J is for Jam

I am a feminist. I believe in equality. I love most of the innovations the modern world has to offer, and I'm glad we've progressed from the antiquated notions that used to plague society not too long ago. But I find myself lamenting the loss of some of the most important skills a housewife could have been proud of.

My mother doesn't make Jam. My grandmother does. She makes a wonderfully tarty plum jam, and an exceptionally palatable apricot jam and a myriad of other fruity conserves. She's a jam god in my opinion. But not my mother.

My grandmother also makes world class chutney, and my great aunty bakes quiche for lunch to feed the farm hands. I stroll through markets and see homemade this and homemade that, usually coming from a country farmhouse. But I wish I could make these things. I feel that we have lost an art form.

The women of the depression were resourceful and resilient. They were creative and on a budget. So too were their children. Raised to make wholesome home cooked food, to be frugal and waste not. Always aware of the cost of groceries, and to make do with what was available, the culinary talents of the typical housewife were to be admired. These days, Lean Cusine can do it for $8.50 if you're lazy. Sara Lee will give you a packet cake and packet frosting. McCain will do it again and provide you with chips, pizza, vegetables and roast potatoes.

I don't envy the women who wore aprons for uniforms, stayed at home barefoot and pregnant or never got a night off from cooking the family dinner. I do admire them - I would have been throwing myself off the harbour bridge if I were one. And I envy their kitchen talents. Succulent desserts were but a cup of sugar away, and warm biscuits with sweet and sensual aromas were just a quick little thing to whip up, for a spot of afternoon tea.

My mother grew up with such desserts provided by the incredible woman I'm privileged to call nanna, but never really felt the need to continue to tradition. I had to wait until Sunday lunch to smell the nutmeg topped, double layer, vanilla sponge with cream and jam and when I did, it was always incredible. I never really appreciated the ease with which my grandmother makes desserts. I never really understood how much hard work goes into a marble cake, and I didn't know how difficult following a recipe could be for those who, like me, couldn't be less domestic if they tried. Until I bollocksed up a packet cake.

So, the next time someone offers you some homemade jam, think of how often you make the stuff. Could you survive always making things from scratch? Would you like to be able to? And if it's good jam, let them know. And ask for the recipe. Don't let the art form created by our predecessors be lost, because as simple and plebian as homemade jam may seem, it really is an art form.

                                                               Nanna with her Plum Jam

Jessenia xoxo