My friend posted a photo of bags and bags of Mareille plums that he got from his tree. So many plums! He said. We just shook the tree and look how many plums! I just couldn’t resist.
“I could make jam,” I thought. “I can make jam. I have jars. I have sugar. I used to make jam all the time. How hard could it be?” I reasoned my way into driving up to Robert’s place to get a few plums, which turned out to be over 9kg, in a paper bag. Deceptive little buggers.
I got home late that night and realized the plums needed to be processed immediately. The bottom of the bag broke while I was removing it from the car, plum juice on the floormat, a trail of fruit leading to the kitchen sink, the sweet smell of overripe fruit hanging in the night air.
I put some music on and stood at the sink, which was filled with fruit and cool water. The soft orbs bumped into my fingers as I reached into the water for a fruit, splitting it in half, sliding the pits onto last week’s Coast Reporter that covered the counter, slipping the flesh into a bowl. From time to time a perfectly ripe plum hit my lips and I revelled in the simple flavour and juiciness.
Finally, the sink is empty, the cool water slightly milky, and three batches of fruit are ready for processing. The least ripe fruit sitting in a bowl ready to eat in a few days. It’s very late and I’m yawning.
I take my sore fingers and go to bed.
Saturday: Production Jam Day, Batch #1
I wash all the jars I can find in the house, 15 in all, and put them in the oven to sterilize. I mix 3kg of fruit, 2.8kg of sugar, a few tablespoons of grated ginger and the juice of a lemon into the pot on the stove. The first mess to clean up has occurred; sugar everywhere.
Production momentarily stops to clean this up. I’m still in a good mood, excited and visualizing jam on toast on a cold winter morning in a few months’ time.
The pot bubbles and smells wonderful and I relax into domestic bliss.
The recipe I’m using says not to bother with pectin as there is enough in the plums. The pot cooks, and cooks, and cooks some more. An hour passes. The stuff is like syrup. I grate an apple into the pot and cook some more. I continue to dribble “jam” onto a plate that’s been in the freezer, wait for things to cool, and... syrup. The colour is lovely though.
I finally, after another hour, convince myself that when it is fully cooled, it will be jam. I carefully fill the jars –– 12 of them –– and go read, continuing to dare the jars cooling on the kitchen table to stay runny. Just try it. See what happens. Soon, though, I’m deflated. The jars have defied me. Twelve jars of syrup.
Sunday: Production Jam Day #2
I get up early and go to the store to buy more jars, more sugar, and pectin. Three boxes. So much for the free plums not costing me a thing.
Sipping my coffee after I get home, I read the instructions in the pectin box. First thing I read is “How to fix your jam that isn’t jam.” Seriously. I take comfort in the fact that I’m not the only one.
I empty yesterday’s “jam” back into the pot, add the pectin at the wrong time, ignore my mistake and fill the prepared jars again. Now I’m back to even.
Next pot of fruit is on the go. Beautiful caramel colour, smells heavenly. Do the pectin instructions right. More jars filled. I’m going to run out of jars again, but I ignore this fact.
Last pot of fruit goes on the stove. No more ginger. I’m not going to the store. I decide to put a piece of vanilla in. Smells heavenly, brighter colour. Fill the rest of the jars, three bowls and a glass freezer container.
I’m so sick of jam that I doubt I’ll ever eat any of it.
It takes me two hours to clean up all the mess everywhere. Honestly, I’m such a messy cook. Does that mean I could be a famous cook? Not for jam, but for something else? The satisfying “ping” of the jars sealing offers me some comfort.
The jars are cooling, but still warm. I pick a few up and tip them to see if they’ve set. They have not. I resist the urge to throw them all out. I phone my sister and tell her that jam making is over, perhaps forever, and if, when I get up tomorrow, the jars have not set, I am throwing them out and we will never speak of this event again. She concurs.
Jan has phoned to say she’s picking up boxes of blueberries on Tuesday and did I want some? I’ll just get two. Boxes, not blueberries. How hard can it be to make blueberry jam?
