Dear Diary,
Today the jam jars in Mums pantry ignited a fullblown row.
Throwing them away? Are you out of your mind? That was raspberry jam! MumMaggie Thompsonflung her hands so wildly she almost knocked her glasses off the chain around her neck.
Mum, those jars have sat in the larder for five years! Five years! Theyre mouldy now, can you see that? I, Emily Clarke, ran a tired hand through my hair. Theyre all gone to rot, you know?
Nothings mouldy! I check my preserves every single time. This was a brilliant jam made from the raspberries we picked at Aunt Veras cottage. You cant find berries that sweet these days! she retorted, eyes bright with the memory of a summer harvest.
Victor, my husband, let out a quiet sigh and tried to slip out of the kitchen. The battles between my mum and me have been a regular feature since Mum moved in after my father’s death, but this time she wasnt letting me go.
What are you up to, then? she snapped, turning on Victor. Think this doesnt concern you? Who rearranged the shelves in the pantry last month? Who decided that all the old stuff should be tossed?
Victor froze in the doorway like a schoolboy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He had suggested a tidyup of the pantry, where dozens of jars of jam, pickles and marinades had accumulated, but he hadnt expected the cleanup to explode into a family showdown.
Mum, I was only trying to get things organised. Some of the jars have even changed colour, Victor tried to explain.
Changed colour? Mum narrowed her eyes, a warning sign flashing. You think youre an expert on homecanning? Ive got forty years of experience! Forty! I was already learning the tricks of the trade when you could barely walk under the kitchen table.
I rolled my eyes. Id heard that line a thousand times, just like the old wartime stories of making do with homepreserves.
Mum, calm down. I only threw away what was clearly spoiled. The rest is still there, I said as calmly as I could, though my stomach was doing somersaults.
And who gave you the right to decide whats spoiled and what isnt? Mum planted her 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 back.
A heavy silence settled over the room. Whiskers, our cat, stretched on the windowsill, opened one eye, assessed the scene, and then slunk off to a quieter corner.
So, Mums voice fell to a scary whisper, if this is your flat and your pantry, perhaps I have no business being here.
She marched off to her bedroom. A minute later the clatter of drawers being pulled out echoed down the halla deadgiveaway sign that Mum was beginning to pack her things.
I sank into a chair, covering my face with my hands.
Here we go again, I muttered. Now shell be heading off to my sister in York. The third time this month.
Victor placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. Maybe shell actually go this time?
You know how she is, I sighed. Shell start packing, then complain about how hard itll be to get there with all the transfers, then mention that Lucys tiny flat is and by evening everything will be forgotten until the next spat.
From Mums room something crashed onto the floor, followed by a tirade about ungrateful children who never appreciate a mothers care.
I think this one is serious, Victor observed. Its her strategic reserve, you know how she panics over her preserves.
I exhaled heavily. For Mum, jam was more than a sweet treat with tea; it was a badge of pride, a way to show love, a link to the past. Every jar held a story: the raspberries from a trip to the Lake District, the White Gold apples from the late Mrs. Whitakers garden.
Ill go talk to her, I decided, rising from the table.
When I entered Mums room, I found her suitcase already open on the bed, and Mum methodically stuffing clothing into it.
Mum, thats enough. Lets talk calmly, I began.
Whats there to talk about? Its all obvious. Im in the way. My jam takes up too much precious space in your beloved pantry, she stressed the word your as if it were a dagger.
No one said you were in the way. Its just that some of the jars have been sitting so long theyre no longer edible. I tried to keep my tone even.
Thats just your opinion! Mum fired back. Last year I opened a tenyearold jar and it was perfectly fine! Do you know how much chemicals are in storebought jam? Mine is all natural, homegrown!
I perched on the edge of the bed, choosing words that wouldnt spark another round.
Mum, I get that these jars mean a lot to you. But our pantry is tiny, and weve got a few preserves nobody touches for years.
