Silence of the Jams
Post holiday blues.
Often comfort eating is the answer, but on this occasion, like many other occasions, comfort cooking is just the ticket.
We visited Grandpa, who lives in a cottage which seems to border both the countryside and another, simpler, era. There we turned our hands to the therapeutic, almost trance inducing practice of blackcurrant picking.
Hours passed. Sheep idled by, eyeballing us, wary of the busy worker bees that had descended on Grandpa’s blackcurrant bushes. They made lousy guard dogs. We plundered most of the ripe berries without much interference, other than the odd midge bite, and we slept well that night with rosy countrified cheeks and purple fingers.
Then we made jam. Lots and lots of jam. And Jelly. Lots and lots of jelly.
And it was good.