That Jam Kiss
When too many strawberries flood the market, the price goes low. Big red Queensland beauties are now selling for $1 a punnet. I buy stacks.
My daughter makes strawberry jam.
Any good conserve is 50% sugar and 50% fruit.
Last week I vowed to this Medium World that I would cut my sugar intake.
On my laptop, tapping away, I can hear the hot berries bubbling on the stove. The perfume of good berry bestness permeates my writing space.
Trying to finish my piece, I stay put, typing while trying to ignore 2 of my great loves jamming in the kitchen.
I lose focus, sniffing at the strawberry air, humming old Bob Marley songs.
“Hope you like jamming too.”
I stay seated, trying to ignore the clink of jars, the comments after taste-tests, and that heavenly aroma.
A great way to finish my writing was being transferred between brain and laptop when I was summoned.
I wasn’t quite as mad as the writer in Stephen King’s The Shining, but the stunning sentence evaporated. Trying to pull the words back into my consciousness was as impossible as yanking hot toffee off flesh.
“It’s alright, I’ve tasted jam before; I don’t want any,” I yell.
“Of course you do, come on; get out here.”
“No, I’m going off sugar.”
“There’s not much sugar in it.”
“It’s half sugar.”
“Yeah, but it’s pretty good; you’ve got to taste it.”
“I haven’t got to do anything.”
My husband strolls into the room, holding out a glistening teaspoon. He touches it to my lips. My jaw is jammed closed like a cranky baby refusing food. Tickling me with his free hand, I laugh. Mouth open, he shoves in the warm goo.
Licking my lips, it is yummy, fruity, rich and warm.
“Okay, nice, can I finish in here now?”
“No. There’s a whole pot with jam stuck to the edges waiting. Besides, you’ve been writing all morning; come out and see your family.”
Still cross I lost the line I’d been trying to think of for hours, I say no and turn away. He runs back to the kitchen. Whatever he’s doing there makes my daughter giggle. Back at my side, so much dripping jam has been smeared around his mouth, it looks like he’s applied a full tube of lip gloss.
I pull back when he smiles; even his teeth are red. He slam-kisses me like they do in the movies. It’s momentous, it’s open-mouthed, hard, passionate and all-consuming. He smothers my lips with his. I taste the strawberries; I taste them on his tongue.
When he pulls back and I breathe again, my cheeks, my lips and face feel stiff; sticky with sugary jam.
“Just let me save my work first, okay?”
He reaches over, closes the laptop lid, spins my chair around and kisses me again. It doesn’t matter that I’m cross; I want more jam now. He knows me; he knows that.
The kitchen sink is littered with jars that glow like rubies. There are neat blobs of jam, splatters and spills on the benchtop. He is there too, beaming a Cheshire Cat smile.
My husband stands beside the giant boiler, digging out the gooey bits, skimming the top. Licking at a giant wooden spoon with animated eyes.
“See, isn’t this better than writing?”
I sigh, getting a new wooden spoon from the drawer. Digging in, the strawberry jam is still warm and the best I’ve ever tasted. Fresh, it tastes like real fruit; nothing artificial. Made with love it has been squashed and cooked and stirred and sampled to see if it has set for hours. Bottled while still boiling from jars dried and sterilized in the oven; a joint effort between them.
The jam has taken them a morning in time.

Standing over the sink my husband and I have a spoon duel, jousting for the best bits stuck to the pan base. We’re making another sticky, jammed together moment.
It’s worth it.
He’s worth it too.
Hiding out at first, I wouldn’t allow myself to enjoy what they made. Sometimes I need to be removed from my writing garret and taste the sweet life. After all, no one gets a hot sugar strawberry jam kiss like that every day.