They dont eat them because they dont understand their value! Mum countered. Youre used to those supermarket sweets with preservatives. If disaster ever struck, the first thing youd need would be homemade stores!
What disaster, Mum? War? Flood? I blurted.
She laughed, shaking her head. In the 90s we survived on my preserves alone. Remember the cherry jam you loved at Christmas when the shops were empty?
I remembered that jar, and the time Mum traded a jar of pickles for school notebooks. Times had changed.
Mum, now we have supermarkets all year round. No need for massive stockpiles.
Thats why you dont value hard work! she shouted, snapping her suitcase shut. I spent whole summers at the stove, boiling, sealing, and you throw it away!
Tears glistened in her eyes, and a sting of guilt hit me. For Mum, every jar was a tiny triumph, a way to care for us.
I didnt throw everything away, Mum. Only what was truly inedible, I said softly. May I show you whats left?
Mum hesitated, then curiosity won. She followed me to the kitchen and then the pantry.
Look here, I pointed at the shelves. All your jam thats still good is right here. And these are the ones I was about to open.
I pulled out a few ambercoloured apricot jars.
Remember you made this three years ago? Charlie loves it.
Charlie, our fourteenyearold son, usually stays away from Grandmas kitchen experiments, preferring fast food, but apricot jam was the one exception hed eat straight from the spoon.
Mum inspected the jars, counting them aloud. Wheres the raspberry? Im sure there were six; I only see three now. And the blueberry is missing too!
I winced. I had secretly tossed a couple of jars that had started to show tiny insects or a thin mould ring.
The raspberry we ate it, I lied, hoping she wouldnt pry further.
All three in one week? Mum narrowed her eyes. Youve been eating it fast.
Just then Charlie stumbled in, hair messy from sleep.
Whats all the fuss? he asked, rubbing his eyes.
Grandma wants to know where the raspberry jam disappeared, I said, shooting a sharp glance at him.
Charlie instantly gauged the situation. Oh, the raspberry I shared it with some friends who were studying for their physics test. We ate it all, Mum.
Mum sat up straight, surprise flickering across her face. Really? she asked, skeptical. Well, fine. Well make more next year.
Definitely, Mum, I replied, but maybe not as much?
Mum muttered, Theres never enough space, is there? What about the blueberry?
I stammered, unable to conjure a believable story.
I was in the kitchen late at night and knocked a jar over, Charlie stepped in. It shattered. I cleaned it up but forgot to tell you. Sorry, Mum.
Mum shook her head, a mix of annoyance and relief. Kids today so clumsy.
She went back to packing her suitcase, gathering the hastily throwntogether pile. I gave Charlie a grateful grin.
Thanks, you saved me, I said.
No problem, he replied, just remember next time youre about to toss my jam, check if its from Aunt Lucys garden. And give it at least a couple of days.
Victor, watching from the hallway, chuckled quietly.
The next morning, I walked into the kitchen expecting the discarded jars to be gone for good, only to find them lined up on the counter, exactly the ones Id tossed. Mum stood there, triumph shining in her eyes.
Good morning, she chirped, a little too brightly. Look what I found!
Where? I asked, bewildered, eyeing the jars that I was sure Id seen in the bin outside.
In the bin, of course! I got up early and checked. Look. She tapped the lid of the raspberry jar. Nothings wrong with it; its perfectly fine. She opened it, and a faint, slightly musty scent wafted out, a thin white film glistening on the surface.
Mum, its spoiled, I whispered, trying not to inhale.
Its just natural sugar crystallisation, she insisted. Back in the day we deliberately let jam reach this stage so it would last longer.
I realised we were at another deadend.
Alright, Mum. Keep the jars; Ill figure out what to do with them, I said, already planning to toss them later when shed be out with the ladies.
She nodded, already reaching for a large pot. Ill make a compote from the old jam.
A compote? I asked, eyebrows raised.
Yes! Dilute with water, bring to a boil. Itll be brilliant! She hauled the pot from the cupboard.
