Grandma Margaret Hawthornes jam jars the spark of the family quarrel
What do you mean threw away? Have you lost your mind? That was raspberry jam! Margaret flared, waving her hands so violently she nearly knocked the spectacles hanging from her chain off her nose.
Mother, those jars have been sitting in the pantry for five years! Five years! Ethel Hawthorne sighed, running a hand through her hair. Everything there is mouldy, can you see?
Theres nothing mouldy! I check my preserves every time. That was a fine jam made from the raspberries we picked at Aunt Agness cottage. You wont find berries that sweet these days!
George, Ethels husband, exhaled softly and tried to slip out of the kitchen unnoticed. The battles between motherinlaw and daughterinlaw had been a regular feature ever since Margaret moved in after her husbands death. But this time the storm was about to break.
What are you doing? Margaret snapped at her soninlaw. Think it doesnt concern you? Who rearranged the pantry shelves last month? Who decided the old stuff had to be tossed?
George froze in the doorway like a schoolboy caught cheating. He had suggested clearing the pantry, where dozens of jars of jam, pickles and chutney had accumulated, but he had not expected the tidyup to erupt into a fullblown family feud.
Mrs Hawthorne, I only wanted to put things in order. Some of those jars have changed colour, George tried to explain.
Changed colour? Margaret narrowed her eyes, an ominous look forming. And you think youre an authority on homepreserves? I have forty years of experience! Forty! I was already knowing the tricks of canning when you were still toddling under the table.
Ethel rolled her eyes. She had heard that argument a thousand times, just as she had heard stories of wartime rationing when homepreserves were a familys lifeline.
Mother, calm down. I only threw away what was clearly spoiled. The rest is still there, Ethel said as evenly as she could, though inside she felt a seething boil.
And who gave you the right to decide whats spoiled and what isnt? Margaret pressed her palms to her hips. These are my jars! I sealed them myself!
In our flat! In our kitchen! And theyve been stored in our pantry! Ethel snapped.
A heavy silence fell. Mog, the cat dozing on the windowsill, flapped one eye open, took stock of the scene and slunk back to a quieter corner.
So, Margarets voice dropped to a chilling whisper, if this is your flat and your pantry, then perhaps I have no business being here.
She marched to her bedroom. Within a minute, the clatter of sliding drawers announced that Margaret had begun packing her belongings.
Ethel sank into a chair, covering her face with her hands.
Just look at that, she whispered. Now shes going to move to her sister in York again. Thats the third time this month.
George laid a hand on Ethels shoulder. Maybe shell actually go this time? he said, more hopeful than certain.
You know how she is, Ethel sighed. Shell start packing, then lament how hard the journey will be, then complain that Lucys flat is too small and by evening the whole thing will be forgotten until the next row.
From Margarets room a crash echoed, followed by a tirade about ungrateful children who never appreciate a mothers care.
It feels more serious now, George observed. Its her strategic reserve, you know how she clings to her preserves.
Ethel took a deeper breath. For her mother, jam was more than a sweet spread; it was pride, a way to show love, a bridge to the past. Each jar held a story: berries gathered on a trip to the Lake District, apples of the Golden Delicious variety from a lateaunts orchard.
Ill speak with her, Ethel decided, rising from the table.
When she entered her mothers room she saw an open suitcase on the bed and Margaret methodically folding clothes into it.
Mum, enough. Lets talk calmly, Ethel began.
Whats there to talk about? Its all obvious. Im in the way. My jam takes up too much of your precious pantry, Margaret stressed the word your as if it were a knife.
No one said you were in the way. Its just that some of those jars have sat so long that nothing edible remains inside.
Thats how you see it! Margaret flared. Last year I opened a tenyearold jam it was perfectly fine! Do you know how many chemicals are in storebought jam? Mine is allnatural, farmfresh!
Ethel perched on the edge of the bed, choosing words that wouldnt spark another explosion.
Mum, I understand those jars mean more to you than food. But we really do have limited space, and some of these preserves havent been touched for years.
Its because you dont understand their value! Youve all grown used to those factorymade sweets with preservatives. If a crisis ever came, the first thing wed need would be our own stock!
What crisis, Mum? War? Flood? Ethel blurted.
