Did you really throw it away? Are you out of your mind? That was raspberry jam! Mrs. Margaret Collins flings her hands, almost knocking the spectacles hanging from her chain off the table.
My mum, those jars have been in the pantry for five years! Five years! Olivia Clarke runs a tired hand through her hair. Everythings mouldy by now, can you see?
Nothings mouldy! I check my preserves every time. It was a brilliant jam made from the raspberries we picked at Aunt Graces cottage. You cant find berries like that in the middle of summer now!
Victor Clarke, Olivias husband, lets out a quiet sigh and tries to slip out of the kitchen unnoticed. The bickering between motherinlaw and daughterinlaw has become a regular feature ever since Margaret moved in after her husbands death. But this time it escalates quickly.
What are you doing? Margaret snaps, turning on Victor. Think it doesnt affect you? Who reorganised the pantry shelves last month? Who decided the old stuff should be tossed?
Victor freezes in the doorway like a mischievous schoolboy. He really had suggested clearing the pantry, where dozens of jam jars, pickles and marinades have piled up, but he never imagined the cleanup would spark a fullblown family feud.
Margaret, I only wanted to tidy up. Some of the jars have changed colour, Victor tries to explain.
Changed colour? Margaret squints, a foreboding look in her eyes. Are you an expert on homecanning? I have forty years of experience! Forty! I was already knowing the secrets of canning when your wife was still toddling around the kitchen.
Olivia rolls her eyes. Shes heard that argument a thousand times, just like the stories of wartime rationing when homepreserves were a family lifeline.
Mum, calm down. I only threw away what was clearly spoiled. The rest is still there, Olivia says in a steady voice, though she feels a boil inside.
And who gave you the right to decide whats spoiled? Margaret presses her hands into her hips. These are my jars! I sealed them myself!
In our flat! In our kitchen! And theyve been stored in our pantry! Olivia cant hold back any longer.
A heavy silence settles. The cat, Whiskers, halfasleep on the windowsill, opens one eye, surveys the scene and decides to retreat to a quieter spot.
So, Margarets voice drops to a chilling whisper, if this is your flat and your pantry, perhaps I have no business here.
She strides resolutely toward her bedroom. A minute later, the clatter of drawers being pulled out signals that Margaret has started packing her things.
Olivia collapses into a chair, covering her face with her hands.
Here we go again, she whispers. Now Im going to my sisters in York. The third time this month.
Victor places a hand on Olivias shoulder. Maybe shell actually go this time? he says, sounding more hopeful than confident.
You know how she is, Olivia sighs. Shell pack, then start complaining about the long journey with the train changes, then say Lucys tiny flat is and by evening everythings forgotten until the next argument.
In Margarets room something crashes to the floor, followed by a tirade about ungrateful children who dont appreciate their mothers care.
It feels more serious this time, Victor notes. Its her strategic reserve, you know how she trembles over her preserves.
Olivia sighs deeper. For her mother, jam is more than a sweet treat. Its pride, a way to show love, a link to the past. Each jar carries a story: berries from a trip to the Lake District, or apples of the Golden Delicious variety from a lateaunts garden.
Ill go talk to her, Olivia decides, standing from the table.
She steps into Margarets bedroom and finds an open suitcase on the bed, with Margaret methodically folding clothes into it.
Mum, thats enough. Lets talk calmly, Olivia 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 stresses the word your.
No one said you were in the way. Its just that some of those jars have been sitting so long theyre no longer edible, Olivia replies.
Thats how you see it! Margaret 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 natural, truly homemade!
Olivia sits on the edge of the bed, choosing words that wont ignite another flareup.
Mum, I get that these jars mean more to you than just food. But we really have little space, and some of the preserves havent been eaten for years.
You dont eat them because you dont understand their value! Margaret retorts. Youre used to those preservativeladen supermarket sweets. When disaster strikes, the first thing youll need is a stock of homemade supplies!
What disaster, Mum? War? Flood? Olivia cant hold back a laugh.
Margaret chuckles, shaking her head. In the nineties we survived because of my preserves. Remember the cherry jam you loved on New Years when the shops were empty?
