Mum, what do you mean you threw them out? Are you out of your mind? That was raspberry jam! Margaret Thompson waves her arms so wildly she almost knocks her glasses off the chain.
Mum, those jars have been sitting in the pantry for five years! Five years! Theyre mouldy now, can you see? Sarah runs a tired hand through her hair. Everythings gone bad, you know?
Theres nothing mouldy in there! I check my preserves every time. That was a brilliant jam made from the raspberries we picked at Aunt Helens cottage in the Cotswolds. You wont find raspberries like that even in the height of summer now!
James, Sarahs husband, sighs quietly and tries to slip out of the kitchen. Arguments between motherinlaw and daughterinlaw have become routine ever since Margaret moved in after her husband died. But this time its different.
What are you doing, James? Margaret snaps, turning on her soninlaw. Think it doesnt involve you? Who rearranged the pantry shelves last month? Who decided the old stuff should be tossed?
James freezes in the doorway like a mischievous schoolboy. He had suggested clearing the pantry, where dozens of jars of jam, pickles and marinades had piled up, but he never imagined it would spark a fullblown family feud.
Margaret, I only wanted to tidy up. Some of the jars have changed colour, James tries to explain.
Changed colour? Margaret narrows her eyes, a bad omen. Are you an expert on homecanning? I have forty years of experience! Forty! I was already preserving when your mother was still walking around the kitchen on tiptoe.
Sarah rolls her eyes. Shes heard that line a thousand times, just like the old stories of wartime rationing when homemade preserves saved families.
Mum, calm down. I only threw away what was clearly spoiled. The rest is still there, Sarah says, trying to stay calm while she feels the heat rising inside.
And who gave you the right to decide whats spoiled and what isnt? Margaret presses her hands to her hips. These are my jars! I sealed them myself!
In our flat! In our kitchen! And we stored them in our pantry! Sarah cant hold back any longer.
A heavy silence falls. Mittens, the cat napping on the windowsill, opens one eye, surveys the scene and slinks to a quieter spot.
So, Margarets voice drops to a whisper, if this is your flat and your pantry, then I suppose I have no business here.
She strides resolutely to her bedroom. A minute later the sound of drawers being pulled out echoes down the hall the unmistakable sign that Margaret is gathering her things.
Sarah collapses onto a chair, burying her face in her hands.
Here we go again, she whispers. Now shell be packing to stay with her sister in York. Thats the third time this month.
James puts a hand on Sarahs shoulder. Maybe shell actually go this time? theres more hope than certainty in his voice.
You know how she is, Sarah sighs. Shell pack, then start complaining about the long journey, then say Lucys flat is tiny and by evening the whole thing is forgotten until the next blowup.
In Margarets room something clatters to the floor, followed by a tirade about ungrateful children who dont appreciate a mothers care.
It feels more serious this time, James notes. Its her strategic reserve, you know how she trembles over her preserves.
Sarah sighs heavily. The jam means more to her mother than just a sweet spread; its pride, a way to show care, a link to the past. Each jar carries a story: berries picked on a trip to the Lake District, apples of the Golden Delicious variety from a latefriends garden.
Ill talk to her, Sarah decides, standing up from the table.
She steps into her mothers bedroom and finds an open suitcase on the bed, Margaret methodically slipping clothes inside.
Mum, thats enough. Lets talk calmly, Sarah begins.
Whats there to talk about? Its all clear. Im in the way. My jam takes up too much space in your precious pantry, Margaret emphasizes the word your.
No one said youre in the way. Its just that some jars have been there so long theyre no longer edible.
Thats what you think! I opened a tenyearold jar last year and it was perfectly fine! Do you know how much preservative is in storebought jam? Mine is all natural, ecofriendly!
Sarah sits on the edge of the bed, choosing her words carefully.
Mum, I get that these jars arent just food to you. But we really need the space, and some of the preserves have been untouched for years.
Theyre not eaten because you dont understand their value! Youre used to those preservativeladen supermarket sweets. If a crisis ever hits, the first thing well need is homemade stock!
What crisis, Mum? War? Flood? Sarah cant hold back a laugh.
Laugh all you like, Margaret replies, shaking her head. But in the 90s we survived on my preserves. Remember the cherry jam you loved at Christmas when the shops were empty?
Sarah remembers that jar, and also how Mum once swapped a jar of pickles for school notebooks. Times have changed.
