Instructions
The cupboard under my sink is overflowing. Everyone has a cupboard like this, I suppose. Except Martha Stewart.
Each time I go to get something out I have to move three boxes. Three old, decaying boxes that jangle and clang. Boxes that threaten to collapse and spill their contents.
The clanging is made by old preserving jars that have not seen use for about ten years. Yet I can’t seem to part with them. Once filled with peaches each summer, they are now filled with memories. Memories of my late grandmother.
Anyone who knew Dort would attest that she could be tough enough to make iron rust, and bitter enough to make a lemon squint. Smart, intuitive and capable, Dort always knew best, especially when she didn’t. She wanted to be loved, but demanded to be respected. It had something to do with raising four kids on her own, I’m sure.
Our relationship was a little strange, to be frank. She rarely approved of my life choices (a fact she never tried to conceal), but she appreciated my love of knowledge. We were so different, Dort and I.
And yet, there were those peaches.
Every summer after Christmas she drove her beaten old yellow Corolla up to the orchards at Dural and bought cases of plump, ripe fruit. “Buy them in January”, she’d say, “that’s when the freestone peaches come into season”. She knew all too well the difficulty of getting seeds out of clingstones. Then she’d stand over her worn out stove for days on end, armed with her giant pots and her decades-old glass jars, cooking the flavour of the summer and capturing it to be enjoyed when the weather turned cold.
And when autumn did come she’d arrive at our house, sip her whiskey, and slip me a jar of peaches to share with my brother and sister. Her real joy in life was sharing her cooking with her family.
You know, maybe in some ways we weren’t all that different, Dort and I.
I really should get those jars out this summer.
Preserved peaches