A spoonful of jam
Summer's fruits held suspended.
Sylvia Plath wrote about honey, but in her day to day life she ate a lot of jam. This makes sense. Honey, with its quality of the miraculous, lends itself to poetry; jam is of the everyday. Lately, as the weather has turned cooler and more drear, I’ve wanted everyday things: plain black tea, novels I’ve already read. I think about Prufrock and his coffee spoons.
The season of decline. You feel it in the air, in the fallen leaves. A downturn, a diminishing.
And yet, in the slower seasons, jam can be a saviour. Hold a jar up to the light and see it turn jewel-toned – summer’s fruit held suspended. It is a small good thing to spoon it onto toast on a cold grey morning. To taste the ghost of warmer days.
A stock of jam in your cupboard can make the world feel somehow richer: in nostalgia, in anticipation. Strawberry jam, wine-coloured and tasting of childhood. The luxuriant depth of black cherry confit. Fig jam, that outlier, destined to be paired with goat’s cheese, bitter greens.
I’ve tried to make my own jam now and then, but it never turns out. It tastes fine enough, but the texture is all wrong: ending up as something syrupy and liquid, good only for spooning on porridge or over thick Greek yoghurt. Mostly, I buy Bonne Maman or St Dalfour at the supermarket. When I can, I search out uncommon flavours at speciality stores: quince, chestnut, rose petal.
On a recent morning, I opened a jar of marmalade given to me by a dear friend’s mother-in-law. I spread it on sourdough toast with butter. Bitter pith and sweet jelly: the taste of a whole citrus grove. I made tea and sat by the window. Outside, the sky was granite. No matter. On the plate, the memory of a harvest, of dark green leaves. Of the scent of oranges, like fading sunlight.
In case of interest
I wrote about the new Yayoi Kusama exhibition, opening in Melbourne this December. I had a rare chance to write something funny about making the most of the last weekend of the Triennial. And I previewed Cirque du Soleil’s latest blockbuster show.
Good things to read
“This is, in other words, not a work for freaks, but one for tourists in the world of freakdom…” I’ve spent a long time contemplating why I found Poor Things so boring – this review, written by Philippa Snow, does a good job of articulating exactly why the film is visually stunning but strangely depthless. – via Mubi
“There were good reasons to leave the beach – I was lonely and that slowly drove me mad – but it probably didn’t help that I’m often thinking we should go somewhere else, no matter where we are…” I am so excited that Léa Antigny is writing her beautiful newsletter again. – via
One more thing!
I’m very excited to be discussing all things ghosts, grief and water at this year’s Melbourne Writers Festival with authors Katherine Brabon (Body Friend), Nadine J Cohen (Everyone and Everything) and Myfanwy Jones (Cool Water). Come along, won’t you?
Thank you so much for this! (And I’m in a bonne maman raspberry jam phase btw 🍓)