Mum, today we have food all year round. No need for massive stockpiles.
Thats exactly why you dont value the work! Margaret snaps, slamming the suitcase shut. I spend entire summers at the stove, cooking, canning, and you you throw it away!
Tears glisten in Margarets eyes, and Sarah feels a sting of conscience. For her mother each jar is a tiny triumph, a way to look after the family.
I didnt throw everything away, Mum. Only what was truly uneatable, Sarah says gently. Can I show you whats left?
Margaret hesitates, then curiosity wins. She follows Sarah to the kitchen and then the pantry.
Look, Sarah points to the shelves. All your jam thats still good is right here. These are the ones I was going to open.
She pulls out a few amber jars of apricot jam.
Remember you made this three years ago? Daniel loves it.
Daniel, their fourteenyearold son, usually stays away from Grandmas experiments, preferring fastfood, but apricot jam is his exception he eats it straight from the spoon.
Margaret examines the jars, counting them aloud.
Wheres the raspberry? Im sure there were six jars, only three left. And the blueberry is missing!
Sarahs stomach knots. She did secretly toss a few, hoping to spare her mother hurt. Some had tiny bugs, others showed a thin mould rim.
The raspberry we ate it, she lies, hoping Mum wont press further.
All three in one week? Margaret asks skeptically.
Just then Daniel wanders in, hair mussed.
Whats all the noise? he asks, rubbing his eyes.
Grandmas asking where the raspberry jam went, Sarah says, flashing him a sharp look.
Daniel instantly gauges the situation. Despite teenage rebellions, he often shows unexpected loyalty in family matters.
Oh, the raspberry I shared it with some friends when they came over to study for physics. It was delicious, Grandma!
Margaret sits up straight, pleased that the younger generation appreciates her cooking.
Really? she says, eyes narrowed but hopeful. Well then, Ill make more next year.
Sure, Mum, Sarah replies, just maybe not as much?
Might be a bit tight on space, Margaret mutters, but the edge softens. What about the blueberry?
Sarah stumbles, unable to craft a plausible story.
I I dropped a jar in the kitchen at night, Daniel interjects. It shattered. I cleaned it up and forgot to tell anyone. Sorry, Grandma.
Margaret shakes her head, annoyed but relieved. The crisis passes; her grandson is her Achilles heel.
Kids these days, so clumsy, she mutters.
She returns to her bedroom to finish packing. Daniel gives Sarah a quick grin.
Thanks for the rescue, she says.
Youre welcome, he shrugs. Just remember, next time youre about to toss my jam, check with Aunt Lucys cottage first, and give it at least a couple of days.
James, watching from the hallway, chuckles softly.
It seems the incident is over, but the next morning Sarah walks into the kitchen to find the very jars she threw away now lined up on the table. Margaret sits beside them, a triumphant smile on her face.
Good morning, she chirps far too cheerfully. Look what I found!
Where? Sarah asks, stunned, eyeing the jars she remembers seeing in the bin outside.
In the dustbin, of course! I got up early, checked, and it was all there, perfectly intact, Margaret taps the lid of a raspberry jar. Nothings happened to it, its in fine shape.
She opens the jar and a sharp, fermented scent with a hint of mould wafts through the kitchen. A thin white film glistens on the surface.
Mum, its spoiled, Sarah says gently, trying not to inhale the odour.
No, thats just sugar crystallising. In the old days we deliberately let jam reach that stage so it would last longer, Margaret insists.
Sarah sees the conversation deadend.
Alright, Mum. Keep the jars; Ill see what I can do with them, she says, already planning to toss them later when Margaret is out with her weekly tea circle.
But Margaret seems to read her thoughts.
Ill deal with them myself. Ill make compote.
Compote from old jam? Sarah blinks.
Why not? Dilute with water, simmer, and youve got a great dessert, Margaret says, pulling a large saucepan from the shelf.
Sarah scrambles for a rescue plan. Consuming the contents is unsafe, yet convincing her seems impossible.
You know what, Mum? How about we buy fresh berries and make a new batch of jam together? Like when we used to as kids?
Margaret freezes, saucepan in hand.
Together? she asks, doubtful. You always say you have no time for canning.
For a special occasion, Ill find the time, Sarah smiles. Remember how you taught me to sort the berries? I still recall how to sterilise the jars and how much sugar to add
Margarets eyes light up.
