Early yesterday morning a text pinged into my inbox, just as I was disguising Doughnut’s pills inside a cod liver oil capsule inside a layer of butter inside sliver of ham inside a leftover Ikea meatball. Doughnut has become so adept at filtering out and rejecting his pills, which the vet says are particularly bitter, that his breakfast is becoming as elaborate as a James Martin four-bird roast.
Anyway my text was a plea for empty jam jars from my friend Alison up the road, with a promise that one would be returned later, full of strawberry jam. As I ventured into the dark recesses of the world’s most annoying cupboard I managed to knock over my camping cafetiere, smashing it soundly on our unforgiving kitchen tiles. Rats. Still I managed to dig out two jam jars, three pesto jars and a Kilner, all with lids, which was no mean feat, and all before The Archers Omnibus.
A few minutes later Alison’s husband, Will, popped round to collect the jars, revealing that yes, they had spent the previous day strawberry picking. The inlaws were staying, which meant they had rare access to a car so Alison had been determined to Make The Most Of It and had piled everyone in for a trip to the country.
They returned, presumably as rosy and happy as Pa Larkin’s brood, with 8kg of pick-your-own strawberries for which they had been charged £4.49 a kilo. Just a shade more, revealed Will, than those he’d had delivered from Waitrose the previous day.
I’m still waiting for my produce from their summer glut – but I think I can eke out that 99p jar of strawberry jam I bought from Sainsbury’s for another couple of days. Hopefully I’ll be able to enjoy the home-made version before the end of Wimbledon – one of my favourite short-lived British traditions. I might even pick up some scones on the way home from work, just in case there’s jam tomorrow.
Posted by Amanda Blinkhorn