Secret Jam: How I scored the finest preserve in the land…by devious means
I am a connoisseur of home made jam, and my ultimate favourite is plum jam. I embarked on a lifelong quest to find the very best home-made plum jam in all of Britain. It took some doing, but I finally succeeded. Here’s how it happened.
Every Tuesday morning I travel to the country village of Ditchling for yoga class. I’m invariably the only man in a class of thirty sophisticated ladies. At the end of yoga class, another set of Ditchling ladies takes over the space for their choir rehearsal. They bring their own wonderful home-made cakes, biscuits, chutneys and jams and sell these to one another to raise funds for the choir’s activities. After one of the yoga classes last year I purchased a jar of plum jam and brought it home. It was the most delicious I had ever tasted. It had everything: the perfect balance of sugars and acidity, excellent p.h. value, superb mouth feel from fruit that can only have been grown biodynamically on rocky terrain, and a subtle but definite aftertaste of guava. What angel, I thought, has created this pot of joy? I immediately embarked on a campaign to stockpile as much as I could this magical substance.
That was when the trouble began. At the end of yoga class the following Tuesday I went to the stall to buy another jar, but found a different person selling the produce. This one was not at all delightful like the previous lady, but extremely grumpy. She told me in unmistakeable terms that I couldn’t buy her jam — it was strictly for choir members. “But this is the most amazing jam I’ve ever tasted!” I bleated. That only served to make her even more grumpy. But I wanted that jam.
Each Tuesday thereafter I watched the produce tables being set up. As soon as someone other than Grumpy — woman was serving, I’d for a pot of plum jam and dash away. I managed this on two occasions; I now had three pots of the supreme jam.
On the third attempt, however, disaster struck again. I grasped a jar of the precious nectar and offered my money to the delightful lady who was serving. But I’d made a schoolboy error; I hadn’t proffered the correct amount, and so change was required. Delightful-lady asked her colleagues if they had change. Grumpy-woman heard us, swept in and ripped the jar from my hand. “Didn’t I tell you,” she boomed “My jam is only for the choir!” I knew from then on that things were going to be difficult. She was as determined that I should not get the jam as I was that I should. But I was not going to give up. You think you’re stubborn, Grumpy-woman? I’ll show you stubborn!
I found myself thinking about the jam a lot. Throughout each Tuesday class I couldn’t focus on the yoga, only wondering if maybe this time Grumpy-woman wouldn’t appear and I would be able to get my hands on another precious pot.
I also spent endless hours wondering about the provenance of the jam and why it was so good. Something didn’t quite fit. How could anyone so horrible make such divine jam? It defied the very laws of nature. I pondered endlessly on this question.
Suddenly it dawned on me. Grumpy-woman doesn’t make the jam herself! Maybe she keeps a prisoner at home, like Kathy Bates in Misery who gets James Caan to stay and plot his next book how she wants it by breaking his legs with a sledge-hammer. Maybe Grumpy-woman has an angelic lady who does nothing but make exquisite jam and isn’t ever allowed to leave Jam HQ. Yes, that must be it! I hope her legs are not as badly damaged as Mr Caan’s. Grumpy-woman would know it’s the best jam in the world and would derive sinister power from being able to bestow or withhold bestowal of it upon people like me.
Meanwhile the situation was getting worse; I was totally obsessed with the jam, and couldn’t sleep a wink on Monday nights; I simply had to get more of that ambrosia. Failure was not an option; I had to win out over this evil tyrant. But how?
In the end, the solution arose quite unexpectedly. A year on from the acquisition of that first glorious pot, Yoga-teacher — an insightful and mystical woman — approached me; she had intuited my plight. She pointed out that one of the members of her class also belonged to the choir and was an exceedingly delightful lady who was not even slightly grumpy. Why didn’t we talk to her and see what could be done? So we did.
Exceedingly-delightful-lady was outraged that I should be denied access to the most wonderful jam in the world simply because I was not in the choir. Exceedingly-delightful-lady was also given to enjoying a spot of intrigue; she and Yoga-teacher hatched a plan. I would give the right money to Yoga-teacher; Yoga-teacher would meet with Exceedingly-delightful-lady in the lady’s bathroom and pass the money to her. Exceedingly-delightful-lady would purchase the jam, then re-visit the loo to pass it to Yoga-teacher, who would hand it over to me outside the venue. And hey presto; quod erat demonstrandum!
The system is working a treat. Grumpy-woman is suspicious; she knows something is wrong, but can’t do anything about it. Sales of plum are outstripping other flavours, yet she never sells any herself.
The jam tastes as sublime as ever, but having had to triumph over evil in order to get it makes it taste even better.
I know it’s my duty to start an investigation. I really should find out where Grumpy-woman is hiding Angelic-jam-making-prisoner-lady and get her released — but not just yet; I need more of the jam. I hope her legs will hold out a while longer; jam making involves a lot of prolonged standing.
