Saturday, September 23, 2006

No tuck shops in the Phantom Zone

Thrud, thrud, thrud of ill-fitting boots on the flagstones of the scullery. Clack of the pantry door handle; screef of the door against the floor as it's opened. The click of a ring-finger against a jar of preserves as a fist closes around same. Scloop of the lid coming off. Raspberry. I can smell it from here.

We picked them last autumn (fall, she called it) and made the jam ourselves, in a big pot over a fire in the side garden. The smell of applewood burning; sound of the pot lazily bubbling. Throw another bag of sugar in, someone suggested.


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