Olivia recalls the jar and also how Mum once swapped the last cucumber jar for school notebooks. Times have changed.
Mum, now we have groceries all year round. No need for massive stockpiles.
Exactly, thats why you dont appreciate the work! Margaret exclaims, snapping the suitcase shut. I spend an entire summer at the stove, cooking and sealing, and you just throw it away!
Tears glisten in Margarets eyes, and Olivia feels a stab of guilt. 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 clearly inedible, she says softly. Can I show you whats left?
Margaret hesitates, then curiosity wins. She follows Olivia to the kitchen and then to the pantry.
Look, Olivia points to the shelves. All your jam thats still good is here. These are the ones I was planning to open.
She pulls out a few ambercoloured apricot jars.
Remember you made these three years ago? Tom and I both love them.
Tom, their fourteenyearold son, usually stays away from Grandmas culinary experiments, preferring chips. Yet he never refuses a spoonful of Margarets apricot jam.
Margaret inspects the shelves, counting jars and murmuring to herself.
Wheres the raspberry? Im sure there were six; I only see three. And the blueberry is missing!
Olivia winces internally. She did sneak a few jars into the bin because some had tiny insects or mould on the edges.
The raspberry we ate it, she lies, hoping Mum wont press.
All three in one week? Margaret asks, suspicious.
Just then Tom wanders in, hair a mess.
Whats all the noise? he asks, scratching his head.
Grandmas hunting for the missing raspberry jam, Olivia says, shooting him a sharp look.
Tom instantly assesses the situation. Despite teenage rebellions, he shows surprising loyalty in family squabbles.
Oh, the raspberry I shared it with some mates when they came over to study physics. It was delicious, Mum! he bluffs.
Margaret sits up straight, intrigued. Even the fastfood generation can appreciate her jams.
Really? she asks, eyeing him.
Sure, Mum. Next year Ill make more, Tom says.
Olivia nods. Just maybe not too much? Space is tight.
Space is tight, Margaret mutters, though her tone softens. What about the blueberry?
Olivia stumbles for a story.
I I dropped it at night and it broke, Tom interjects. I cleaned it up but forgot to tell you. Sorry, Mum.
Margaret shakes her head, clearly displeased but the storm passes. Kids today, all clumsy, she mutters harmlessly.
Tom grins sheepishly. Olivia ruffles his hair.
Thanks, mate, she says. You saved the day.
No problem, Tom replies. Just remember, if you ever want to toss my jam, make sure its from Aunt Lucys garden and give me at least a couple of days notice.
Victor watches from the hallway and chuckles quietly.
The next morning, Olivia enters the kitchen to find the very jars she thought shed discarded neatly lined up on the table. Margaret stands beside them, a triumphant smile on her face.
Good morning, she chirps, far too chipper for the hour. Look what I found!
Where? Olivia gasps, eyes on the jars she clearly remembers tossing in the bin outside.
In the wheeliebin, of course! I got up early and checked. Look, Margaret taps the lid of a raspberry jar. All intact.
She unscrews it, and a sharp, fermented scent with a faint hint of mould fills the air. A thin white film sits on the surface.
Mum, its spoiled, Olivia says gently, trying not to inhale.
Nothings wrong! Thats just sugar crystallising. In the old days we let jam turn like that so itd last longer, Margaret declares.
Olivia realises the conversation is at a dead end.
Fine, Mum. Keep the jars; Ill see what I can do with them, she says, already planning to discard them later when Margaret goes off to her weekly tea with the neighbours.
But Margaret seems to read her thoughts.
Ill handle them myself. Ill make compote.
Compote from old jam? Olivia asks, bewildered.
Why not? Add water, boil itdelicious compote, Margaret replies, already pulling a large pot from the shelf.
Olivia scrambles for a plan. Consuming the contents would be unsafe, yet convincing her seems impossible.
You know, Mum, how about I buy fresh berries and we make a new batch together? Like when we used to as kids?
Margaret freezes, pot in hand.
Together? she asks, doubtful. You always say you have no time for canning.
For a special occasion I can find the time, Olivia smiles. Remember how you taught me to sort the berries? I still recall the right amount of sugar and how to sterilise the jars.
