Throw away? Nora Whitaker snaps, flinging her hands so wildly she almost knocks the spectacles dangling from her chain off her face. Are you out of your mind? That was raspberry jam!
Mother, those jars have been sitting in the pantry for five years! Five years! Emily Whitaker runs a weary hand through her hair. Everythings moulded by now, cant you see?
Nothings moulded! I check my preserves every time. This was a brilliant jam made from the raspberries we picked at Valerie Stevenss cottage. You wont find berries like that these days, not even in the middle of summer!
Victor Whitaker, Emilys husband, sighs softly and tries to slip out of the kitchen unnoticed. Tensions between motherinlaw and daughterinlaw have become routine ever since Nora moved in after her husband died. But this time it escalates.
What are you doing? Nora snaps, turning her glare on Victor. Think it doesnt involve you? Who rearranged the pantry shelves last month? Who decided the old stuff should be tossed?
Victor freezes in the doorway like a schoolboy caught cheating. He had suggested tidying the pantry where dozens of jam jars, pickles and marinades were stacked, but he hadnt expected a fullblown family showdown.
Nora, I was only trying to tidy up. Some of the jars have changed colour, Victor says, trying to sound reasonable.
Changed colour? Nora narrows her eyes, a warning look that promises trouble. You think youre a jam expert? Ive got forty years of canning experience! Forty! I was already preserving when you were still crawling under the table, and I knew every trick in the book then.
Emily rolls her eyes. Shes heard that line a thousand times, just like the stories of wartime rationing when homecanned goods saved families.
Mother, calm down. I only threw out what was clearly spoiled. The rest is still there, Emily says, trying to keep her voice even while her stomach churns.
And who gave you the right to decide whats spoiled? Nora presses her palms to her hips. These are my jars! I sealed them myself!
In our flat! In our kitchen! And theyve lived in our pantry! Emily snaps back.
A heavy silence settles. Whiskers, the cat napping on the windowsill, lifts one eye, surveys the scene and drifts to a quieter spot.
So, Noras voice drops to an eerie whisper, if this is your flat and your pantry, then I have no business here.
She strides resolutely toward her bedroom. A minute later, the clatter of sliding drawers signals that Nora has begun loading a suitcase.
Emily slumps into a chair, covering her face with her hands.
Here we go again, she murmurs. Now shell be moving to her sister in York. The third time this month.
Victor places a hand on Emilys shoulder.
Maybe shell actually go this time? he says, more hopeful than certain.
You know how she is, Emily sighs. Shell pack, then start complaining about how hard it will be to get there with the changes, then mention Lucys tiny flat and by evening itll be forgotten until the next argument.
From Noras room a crash echoes, followed by a tirade about ungrateful children who dont appreciate a mothers care.
It feels more serious this time, Victor notes. Its her strategic reserve, you know how she trembles over her preserves.
Emily exhales heavily. The jam means more to her mother than a sweet spread; its pride, a way to show love, a link to the past. Each jar holds a story: berries from a summer trip to the Lake District, or apples of the White Blush variety from a neighbours old garden.
Ill talk to her, Emily decides, rising from the table.
She pushes open the bedroom door and finds an open suitcase on the bed, Nora methodically folding clothes into it.
Mum, enough. Lets talk calmly, Emily begins.
Whats there to talk about? Its obvious. Im in the way. My jam takes up too much space in your precious pantry, Nora emphasizes the word your.
No one said youre in the way. Its just that some jars have sat so long theyre no longer edible, Emily replies.
Thats just your opinion! Nora bursts. Last year I opened a tenyearold jam and it was perfectly fine! Do you know how many chemicals are in storebought jam? Mine is allnatural, ecofriendly!
Emily sits on the edge of the bed, choosing words that wont spark another fight.
Mum, I get that these jars arent just food to you. But we really are short on space, and some of these preserves have sat untouched for years.
Theyre not eaten because you dont understand their value! Nora retorts. Youre used to those preservativeladen supermarket sweets. If disaster ever struck, the first thing wed need would be homecanned goods!
What, a war? A flood? Emily cant help but laugh.
