Chapter 13

Making Jam

By the time they got to the kitchen, they were down to a small crew: Lisa, her aunts, Ari’s sister, and John’s wife, Gwen. Just the women. The workers.

They took the vats of water off the table and cleaned them. Then they filled each one with fruit. They placed them on opposite corners of the stove, above a low flame. Lisa pulled out the bags of sugar she had bought. She poured an equal measure in each pot.

“Do you have to use pectin?” Gwen asked. “When we made fruit jam as kids we always used pectin. But ours never set right: too runny or too hard.”

“Apricots have their own natural pectin,” said Lisa. “Just watch.”

In fifteen minutes, the flesh had broken down into a swirling sea of orange. Small bubbles rose up in the liquid. Lisa stirred the pot to keep the mixture from sticking to the bottom of the pot. She turned off the heat.

“Okay everybody, we need to do this fast.”

The jars had been set on the table earlier. Lisa lifted the vats of cooked jam off the hob and put them on the table. With big spoons, the women lifted up the hot fruit. They poured it through funnels into the jars. Soon the sticky orange was everywhere: on the table, on their fingers, in their hair. They talked as they worked. They laughed at themselves.

Each jar was sealed with a rubber ring, making a satisfying click.

Lisa needed this. All year long, she fought alone—for her clients, against her enemies. This physical labor with family was deeply relaxing. She felt her grandmother next to her, and her father, too, and all the others she had never known. Even if her jam was lighter than her grandmother’s, it was beautiful in the glass, a golden harvest.

At last, the final jar was sealed. The glass was still hot. The jam would take time to cool and set. Meanwhile, they cleaned the kitchen to get ready for the next stage. Lisa wanted to put the lamb on and then go lie down.

She had not slept much last night, and she would need all her energy for whatever surprises lay ahead.