Margarets eyes light up.
Of course I remember! You were always a keen pupil, she says proudly. But modern cooks rely on storebought stuff.
Lets prove homemade is better, Olivia replies, thrilled the argument shifts away from the ruined jars. And well get Tom involved too, so he learns.
Tom? Margaret laughs. He only knows his computer.
He said he wants to learn to cook something real, Olivia lies. In truth, Tom would rather have extra maths lessons than a kitchen lesson, but Olivia needs the peace.
Fine then, Margaret concedes. Theres a good strawberry stall at the market. Andrew Stevens mentioned his daughter brought out the biggest berries yesterday.
Great! Shall we go after lunch? Olivia suggests.
Lets, Margaret agrees, then adds, And maybe we should leave those these bins from the wheeliebin alone. Tamara called; her granddaughter got sick from threeyearold jam.
Olivia exhales relief. Better safe than sorry, she says.
Margaret packs the questionable jars back into a bag. Ill throw them out myself. Not that Id take them out of spite.
Dont worry, Mum, Olivia reassures. I know you care for us.
After lunch they head to the market and buy four kilos of topgrade strawberries. Back home, Margaret throws herself into the jammaking, her excitement contagious. Tom, hearing about fresh strawberries, volunteers to helpmostly to taste the berries before they hit the pot.
No, no, no! Margaret snaps, pulling a berry from Toms hand. First work, then reward! And wash those berries!
Just a bit of dirt boosts the immune system, Tom jokes, then obediently washes his hands.
Victor returns from work to find his wife, motherinlaw, and son all bustling around the stove. A mountain of cleaned strawberries sits on the table, Margaret stirring a massive pot, Olivia sterilising jars, and Tom cutting paper circles for the lids.
Can I join the team? Victor asks, inhaling the sweet aroma.
Only if you wash your hands first! Margaret orders. And change your shirtstrawberry stains are hard 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 unfolds in a warm, friendly atmosphere. Margaret, feeling like the resident expert, shares tip after tip.
The jam must stay clear, the fruit whole, the syrup thick but not gloopy, she instructs.
When eight jars of fresh strawberry jam line up on the counter, cooling before sealing, Margaret surveys them with pride.
Thats real work, not those supermarket imitations.
And theyll earn their spot in the pantry, Olivia smiles. They wont sit there forever, but theyll last a good while.
Exactly! Tom agrees, sneaking a lick from a spoon.
Later, in the bedroom, Victor and Olivia talk quietly.
You know, I realise Mum isnt just being stubborn. She clings to those jars to feel useful, to know shes still caring for the family, Olivia says.
And what do we do? Fill the pantry with her preserve empire? Victor asks cautiously.
No, Olivia laughs. Maybe we give her a dedicated shelf or a little cabinet just for the jars that are truly good. The rest well gradually sort out together.
Thats a sensible compromise, Victor agrees. And today was actually fun. I forgot how we used to do everything together.
The next morning Olivia proposes a reorganisation. To her surprise, Margaret greets the idea enthusiastically.
Its about time! We could even label the shelves so we know whats where. No more mixing raspberry with strawberry.
Together they draft a new pantry plan. Margaret admits some jars have been stored far too long and should be used soon or discarded.
But Ill decide what to get rid of, she insists. And well make new preserves together, just like yesterday.
Deal, Olivia says, relieved.
That night, while the family enjoys tea with fresh jam, Margaret suddenly suggests, Why dont we invite Aunt Lucy for a week? She always says my jam is the best. She could come and see how its done.
Victor chokes on his tea, and Olivia winces. Lucy, Margarets sister, is even more headstrong and shares her own love of homecanning
But seeing her mothers delighted face, Olivia cant object.
Of course, Mum. Therell be room.
In the end, Olivia thinks, jars of jam arent the worst thing a family can face. Sometimes you just have to tolerate each others quirks for peace. Next time shes about to throw old jars away, shell be more careful and maybe toss them into the faroff wheeliebin, covering them with a cardboard box just in case.
Tom winks at her across the table, as if reading her thoughts, and Olivia cant help but smile. All these little family skirmishes only make them stronger.