Laugh all you like, Margaret replied, shaking her head. But I remember the eighties when we survived only because of my preserves. Remember that cherry jam you loved at Christmas when the shops were empty?
Ethel remembered. She remembered the jam jar and how her mother once swapped the last jar of pickles for school notebooks. Times had changed.
Mum, now we have supermarkets all year round. No need for massive stores.
Thats exactly why you dont value the work! Margaret exclaimed, snapping her suitcase shut. I spent whole summers at the stove, boiling, sealing, and you you throw it away!
Tears welled in Margarets eyes, and Ethel felt a pang of conscience. For her mother each jar was a tiny triumph, a way to keep the family safe.
I didnt throw everything away, Mum. Only what was truly inedible, she said gently. May I show you whats still good?
Margaret hesitated, then curiosity won. She followed Ethel to the kitchen, then to the pantry.
Look here, Ethel pointed to the shelves. All your jam thats still sound is right here. These are the ones I was going to open.
She lifted a few ambercoloured apricot jars.
Remember making this three years ago? Tom and I loved it.
Tom, their fourteenyearold son, usually avoided his grandmothers culinary experiments, preferring chips. But apricot jam was an exception he ate it straight from the spoon.
Margaret inspected the jars, counting them aloud.
And wheres the raspberry? Im sure there were six; only three remain. And the blueberry is missing!
Ethel winced internally. She had indeed slipped a few jars into the bin, some infested with tiny beetles, others with a faint mould rim.
The raspberry we ate it, she fibbed, hoping Margaret wouldnt press further.
All three in a week? Margaret asked, squinting.
At that moment Tom wandered in, hair ruffled.
Whats all this commotion? he asked, scratching his head.
Grandma wants to know where the raspberry jam disappeared, Ethel said, shooting him a look.
Tom thought quickly. Ah, the raspberry I ate it with a few mates. Theyd popped over to study for physics, and the jam was delicious, Grandma!
Margaret sat upright, surprised but pleased that the younger generation appreciated her work.
Really? she said, eyes softening. Well then, Ill make more next year.
Please do, Mum, Ethel replied, just maybe not so many at once? Space is tight.
Space is tight, Margaret muttered, then turned to the missing blueberry.
I I knocked a jar over at night and it broke, Tom confessed. I cleaned it up, but I forgot to tell you. Sorry, Grandma.
Margaret shook her head, a mixture of irritation and affection. Ah, the youth always clumsy.
She returned to her suitcase, stuffing it hurriedly. Ethel smiled at her son, ruffling his hair.
Thanks, you saved the day.
No problem, Tom shrugged. Just remember, if you ever throw away a jar, make sure its from Aunt Lucys garden and give it a couple of days to settle.
George, watching from the hallway, chuckled quietly.
The next morning Ethel entered the kitchen to find the very jars shed tossed lined up on the table, Margaret standing proudly beside them.
Good morning, Margaret chirped, far too bright for the hour. Look what I found!
Where? Ethel gasped, eyes widening at the sight of the jars she remembered disposing of in the bin outside.
In the rubbish, of course! I got up early and checked. Nothings harmed, Margaret tapped the lid of a raspberry jar. All fine.
She opened it, and a sharp, fermented scent with a faint mouldy note wafted out, a thin white film glimmering on the surface.
Mum, its spoiled, Ethel said softly, holding her breath.
No! Its just the natural crystallisation of sugar. In olden days we deliberately let jam reach that state so it would last longer, Margaret declared.
Ethel realised the argument was at an impasse.
Alright, Mum. Keep the jars; Ill decide what to do with them, she said, already planning to discard them once Margaret was off with her weekly tea with the neighbours.
But Margaret seemed to read her thoughts.
Ill take care of them myself. Ill make a compote.
A compote from old jam? Ethel asked, surprised.
Why not? Dilute with water, boil it. Itll be a lovely compote! Margaret was already reaching for a large pot.
Ethel had to act fast. Consuming those jars was unsafe, yet persuading her mother seemed impossible.
You know what, Mum? Lets buy fresh berries and make a new batch together, like when we were kids, she suggested gently.
Margaret froze, pot in hand.
Together? she repeated doubtfully. You always say you have no time for preserving.
For a special occasion, time appears, Ethel smiled. Remember how you taught me to sort the berries, how much sugar to use?
Margarets eyes lit up.
