On Friday I made my first strawberry jam, finally finding the fruit and the time to fill the jar that has been waiting hungrily on the top shelf (and 3 other odd shaped jars too).
Despite warnings about strawberry jam being stubborn about setting, something magical happens in the pan with the help of a lemon, and the swirling scarlet lava gets thicker and stickier and slowly, surely solidifies. It must be beginner's luck.
While the jam is cooling in the jars and the house is still heavy and sweet with the scent of molten strawberries the door bell rings. The man outside gets me to sign the death warrant of a delicate but determined tree growing by our steps, which is dangerously close to the overhead powerlines.
We'll have to take your little ash down he says.
At least now we know it's name, I console myself, as I close the door and I wonder if I will ever be able to make strawberry jam again without remembering the death of a tree.
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