Raspberry Jam Quotes

For future reference, Harry, it is raspberry...although of course, if I were a Death Eater, I would have been sure to research my own jam preferences before impersonating myself.

You have a perfect right to consign us all to hell, rector, but you must allow us the choice of how we get there. Raspberry Jam

Often, we melt into our ecstasies as though they were jams, as though we were sinking into syrupy bowls of gooseberries, of raspberries, of bilberries.

Maybe I fell in love with the idea of love, but I’m a teenage girl. This morning I fell in love with raspberry jam and a puppy in a tiny raincoat. I’m not exactly Earth’s top authority on the subject.

You're missing the point! ... We could make it rain cupcakes from the sky! Raspberry-jam pies would grow on trees, and chocolate rabbits would poop chocolate buttons!

He loved three things alone: White peacocks, evensong, old maps of America. He hated children crying, and raspberry jam with his tea, and womanish hysteria. ...And then he married me. 1911

We walked back the way we came, and even though it was dark there were no lights burning inside the houses. They were like people without hearts; raspberry tarts without the jam.

Three things in this world he loved: Evensong, white peacocks And worn maps of America. He didn't like crying children, Tea with raspberry jam Or hysterical women. And I was his wife.

Mr. Roddis: [Outraged at the presence of two apparent burglars (actually his in-laws) having tea in his suburban home] - And they've opened a pot of my raspberry jam." Uncle Fred: [Architect of the above missunderstanding] Ah, then you will be able to catch them red-handed. I should fetch a policman.

In college, educated women (I found out) were frigid; active women (I knew) were neurotic; women (we all knew) were timid, incapable, dependent, nurturing, passive, intuitive, emotional, unintelligent, obedient, and beautiful. You can always get dressed up and go to a party. Woman is the gateway to another world; Woman is the earth-mother; Woman is the eternal siren; Woman is purity; Woman is carnality; Woman has intuition; Woman is the life-force; Woman is selfless love. "I am the gateway to another world," (said I, looking in the mirror) "I am the earth-mother; I am the eternal siren; I am purity," (Jeez, new pimples) "I am carnality; I have intuition; I am the life-force; I am selfless love." (Somehow it sounds different in the first person, doesn't it?) Honey (said the mirror, scandalised) Are you out of your fucking mind? I AM HONEY I AM RASPBERRY JAM I AM A VERY GOOD LAY I AM A GOOD DATE I AM A GOOD WIFE I AM GOING CRAZY Everything was peaches and cream.

Often, we melt into our ecstasies as though they were jams, as though we were sinking into syrupy bowls of gooseberries, of raspberries, of bilberries.

Lindsey There is the usual hive of activity in the Brannon household this morning. Mrs Brannon is busy making breakfast for her daughter, Lindsey, making it just as she likes it: two slices of toast with home-made raspberry jam, a hard-boiled egg, shell peeled and the egg cut into slices, a cup of fresh Earl Grey tea with one brown sugar and a touch of milk, with a glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice on the side – oranges bought from the greengrocer down the road. The same breakfast she has lovingly made for her daughter for over forty years.

Often, we melt into our ecstasies as though they were jams, as though we were sinking into syrupy bowls of gooseberries, of raspberries, of bilberries. She let herself melt into her furniture and her things. Why expend her love elsewhere when they loved her all the time, when they were waiting for her? The world is a heavy burden, and yet we carry it. As soon as we are back in our burrows, whether joyful or discontented, we close the door upon it, we turn our backs upon it. The fidelity of our things is only an expression of our own infidelity.

My period continued, an inevitable cycle, yet every month I was somehow surprised by the violent pain. It was as if I refused to believe my body, something I’d trusted for years, would repeatedly betray me. My stomach ate itself from the inside, a revelry I had been dragged to, a feast I was forced to join though I was not hungry. The meal lasted four to six days, gorging on cramps, the spilled crumbs falling out of me stained with raspberry jam. My stomach was never a clean eater, gnawing on my uterus and fallopian tubes, leaving bite marks. I counted each rotation of the sun with heightening anxiety until it passed and I reset the clock. The knife carved my insides into pot roasts; the fork jabbed my sides into holey cheese. I could distinguish each fork prong—the pain was profound. My guts twisted around the spoon like spaghetti, tangled noodles slathered in scarlet marinara. Menstruation was more smashed acidic tomatoes than sweet fruit compote. I wiped my fingers on white jeans made of napkins and left streaks dried to rust. The stains came out with bleach and detergent. I died and regenerated every month. How else could I define the experience? The reasonable explanation was death. I decided when my body was wheeled into the morgue, the coroner would declare I died of being a woman. Which was far better than dying of being a man.

So good to meet another- what do you say, 'foodie'? And I was just buying jam." He holds up a single jar of raspberry jam the color of rubies. It is the same jam Mama would buy for us when we stayed in France, the texture runny, little lumps of berries soft on the tongue, tiny seeds sticking between teeth.

