Dedicated by way of a thank-you to Elaine and Neal Whitman.
I love jelly and jam—grape, strawberry, raspberry, blackberry, blueberry, gooseberry, cherry, apple, orange, peach, mango, and mint. Most of the preserves I eat these days come in plastic containers stacked in wire baskets on restaurant tables. It’s been a long time since I tasted a scoop of delicious straight from one of Grandma’s Mason jars filled with fruit.
love
suspended in pectin
my spoon
I suppose I could go to the grocery and buy a jar of Smucker’s or Welch’s, but what would be the fun in that? No, my spoon needs a special jar. Not a drawer or a silverware tray. No. A jar. A real, down to earth, good old-fashioned jelly jar. Something to make it feel at home—remind it of all the smiles it’s fed, spreading gooey delights on toasted bread.
recipe for life—
between flan and fritters
friends
It comes in the mail, an odd sort of package—lump-in-the-middle sort of odd. Upon opening, I find the best brand of found you can ever find—a thank-you. In this day and age, a genuine thank-you is hard to find. Out comes a poem, a fitting response to a book of poems. What better kind of letter than a bunch of letters arranged delicately on the page? But what’s this lump? I’m stumped ’til I pull out . . . a spoon? Best read the poem before venturing a guess, “12 Spoons” by Elaine Whitman.
It started in a local gift shop.
Hmm.
One spoon. Inscribed in its bowl: today is the day.
I pick up my spoon and take a closer look. Inscribed in its bowl: today is the day.
Walking home, we sang from Mary Poppins, ” . . . a spoonful of sugar . . . ” We put our new spoon in a jelly jar . . . And we considered spoons.
hot summer day . . .
a cool dip
in vanilla ice cream
nasty winter cold . . .
sitting at the table
slurping chicken soup
stirring honey
into chamomile tea . . .
a warm hand
There is no hour of the day when something might not be sweetened or nourished with a spoon.
By this point in the story, my heart is a mug of hot chocolate as my spoon swirls in a splash of cream. I sup it up as my mind tries to get a grip on this cup of thoughtfulness.
Studying the single spoon in its jelly jar . . . What if we collected twelve spoons? The jar of spoons would be a reminder of what is sweet or nourishing in life.
I have got to find a jelly jar! Preferably, one I’ve emptied from top to bottom, perhaps onto peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Grandma is no longer with us, so I concoct a second-best plan; I need something natural, homemade, something you can’t find just anywhere. There’s an Amish store in Wisconsin. I’ll go there on my next trip. It’s a treasure trove of fresh-from-the-kitchen, and there’s sure to be some of whatever’s in season nestled up on the shelves. They don’t take plastic—all the better—one step closer to the vine. The best recipes take time.
“love thy neighbor,”
stir in the seasoning
then feast