Laugh all you want, Nora shakes her head. But remember the nineties? We survived on my jars. Remember the cherry jam you loved at Christmas when the shops were empty?
Emily nods, recalling the jar and the time her mother traded her last cucumber jar for school notebooks. Times have changed.
Mum, today we have supermarkets all year round. No need for massive stockpiles.
Thats why you dont value hard work! Nora exclaims, snapping her suitcase shut. I spend whole summers at the stove, cooking, sealing, and you you throw it away!
Tears shine in Noras eyes, and a pang of guilt hits Emily. For her mother, each jar is a tiny triumph, a way to care for the family.
I didnt throw everything away, Mum. Only what was truly inedible, Emily says gently. Can I show you whats left?
Nora hesitates, then curiosity wins. She follows Emily to the kitchen and then the pantry.
Look, Emily points to the shelves. All your jam thats still good is right here. These are the ones I was about to open.
She pulls out a couple of ambercoloured apricot jars.
Remember you made those three years ago? Dylan loves them.
Dylan, their fourteenyearold son, usually steers clear of grandmas experiments, preferring chips, but apricot jam is an exceptionhe eats it straight from the spoon.
Nora inspects the jars, counting them aloud. Wheres the raspberry? Im sure there were six; only three remain. And the blueberry is missing!
Emily winces. She did secretly toss a few jarsone with insects, another with a thin mould line.
The raspberry we ate it, she lies, hoping Nora wont press further.
All three in one week? Nora narrows, skeptical.
Just then Dylan wanders in, hair rumpled from sleep.
Whats all the noise? he asks, rubbing his eyes.
Grandmas asking where the raspberry jam disappeared, Emily replies, shooting a pointed glance at him.
Dylan gauges the situation quickly. Ah, the raspberry I shared it with some mates while we were cramming for physics. It was brilliant, Mum! he says, trying to sound sincere.
Noras eyebrows lift. Really? She studies his face, looking for a hint of deceit. Alright then, Ill make another batch next year.
Please, not too much, Emily interjects. Were running out of space.
Space is short, Nora mutters, then asks, What about the blueberry?
Emily stumbles, unable to craft a plausible story.
I was in the kitchen late last night and dropped the jar, Dylan blurts out. It shattered. I cleaned it up and forgot to tell you. Sorry, Grandma.
Nora shakes her head, displeased but relieved. Kids these days clumsy, arent they?
She returns to her bedroom to finish packing. Emily smiles gratefully at Dylan, ruffling his hair.
Thanks, you saved us.
No problem, Dylan shrugs. Just remember, next time youre thinking of tossing my moms preserves, check with Aunt Lucys cottage first, and give me at least a couple of days notice.
Victor watches the scene from the hallway and chuckles softly.
The next morning, Emily walks into the kitchen and finds the very jars she threw out lined up on the table, Nora standing beside them with a triumphant grin.
Good morning, Nora chirps, far too chipper for the hour. Look what I found!
Where? Emily asks, bewildered, eyeing the jars she knows were in the bin.
In the rubbish, of course! I got up early and checked. Look, Nora taps the lid of a raspberry jar. Nothings wrong, its perfectly fine. She opens it, and a faint, sour smell of fermented fruit wafts out, a thin white film glistening on the surface.
Mum, thats spoiled, Emily says gently, trying not to inhale the aroma.
It isnt! Its just sugar crystallising, an oldfashioned method to make jam last longer, Nora declares. Back in the day we deliberately let it set like this.
Emily realises the conversation is at an impasse.
Alright, Mum. Keep the jars; Ill figure out what to do with them, she says, already planning to toss them later when Nora is out with her weekly tea with the neighbours.
But Nora seems to have read her thoughts.
Ill handle them myself. Ill make a compote.
A compote from old jam? Emily raises an eyebrow.
Why not? Dilute with water, boildelicious! Nora says, already pulling a large pot from the shelf.
Emily scrambles for a rescue plan. Consuming the contents is unsafe, yet convincing Nora seems impossible.
How about we buy fresh berries and make new jam together? Like when we were kids? Emily suggests.
Nora freezes, pot in hand.
