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facts & arguments

Facts illustration July 7-09



I'm going through a bit of a recession, maybe even verging on a depression. It has to do with strawberry jam, not the markets.

My mother-in-law, who has made what is arguably the best strawberry jam wherever in the world there are strawberries, has stopped mixing up this fruity elixir.

This represents a serious downturn for me, a jam crunch. She has her reasons - age and energy. I bear her no malice for the cessation of picking, cleaning, slicing, cooking and canning. There are better things to do on the hottest days of the year. But this was the underpinning, the substance that signalled the soundness of my breakfast world. The glue that held breakfast together is missing.

It has come to an end. My world, if not collapsed, is echoing with the sound of a spoon in an empty jar. No more coming back from Southern Ontario with jars of it; no more well-wrapped jars arriving at Christmas; no more jam care packages delivered by eastern family members to us deprived westerners.

Our cupboards used to run over, our larder groaning under the weight. Jars piled up, engulfing us faster than we could engulf their contents. The jam matured on our shelves, developing its unique bouquet and coalescing into something where the whole was greater than the parts. We would ponder whether to open a bottle of the '97, a robust, fruity number, or throw caution to the wind and open the latest offering.

Jam would be shared with all our friends. Sometimes we would push it like some illicit substance that was rumoured to take you to another dimension. To our friends, most of whom grew up in the sixties, this was too much to resist. Indeed, the jam was too much for me to resist.

And how did I treat this cornucopia? Sadly, my response was tinged with sarcasm, derision and thoughtlessness. "We've been bequeathed a lifetime supply of jam," I often opined to my wife, comparing the accumulated jars to some family legacy or inheritance.

"More jam!" I would exclaim with less than enthusiasm at the opening of a parcel containing - wait for it - more jam.

"A clearance sale on jam," I would joke. "We're jammed up in our warehouse."

Callous, empty, stupid words. Our profligate use has emptied the cupboard and the shelves are bare. The strawberry jam train has long left the station. Not even the residual stickiness remains. All that sticks is the distant memory of that last, precious jar.

A mood of despair, of longing and of trepidation for the future has set in. Because foresight isn't an option any more I've been beating myself up with hindsight. Why didn't I extol the virtues of her jam to my mother-in-law? Why didn't I appear more appreciative of her loving labours and encourage her in the continued manufacture of that ambrosia?

Because, I guess, in surplus one never thinks of shortage. The Chinese axiom that "every banquet must come to an end" never resonates when ladling that sweet concoction of berries onto toast. "Sooner or later, everyone sits down to a banquet of consequences," said Robert Louis Stevenson, the 19th-century author of Treasure Island .

If he had known of my mother-in-law's strawberry jam, he surely would have identified it as a substance worthy of the title treasure. But I did not, regrettably. My banquet is set and it is void of strawberry jam.

If only I'd saved some, meted it out with a sense of conservation, been more judicious in sharing it or thought about alternatives to make the supply last longer. But I didn't. In my blindness I thought the largesse would be endless. I thought the strawberry jam frontier would never end. It was a resource that was, in my mind, unplumbed in its depth.

The early-warning signals were there, of course, but I ignored them. Any distant suggestions of showing restraint, of considering future jam eaters or of gaining self-sufficiency in the jam department would be met with disdainful dismissal.

If I could just have one more chance, if I could just get one more jar, I promise I would cherish it. I would never again consume strawberry jam like a pig at a trough. I would think about tomorrow and that rare, valuable commodity in limited supply.

You may be on another jam trajectory, one where you still have time to evaluate and reassess your consumption. I took things for granted when the jam economy was booming and it's too late for me to make amends, to turn back the hands of time and watch the jam jars magically refill.

For the love of jam, please consider a change. Sit down with your jam maker; learn the craft. Grasp the jam torch and make sure it stays lit. Never forget the preciousness of those jars of canned sunshine, rain and love. I know I'll never take my mother-in-law's strawberry jam for granted again.

Lorne Fitch lives in Lethbridge, Alta.

Illustration by Paddy Molloy.

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