Prose - Raspberry Jam
You ask me what my favourite jam is and I say raspberry.
But really, it is 2015, and the Tuscan mountains are reflecting the sun back into the towns below. The grass is singed, but the cypress trees are a forever silver-tinged dark green. Too narrow for shade, they block the sun for a sliver of time while I meander around the courtyard. My aunt and I sit in the darkened kitchen with beads of sweat on our hairlines. The low hum of her fan melds with the noises that happen to be from just existing in that space. Her dog has already figured out the tiles are cooler as he pans across the floor; golden fur fans out from his body. Copying the dog, the terracotta-coloured tiles feel cool under my feet, but only for a moment as I stand too long in one place. A short rap at the window and she opens it to a neighbour in a smock apron. After a short exchange in Italian, small jars are passed through the window and my aunt turns to me with a smile. Up until that moment, I had never seen that colour before. My memory is spotty now, so I don’t think I could explain it. Have you ever had apricot jam? And the answer is I hadn’t. Even if I had, it was nothing like this one, I come to find out. We popped two small slices of white bread into the toaster and waited. So she made this? I asked, and she nodded. The toaster added unwanted warmth to the room even after it jumped up. The Italian butter is olive oil based and I wonder where the dairy cows are like at home. I wonder how they do with the heat here as I watch the olive oil paste sink into the bread. Looking at the jam while she takes her spoonful of it, I regret the butter. The glass jar fits into my hand, and I think of how many tomatoes harvested from the garden had been in this jar before the apricots. The jam is thick and smooth and sticky. In this moment, I know that I haven’t had an apricot before, nothing like this. The smell is long forgotten though I am sure it’s somewhere in my mind’s eye. Somewhere deep in my brain, subconscious me relives this smell over and over again. Back in my aunt’s house in the Tuscan mountains.
I am brought back to this moment now and I realise I haven’t heard a word he’s said. Before that moment in 2015, I would have said that raspberry is my favourite jam.