Together? she asks doubtfully. You always say you have no time for homepreserving.
For a special occasion, time appears, Emily smiles. Remember how you taught me to sort the berries? I still recall the exact sugar ratio and how to sterilise the jars.
Noras eyes light up.
Of course I remember! You were always a keen pupil, she says proudly. These days, young cooks rely on supermarket jars.
Lets prove homemade is best, Emily replies, glad the talk is shifting away from the ruined jars. We can get Dylan involved too, teach him a thing or two.
Dylan? Hes glued to his computer, Nora laughs. He cant even boil water.
He said he wants to learn real cooking, Emily lies, knowing hed rather have extra maths lessons than jam lessons.
Nora ponders. Well, theres a market today with excellent strawberries. Andrew Stevens mentioned his daughter brought in a massive, sweet batch yesterday.
Great! Lets go after lunch, Emily agrees. And maybe we should leave those jars in the binLucy called yesterday, said her granddaughter got sick from a threeyearold jam.
Nora nods, then, with a decisive snap, packs the questionable jars back into a bag. Ill throw them out myself. Not that Im being mean.
Dont worry, Mum, Emily smiles. I know you care about us.
They head out, spend a breezy afternoon at the market, and buy four kilos of topgrade strawberries for about £15. Back home, Nora bursts into command mode, directing the jammaking with gusto. To Emilys surprise, Dylan, hearing about the fresh strawberries, volunteers to helpmostly to taste the berries before they hit the pot.
No, no, no! Nora scolds, snatching a berry from Dylan. First work, then reward! And wash those berries!
Come on, Grandma, a little dirt builds immunity, Dylan jokes, then obediently washes his hands.
Victor returns from work to find the kitchen transformed: his wife, motherinlaw, and son all busy chopping, sterilising jars, and cutting paper circles for lids.
Can I join the team? Victor asks, inhaling the sweet scent.
Only if you wash your hands first! Nora snaps. And change your shirtstrawberry stains are impossible to get out.
Victor changes and dives in. Its the first time the family has tackled a jam together since Nora moved in.
The evening passes in a warm, collegial buzz. Nora, feeling like the grandmaster, shares tips:
The jam must stay clear, the fruit whole, the syrup thick but not cloying.
When eight jars of fresh strawberry jam line the table, cooling before sealing, Nora beams with pride.
Now thats real work! Not those cheap supermarket packets.
Theyll fit nicely in the pantry, Emily jokes. They wont sit there for years.
Exactly! Dylan agrees, sneakily licking a spoonful.
Later, in the bedroom, Victor and Emily talk quietly.
You know, Ive realised something, Emily says. Mum isnt just being stubborn. She clings to those jars to feel useful, to know she still looks after us.
So youre thinking of filling the pantry with her preserves? Victor asks cautiously.
No, Emily laughs. But maybe we give her a dedicated shelf or a little cupboard for the good stuff, and we gradually manage the rest.
Reasonable compromise, Victor agrees. And honestly, its been fun. I forgot how we used to do these things together.
The next morning Emily suggests a pantry reorganisation. To her surprise, Nora greets the idea enthusiastically.
Its about time! We can label the shelves so we dont mix raspberry with strawberry.
Together they draft a new layout, agreeing that Nora will decide which jars stay and which go, but theyll all sort them together.
Deal, Emily says, relieved.
That night, over tea and fresh jam, Nora adds, You know, we could invite Aunt Lucy for a week. She always says my jam is the best. Let her come and see how its done!
Victor chokes on his tea, and Emily winces at the thought. Lucy, Noras sister, is even more headstrong about preserves
But seeing her mothers delighted face, Emily cant object.
Of course, Mum. Therell be room.
In the end, Emily realises that jars of jam arent the biggest threat to family harmony. Sometimes a little tolerance for quirks keeps the peace. And next time she considers tossing old jars, shell think twice and perhaps put them in the farout waste bin, maybe even covering them with a cardboard boxjust in case.
Dylan winks at her across the table, as if reading her thoughts, and Emily cant help but smile. All these little domestic squabbles only make the family stronger.
