was already preserving when you were still toddling under the dining table!
I rolled my eyes. Id heard that line a thousand times, just like the stories of wartime rationing when homecanning was a lifeline.
Mum, calm down. I only threw away what was clearly spoiled. The rest is still there, I said, trying to keep my voice even while my stomach churned.
And who gave you the right to decide whats spoiled? Margaret pressed, hands on her hips. These are my jars! I sealed them myself!
In our flat! In our kitchen! And theyve been stored in our pantry! I snapped, feeling the edge of my temper.
A heavy silence settled. Whiskers, the cat sleeping on the windowsill, opened one eye, surveyed the scene and slipped away to a quieter spot.
So, Margarets voice dropped to a frightening whisper, if this is your flat and your pantry, then perhaps I have no business here.
She marched off to her bedroom. A minute later the sound of drawers being pulled out rattled down the hallan unmistakable sign that Margaret was packing her belongings.
I sank into a chair, covering my face with my hands.
Here we go again, I murmured. Now shell be heading off to see her sister in York. Third time this month.
James placed a hand on my shoulder.
Maybe shell actually go this time? he said, more hopeful than confident.
You know how she is, I sighed. Shell start gathering her things, then complain about how hard it will be to get there, then mention Lucys tiny flat and by evening the whole thing will be forgotten until the next rowboat argument.
From Margarets room a clatter of boxes hit the floor, followed by a tirade about ungrateful children who dont appreciate a mothers care.
It feels more serious this time, James observed. She calls it her strategic reserve. Shes always trembling over her preserves.
I exhaled heavily. For Mum, jam is more than a sweet spread; its a badge of pride, a tangible expression of love, a thread that ties her to the past. Every jar holds a story: those made from berries gathered on a trip to the Lake District, others from apples of the White Harvest variety grown at Aunt Eleanors cottage.
Ill talk to her, I decided, rising from the table.
When I entered Mums bedroom, I found a suitcase open on the bed and Margaret methodically folding clothes into it.
Mum, thats enough. Lets talk calmly, I began.
Whats there to talk about? Its all clear. Im in the way. My jam takes up too much space in your precious pantry, she emphasised the word your with a sharp bite.
No one said you were in the way. Its just that some of those jars have been sitting for so long theyre no longer edible.
Thats what you think! she flared. Last year I opened a tenyearold jam and it was perfectly fine! Do you know how much chemical in storebought jam? Mine is natural, organic, homegrown!
I sat on the edge of the bed, choosing my words carefully.
Mum, I understand these jars mean a lot to you. But we really do have limited space, and some of these preserves have sat untouched for years.
Theyre not eaten because you dont understand their value! she retorted. Youre used to supermarket sweets with preservatives. When the worst comes, itll be the homemade stock that saves us!
What worst? War? Flood? I blurted.
She chuckled, shaking her head. We survived the Nineties because of my preserves. Remember the cherry jam you loved at Christmas, when the shops were empty?
I did remember. And I also remembered the time Mum traded a jar of pickles for school notebooks. Times had changed.
Mum, today we have food all year round. Theres no need for massive stores.
Thats why you dont value the work! she shouted, snapping the suitcase shut. I spend whole summers at the stove, cooking, bottling, and you you throw it away!
Tears welled in her eyes, and a pang of guilt hit me. For her, each jar is a tiny triumph, a way to feel useful.
I didnt throw everything away, Mum. Only what was truly inedible, I said softly. May I show you whats left?
She hesitated, curiosity winning. Together we walked to the pantry.
Look, I pointed to the shelves. All your jam thats still good is right here. These are the ones I was about to open.
I lifted a few amber apricot jars.
Remember you made these three years ago? Oliver and I love them.
Oliver, our fourteenyearold son, usually avoids Mums culinary experiments, preferring chips, but he cant resist a spoonful of her apricot jam.
Margaret inspected the jars, counting them aloud.
Wheres the raspberry? Im sure there were six; I only see three. And the blueberry is missing!
I felt a knot in my stomach. Indeed, I had secretly discarded a few, some infested with tiny bugs, others with a thin mould rim.
The raspberry we ate it, I fibbed, hoping she wouldnt press further.
All three in one week? she asked, skeptical.
Just then Oliver stumbled in, hair messy from sleep.
Whats all the fuss? he asked.
Mum wants to know where the raspberry jam went, I replied, casting a sharp glance at him.
He thought for a moment, then said, I shared it with my friends after the physics test. They loved it, Mum.
Margarets eyes widened, then softened a little. Really? Well, Ill make more next year then.
Please, maybe not so much? Oliver interjected. Were short on shelf space.
Shes right, Margaret muttered, though the spark in her voice dimmed. What about the blueberry?
I stumbled for an answer.
Oliver jumped in: I dropped the jar at night, it cracked. I cleaned it up, didnt tell anyone.
Margaret shook her head, half annoyed, half relieved. Kids these days, all clumsy.
She returned to her room, packing the suitcase again. I thanked Oliver, ruffling his hair.
Thanks, lad, I said. You saved us from a bigger argument.
Later, when I entered the kitchen in the morning, I found the very jars I thought Id thrown away lined up on the countertop, with Margaret beaming.
Good morning! Look what Ive found! she announced cheerily.
