I’m not normally one to covet objects, but for the jam kettle I make an exception. It is copper, tarnished green with oxides on the outside, shiny copper on the inside. It is heavy. A handle arcs across its open, lidless top. It holds a few quarts, more or less, and I say quarts deliberately, rather than litres; for it is old and was made for recipes measured in pounds, pints and quarts. It has a certain beauty; the beauty of craftsmanship, the beauty of something old that was made well for a particular purpose. But it is not for this rustic beauty that I covet this object.
My grandmother, when she was a young woman, decades before she was my grandmother, packed a few belongings into a sea trunk, bade her mother and sister farewell, boarded a ship in Southampton, England, and set forth to Fremantle, Australia. Among the belongings in that trunk were a wedding dress and a jam kettle. Two days after arriving at Fremantle, she wore the wedding dress and married the man who would one day be my grandfather, but who was at that time her long-ago-farewelled beau. He had left England a year or so prior, with the agreement that Grandma would follow later. I wonder at the conversation they must have had at his departure – was it impassioned or merely the run of business? Grandad had been at war for four years, fighting in the trenches in France for all the years of the First World War. By the time Grandma donned her well-travelled wedding dress and walked the aisle at St George’s Cathedral in Perth, the couple had barely seen each other for five years. What was it like when they saw each other again at Fremantle harbour? Were their actions and motives passionate or reserved? Did their wedding day feel like the consummation of a long-held passion or was it a business transaction necessary for the steps to come? The wedding photo, black and white, shows a bride sitting, her white dress draping; the groom stands, upright, at some distance. They are not touching. Nor are they smiling.
The jam kettle took a place atop the kitchenette in the corner of my grandparents’ farmhouse kitchen. It was always a basic kitchen, even when the new farm house was built in the 1970s. A woodstove was all Grandma ever used to cook and bake and warm the kitchen. The flour was always kept in the flour box Grandad made from a kerosene box, the lid worn from being lifted countless thousands of times. There was a fridge, a concession to modernity, but preserving was always Grandma’s preferred way of storing food. The jam kettle was an integral part of her kitchen economy.
It is for all of this, for all of this story, that I covet the jam kettle.
My grandmother is many years dead, as is her daughter who was my mother. A while ago, my uncle said I could take the jam kettle and so I did, although I am still not sure if I am borrowing it or inheriting it. I sat it in my kitchen and for inexplicable reasons, didn’t use it. For a long time it sat on a bench in my kitchen, unused. Bits and pieces – juggling balls, a plastic yo-yo, a rubber bouncing ball – found their way into it as it sat among ceramic bowls brimming with fruit.
I wasn’t thinking of the jam kettle as I walked among the stalls at our local farmers’ market and spied early season apricots. I bought a box of cooking apricots, slightly unripe fruit mixed in amongst small fruit and bird pecked fruit and a few perfect specimens. I lugged the box home, along with the other vegies and fruit and meat I bought.
Later I sorted through the fruit, putting aside the best to be consumed fresh and delicious. I lifted the jam kettle from where it has been sitting on the bench, empty it of the collected debris and wash it. Then I turned my attention to the remaining apricots. I washed and chopped and dropped them into the jam kettle. I made the jam using the basic jam recipe Annie Smithers gives in her beautiful little book Recipe for a Kinder Life. A kilogram of sugar and the juice of a lemon for every kilogram of fruit. Boiled until 104 degrees Celsius and then bottled in hot jars. But I stuffed up the measuring of the temperature as I struggled with a meat thermometer that beeped in panic that the temperature was above 77 degrees. By the time I quelled the beeping, the jam was at 106 degrees, so cooled a little darker than apricot jam should. On the upside, it set well. I’ll have to buy a thermometer more fit for purpose, or go back to using Grandma’s method of testing the set of jam by running a finger through a teaspoon of jam placed on a cool saucer. The jam is set if it crinkles as the finger moves through it.
The day after my jam making, my sister visited. I made scones and we ate them with apricot jam and fresh whipped cream while our dogs played raucously at our feet and we talked about Grandma and jam kettles and the value of loved things. The jam was good and we both agreed the jam kettle looked better for me having used it. It has a loved sheen to it. The tarnish has gone, revealing a mat black finish, and the interior has a lustrous look. I will use it again and soon. Some things are made for work.
Outside
My 7-day Sit Spot Challenge has finished, but I have continued to go down and sit by the lake early most mornings. It brings a meditative start to my day and a general feeling of contentment and connection. The rufous night herons have become my constant companions, and I now know there are at least six making a home there. They spark in me a desire to draw or paint, two things I haven’t done for a very long time. I would like to mix paints to find that perfect shade of copper for their upper wings. For now, I watch them. They can all but disappear by turning slightly, their bulk somehow camouflaging against the reeds, turning them from reality to mere suggestion. The coots attack and squawk if they come too near. This morning a black duck launched itself up from the water to prevent one from landing near it.
On Sunday, I saw a family of variegated wrens hopping their way through the melaleucas. The pair of black swans have only a single cygnet left, but the pink eared ducks have a clutch of six rapidly-growing ducklings. I have learned that the persistent, monotonous call I hear every morning – tee tee teeeee twoooo (or something like that) – belongs to a little grassbird. I’ve been told they are very hard to see and I wonder how many hours I will set before one flits into view. For now, I enjoy hearing them and knowing that such a dominant sound comes from a tiny unobtrusive bird.
Thanks for reading,
Jill
I am loving getting these pieces from you in my inbox Jill. Please keep writing :) Also, I feel like I need to find myself a second hand jam kettle!
Sounds like a lovely afternoon making jam. But more importantly do I get to sample some!!??