Of course! You were always a keen pupil, she said proudly. These days young folk rely on supermarkets.
Lets prove the home way is still best, Ethel replied, glad the conversation shifted away from the ruined jars. And well get Tom to help too.
Tom? Margaret laughed. Hes glued to his computer.
He said he wants to learn to cook something proper, real, Ethel added, a small fib.
In truth, Tom would rather have extra math lessons than a jammaking class, but Ethel was willing to stretch the truth for peace.
Fine then, Margaret said, thinking of the market. There should be good strawberries today. Mr. Andrews mentioned his daughter brought in a big, sweet batch.
Great! Shall we go after lunch? Ethel asked.
We shall, Margaret agreed, then hesitated. And these, she waved at the rescued jars, maybe we should leave them be. Yesterday Mrs. Thompson called, said her granddaughter got ill from threeyearold jam.
Ethel let out a relieved sigh.
Better safe than sorry, she said. Safety first.
Margaret packed the jars back into a bag.
Ill throw them out myself. Dont think Im being spiteful, she muttered.
Of course, Mum, Ethel replied, smiling. We know you care for us.
They went to the market and bought four kilos of the choicest strawberries. Back home, Margaret took charge of the jam, her enthusiasm infectious. Tom, hearing about fresh strawberries, volunteered to help mostly by tasting the berries before they went into the pot.
No, no, no! Margaret barked, snatching a berry from his hand. First the work, then the reward! And wash them properly!
Just a bit of dirt builds character, Grandma, Tom joked, but dutifully washed his hands.
Victor returned from work to find his wife, motherinlaw and son all bustling around the kitchen. A mountain of cleaned berries sat on the table, Margaret stirring a massive pot, Ethel sterilising jars, Tom cutting paper circles for sealing.
Can I join the team? Victor asked, inhaling the sweet aroma.
Only if you wash your hands first! Margaret ordered. And change your shirt; strawberry stains are stubborn.
Victor changed and helped, recalling the last time the whole family had cooked together many years ago, before Margaret moved in.
The evening unfolded in a surprisingly warm, friendly atmosphere. Margaret, feeling like the undisputed expert, shared her secrets generously.
The jam must stay clear, the berries whole, the syrup thick but not cloying, she instructed.
When eight jars of fresh strawberry jam stood cooling on the counter, Margaret beamed with pride.
Now thats real work! Not those factory jams.
And theyll earn their place in the pantry, Ethel smiled. This jam wont sit forever.
Thats for sure! Tom whispered, licking a stray spoonful.
Later, when Victor and Ethel were alone in the bedroom, she confided in him:
Ive realised something. Mum isnt being stubborn just for the sake of it. Keeping those jars is her way of feeling needed, of still caring for us.
What do you suggest? Fill the pantry with her preserves? Victor asked cautiously.
No, Ethel laughed. But perhaps we could give her a dedicated shelf or a cabinet. Let her keep the truly good stuff there, and well quietly manage the rest.
A sensible compromise, Victor agreed. And, you know, it was actually fun today. I forgot how we used to do everything together.
The next morning Ethel proposed a reorganisation of the pantry. To her surprise, Margaret embraced the idea enthusiastically.
Its about time! We could label the shelves so you dont mix up raspberry with strawberry again.
Together they drew up a plan for a revamped pantry. Margaret conceded that some jars had indeed lingered too long and should be used sooner or discarded.
But Ill decide what goes, she insisted. And well make new preserves together, just like yesterday.
Deal, Ethel said, relieved.
That night, as they all sipped tea with fresh jam, Margaret announced, You know, we should invite Aunt Lucy for a week. She always says my jam is the best. Let her come and see how its done!
Victor choked on his tea, and Ethel winced. Lucy Hawthorne, Margarets sister, was even more headstrong and shared her own passion for canning
Seeing her mothers delighted face, Ethel could not object.
Of course, Mum. Therell be room.
In the end, Ethel thought as she poured another cup of tea, jam jars were not the gravest threat to a family. Sometimes one must endure oddities for peace. And the next time she considered discarding old jars, she would be more cautious, perhaps placing them in a distant bin and covering them with a cardboard box, just in case.
Tom winked at her across the table, as if reading her thoughts, and Ethel couldnt help but smile. All these domestic skirmishes, after all, only made the family stronger.
