Monday, 26 July 2010
When the boy was finally asleep I put on pyjama bottoms and pink socks, and set about making jam.
The house was dusty, my back was crawling with cramp, but for a few stolen hours housework and mothering were forgotten and all that mattered was warm sugar, hot glass and bubbling, boiling blackcurrants.
By midnight the kitchen was painted purple, the house smelled vaguely of hot newspaper and burning sugar, setting point seemed like an unattainable ideal and I had eaten so much molten jam that my lips were stuck and stained.
But by bedtime thirteen warm jars of blackcurrant jam were sitting on my work top and I was able to climb into bed with a feeling of sticky satisfaction, safe in the knowledge that something concrete had been accomplished, and dream of the delights of bread and jam for breakfast.