Where? I asked, bewildered, spotting the raspberry jar I remembered discarding into the bin.
In the rubbish bin, of course! I went early to check, andlooknothings gone bad. Its all still there! she tapped the lid of the raspberry jar.
She opened it, and a faint, yeasty smell drifted out, a thin white film glistening on the surface.
Mum, thats spoiled, I whispered, trying not to inhale.
It isnt! Its just sugar crystallisinga traditional way to preserve longer, she declared. Back in the day we did this on purpose.
I realised the conversation was at an impasse.
Alright, Mum. Keep the jars; Ill figure out what to do with them, I said, already planning to toss them when shes out for her weekly tea with the neighbours.
She read my mind. Ill turn them into compote.
Compote from old jam? I asked.
Yes! Add water, simmer. Itll be brilliant! she said, pulling out a large pot.
I scrambled for a solution. Consuming those jars felt unsafe, but convincing Mum was impossible.
Maybe we could buy fresh berries and make a new batch together? Like we used to? I suggested gently.
She paused, pot in hand.
Together? she asked doubtfully. You always say youre too busy for preserving.
For a special occasion I can find the time, I replied, smiling. Remember how you taught me to sort the berries, how much sugar to use?
Her eyes lit up.
I remember! You were always a keen pupil, she said proudly. These days young folk rely on supermarket jars.
Lets prove them wrong, I said, delighted the argument was shifting. Well even get Oliver to help.
Oliver laughed. Im only good at tasting, Mum.
Hell learn, Margaret chuckled. Hell be a proper kitchen apprentice.
I knew that was a stretchOliver would rather solve maths problems than slice fruitbut for peace Id play along.
Mum, theres fresh strawberries at the market. Andrew Fisher mentioned his daughter brought a big, sweet bunch yesterday.
Excellent! Shall we go after lunch? she agreed, then eyed the rescued jars. Maybe we shouldnt use these after all. Yesterday I heard from Mrs. Thompson that her granddaughter got sick from threeyearold jam.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
Well discard those then, I said. Better safe than sorry.
She packed the questionable jars back into a bag.
Ill throw them myself. Not that Im being spiteful.
Youre caring, Mum, I replied, smiling.
After lunch we bought four kilos of glorious strawberries. Back home, Margaret threw herself into the jammaking with a vigor that surprised us all. Oliver, hearing about the fresh fruit, volunteered to helpmostly to sneak a taste before the pot boiled.
No, no, no! First the work, then the reward! And wash those berries properly! Margaret scolded.
Come on, Mum, a bit of dirt is good for the immune system, Oliver teased, though he dutifully washed his hands.
James returned from work to find the kitchen turned into a bustling jammaking workshop. The table was piled with washed berries, Margaret stirring a massive pot, me sterilising jars, and Oliver cutting out paper circles for the lids.
Can I join the team? James asked, inhaling the sweet aroma.
Only if you wash your hands first! Margaret snapped, then added, And change your shirtstrawberry stains are hard to get out.
He obliged, donning a fresh shirt and jumping in. It was the first time in years our whole family had cooked together, back before Margaret moved in.
The evening passed in a warm, convivial glow. Margaret, feeling like the queen of preserves, shared her secrets:
The jam must stay clear, the fruit whole, the syrup thick but not cloying.
When eight jars of fresh strawberry jam finally sat cooling on the counter, Margaret surveyed them with pride.
Now thats real work! Not those cheap supermarket stuff.
Theyll fit nicely on the pantry shelves, I said. This jam will last a while.
It certainly will! Oliver exclaimed, licking the spoon.
Later, when James and I were alone in the bedroom, I confessed what had struck me during the day.
Mum isnt just being stubborn about her jars. She clings to them to feel needed, to think shes still looking after us.
What do you propose? Fill the whole pantry with her preserves? James asked cautiously.
No, I laughed. Maybe we give her a dedicated shelf or a little cabinet. She can keep the truly good ones there, and well gradually sort out the rest.
A sensible compromise, James agreed. And today was actually fun. I forgot how much we used to enjoy these things together.
The next morning I suggested a reorganisation of the pantry. To my surprise, Margaret welcomed the idea enthusiastically.
Its about time! We could label the shelves so we dont mix raspberry with strawberry.
We drafted a plan together. Margaret conceded that some jars had indeed overstayed their welcome and should be used soon or discarded.
But Ill decide what goes and what stays! she declared. And well make new preserves together, just like yesterday.
Deal, I said, feeling a weight lift.
That evening, over tea with fresh jam, Margaret announced, Maybe we should invite Aunt Lucy for a week. She always says my jam is the best. Let her see how its done!
James choked on his tea, and I winced internally. Lucy, Margarets sister, is even more headstrong and shares Mums passion for canning
But looking at Mums delighted face, I couldnt argue.
Of course, Mum. Therell be plenty of room.
In the end, I realised that jam jars are not the biggest threat to a family; theyre simply a reminder of how much love can be hidden in a small glass. Next time I think about tossing old jars, Ill be far more careful and, if needed, hide them in a faraway waste bin wrapped in cardboardjust in case.
Oliver winked at me across the table, as if reading my thoughts, and I couldnt help but smile. All these little domestic battles, in their own messy way, only make us stronger.