Of course I remember! You were always my eager pupil, she says proudly. Only nowadays young cooks rely on supermarket jars.
Lets prove homemade is better, Sarah adds, thrilled the argument is shifting away from the rotten jars. We can get Daniel involved, too.
Daniel? Margaret laughs. Hes all about his computer.
He wants to learn something real, actually, Sarah lies. He said yesterday hed like to try cooking something proper.
Thats a stretchDaniel would rather take extra maths lessons than a cooking coursebut Sarah needs peace.
If thats true, Margaret muses. Theres a good strawberry stall at the market. Andrew Stevens mentioned his daughter brought in a big, sweet batch yesterday.
Perfect! Shall we go after lunch? Sarah suggests.
Well go, Margaret agrees, then adds, and these, she gestures at the rescued jars, maybe we shouldnt use them. Yesterday Tamara Green called; her granddaughter got sick from threeyearold jam.
Sarah exhales a breath of relief.
Better safe than sorry, she agrees. Safety first.
Margaret packs the questionable jars back into a bag.
Ill throw them out myself. Dont think Im doing it just to be difficult.
Dont worry, Mum, Sarah says, smiling. I know you care for us.
After lunch they head to the market and buy four kilos of the choicest strawberries. Back home, Margaret throws herself into directing the jammaking process with unexpected enthusiasm. Daniel, hearing about fresh strawberries, volunteers to helpthough his main interest lies in tasting the fruit before it hits the pot.
No, no, no! Margaret snaps, snatching a berry from his hand. First work, then reward! And wash the berries!
Its just a bit of dirt, it builds immunity, Daniel jokes, then dutifully washes his hands.
Victor, returning from work, finds the kitchen transformed: his wife, his motherinlaw, and his son all collaborating over a mountain of cleaned fruit, a massive pot, and rows of sterilised jars. He smells the sweet aroma and grins.
Can I join the team? he asks.
Only if you wash your hands first! Margaret retorts. And change your shirt. Strawberry stains are impossible to get out.
Victor changes and jumps in. The last time the whole family cooked together was years ago, before Margaret moved in.
The evening drifts into a warm, friendly atmosphere. Margaret, feeling like the master, shares her secrets.
The jam must stay clear, the berries whole, the syrup thick but not cloying, she explains.
When eight jars of fresh strawberry jam line the table, cooling before sealing, Margaret beams with pride.
Now thats real work! Not those supermarket pretenders.
And theyll have a proper place in the pantry, Sarah smiles. That jam wont sit there for ages.
Exactly! Daniel agrees, sneaking a lick of the spoon.
Later, when Victor and Sarah are alone in the bedroom, Sarah confides:
You know, Mum isnt just being stubborn. She clings to those jars to feel useful, to know she still looks after us.
What do you suggest? Fill the whole pantry with her preserves? Victor asks cautiously.
No, Sarah laughs. Maybe we give her a dedicated shelf or a little cabinet. She can keep the truly good stuff there, and well gradually sort the rest.
Reasonable compromise, Victor nods. And it was actually fun today. I forgot how we used to do everything together.
The next morning Sarah offers Margaret a reorganisation plan. To her surprise, Margaret embraces the idea enthusiastically.
Its about time! We could label the shelves so we know whats where. You keep mixing up raspberry with strawberry.
Together they draft a new pantry layout. Margaret admits some jars have indeed lingered too long and should be used soon or discarded.
But Ill decide what goes, she insists. And well make new preserves together, like yesterday.
Deal, Sarah says, relieved.
That night, sipping tea with fresh jam, Margaret suddenly declares, You know what? Lets invite Aunt Lucy for a week. She always says my jam is the best. She can come and see how its done!
Victor coughs on his tea, and Sarah winces. Lucys sister, a similarly headstrong woman, also loves canning
But seeing her mothers delighted face, Sarah cant object.
Sure, Mum. Therell be room.
In the end, Sarah thinks, jars of jam arent the worst family trouble. Sometimes you have to tolerate a few quirks for peace. Next time she tosses old jars, shell be more careful, maybe placing them in the faraway bin and covering them with a cardboard box, just in case.
Daniel winks at her across the table, as if reading her thoughts, and Sarah cant help but smile. All these little family squabbles only make them stronger.