I scrambled for a rescue plan. Consuming the contents was unsafe, but convincing Mum seemed impossible.
Maybe we could buy fresh berries and make a new batch together? Like we used to? I suggested gently.
Mum froze, pot in hand.
Together? she echoed, doubtful. You always say you have no time for preserves.
For a special occasion I can find the time, I smiled. Remember how you taught me to sort the berries? I still recall the exact amount of sugar to use
Her eyes lit up.
Of course I remember! You were always a keen student, she said proudly. Only nowadays people rely on supermarket jars.
Lets prove homemade is better, I added, relieved the argument had shifted away from the rotten jars. And we can get Charlie involved, too.
Charlie? Mum chuckled. Hes glued to his computer.
He said he wants to learn to cook something proper, not just microwave pizza, I replied, halflying.
Hed probably rather have extra maths lessons than jammaking, but Id do anything for peace.
Mum, theres a great strawberry stall at the market today. Mr. Hargreaves mentioned his daughter brought in some huge, sweet berries. I suggested.
Lets go after lunch, Mum agreed, then glanced at the salvaged jars. Maybe theyre not worth using after all. My neighbour Margaret called; her granddaughter got ill from a threeyearold jam.
I let out a breath of relief.
We bought four kilos of handpicked strawberries. Back home, Mum took charge of the jammaking, while Charlie, excited at the prospect of tasting fresh berries, helped wash themthough he tried to argue that a little dirt was good for the immune system.
Victor returned from work to find the kitchen transformed: Mum bustling over a massive pot, me sterilising jars, Charlie cutting out paper circles for lids, and the countertop piled high with scrubbed berries.
Can I join the team? Victor asked, inhaling the sweet aroma.
Only if youve washed your handsand changed your shirt. Strawberry stains are relentless, Mum scolded goodnaturedly.
He obeyed, changing into a fresh shirt, and jumped in.
We hadnt cooked together like this since before Mum moved in. The night passed in a warm, almost festive atmosphere. Mum, proud as ever, shared her secrets.
The jam must stay clear, the fruit whole, the syrup thick but not cloying, she instructed.
When eight jars of fresh strawberry jam cooled on the table, ready for sealing, Mum beamed.
This is real work, not those artificial supermarket sweets, she declared.
Theyll fit in the pantry just fine, I replied, and theyll last a good while.
Exactly! Charlie chimed, licking a spoonful.
Later, when Victor and I were alone in the bedroom, I confessed what Id realised.
Mum isnt just being stubborn about the jars. Its her way of feeling useful, of showing she still cares for us.
And you think we should fill the pantry with her preserves? Victor asked cautiously.
No, I laughed. But maybe we could give her a dedicated shelf or a little cupboard just for the truly good stuff. The rest well manage together, bit by bit.
A sensible compromise, he agreed. And honestly, today was fun. I forgot how much we enjoyed doing these things as a family.
The next morning I suggested a reorganisation of the pantry. To my surprise, Mum was enthusiastic.
Its about time! We could label the shelves so you dont mix up raspberry with strawberry again, she said.
We drafted a plan, and Mum promised to let me decide which jars to discard, as long as she did the choosing herself. And well make new preserves together, just like yesterday, she added.
That evening, over tea and fresh jam, Mum announced, What if we invite Aunt Lucy for a week? She always says my jam is the best. She could see how we do it now!
Victor choked on his tea, and I winced. Aunt Lucy was even more stubborn than Mum, with her own obsession for homecanning
But looking at Mums delighted face, I couldnt protest.
Of course, Mum. Therell be room. I said, pouring another cup.
In the end, I realised that jars of jam arent the biggest threat to a family. Sometimes you have to endure a few eccentricities for the sake of peace. Next time Im about to toss old jars, Ill be more carefulperhaps putting them in the farend of the wheeliebin and covering them with a cardboard box, just in case.
Charlie winked at me across the table, as if hed read my thoughts, and I couldnt help but smile. All these little family squabbles only seem to make us stronger.