You have not asked me, for instance, what is my favorite flavor of jam, to check that I am indeed Professor Dumbledore and not an impostor.” “I didn’t . . .” Harry began, not entirely sure whether he was being reprimanded or not. “For future reference, Harry, it is raspberry

You need to get home, both of you. Louis, I’d like to keep the letters here, if you don’t mind. I want to go over them again.” I came to my feet. “And ask the stars about them?” Jesse nodded. Armand only shook his head, gloomy. There were bruises under his eyes that hadn’t been there yesterday. “Ask the-fine. Splendid. Keep them if you like. Burn them. Turn them to gold or silver or lead. In the morning I’ll wake up and none of this will have happened.” “No, lordling,” I said to him. “You’re never going to wake like that again, and you’re never going to be able to forget.” “Bugger you, waif.” “And you.” He walked past both of us without another glance or another word, opened the door, and disappeared into the night. I went to Jesse and wrapped my arms around him. After only a second’s hesitation, his arms lifted to embrace me, too. “I don’t want to go,” I whispered. I felt his chest expand beneath my cheek. “This is going to be much more difficult than I anticipated.” “Which part?” “All of it.” He brought a hand to my hair, his fingers weaving through. “Things are about to change rapidly now, Lora. He’ll come back to us stronger and stronger. He’s going to crave you more and more, and not having you will eat him raw.” I frowned up at him. “What do you mean?” Jesse tucked a strand behind my ear, his eyes emerald dark, his lashes tipped with candlelight. “It will be in his nature. He’ll feel compelled to claim you, and he won’t stop trying to do that. Ever. When that happens-“ “That is not bloody going to happen.” “When that happens,” he said again resolutely, “I want you to remember two things. One: I’ve loved you since before he even knew you lived. Two: Spare a little pity for him. This isn’t entirely his fault. He was born into his role, just as you and I were. But, Lora-of-the-moon-only a little pity, all right?” “My pity may reach as deep and wide as the ocean,” I answered. “But my heart is already claimed.” To prove it, I clutched his shirt and lifted myself to my toes and brought my lips to his. Sweeter than raspberry jam, warmer than candle flame, softer than bread. People often spoke with religious rapture of milk and honey, but if I had nothing but Jesse to consume for the rest of my days, I’d die a heathen beast, content.

Used to be when a bird flew into a window, Milly and Twiss got a visit. Milly would put a kettle on and set out whatever culinary adventure she'd gone on that day. For morning arrivals, she offered her famous vanilla drop biscuits and raspberry jam. Twiss would get the medicine bag from the hall closet and sterilize the tools she needed, depending on the seriousness of the injury. A wounded limb was one thing. A wounded crop was another. People used to come from as far away as Reedsburg and Wilton. Milly would sit with them while Twiss patched up the 'poor old robin' or the 'sweet little meadowlark.' Over the years, the number of visitors had dwindled. Now that the grocery store sold ready-bake biscuits and jelly in all the colors of the rainbow, people didn't bother as much about birds.

It [the charcuterie] was almost on the corner of the Rue Pirouette and was a joy to behold. It was bright and inviting, with touches of brilliant colour standing out amidst white marble. The signboard, on which the name QUENU-GRADELLE glittered in fat gilt letter encircled by leaves and branches painted on a soft-hued background, was protected by a sheet of glass. On the two side panels of the shop front, similarly painted and under glass, were chubby little Cupids playing in the midst of boars' heads, pork chops, and strings of sausages; and these still lifes, adorned with scrolls and rosettes, had been designed in so pretty and tender a style that the raw meat lying there assumed the reddish tint of raspberry jam. Within this delightful frame, the window display was arranged. It was set out on a bed of fine shavings of blue paper; a few cleverly positioned fern leaves transformed some of the plates into bouquets of flowers fringed with foliage. There were vast quantities of rich, succulent things, things that melted in the mouth. Down below, quite close to the window, jars of rillettes were interspersed with pots of mustard. Above these were some boned hams, nicely rounded, golden with breadcrumbs, and adorned at the knuckles with green rosettes. Then came the larger dishes--stuffed Strasbourg tongues, with their red, varnished look, the colour of blood next to the pallor of the sausages and pigs' trotters; strings of black pudding coiled like harmless snakes; andouilles piled up in twos and bursting with health; saucissons in little silver copes that made them look like choristers; pies, hot from the oven, with little banner-like tickets stuck in them; big hams, and great cuts of veal and pork, whose jelly was as limpid as crystallized sugar. Towards the back were large tureens in which the meats and minces lay asleep in lakes of solidified fat. Strewn between the various plates and sishes, on the bed of blue shavings, were bottles of relish, sauce, and preserved truffles, pots of foie gras, and tins of sardines and tuna fish. A box of creamy cheeses and one full of snails stuffed with butter and parsley had been dropped in each corner. Finally, at the very top of the display, falling from a bar with sharp prongs, strings of sausages and saveloys hung down symmetrically like the cords and tassels of some opulent tapestry, while behind, threads of caul were stretched out like white lacework. There, on the highest tier of this temple of gluttony, amid the caul and between two bunches of purple gladioli, the alter display was crowned by a small, square fish tank with a little ornamental rockery, in which two goldfish swam in endless circles.

The guests would want refreshments of some kind, but there was no time to prepare a full-blown breakfast. The Americans would have to be content with beverages until a midmorning "nuncheon" could be assembled. Rapidly Aline went through a mental list of the contents of the pantry and larders. She decided they would set out crystal bowls of strawberries and raspberries, pots of butter and jam, along with bread and cake. Some asparagus salad and broiled bacon would also be nice, and Aline would also tell the housekeeper, Mrs. Faircloth, to serve the chilled lobster soufflé that had been intended as a supper course for later in the day. Something else could be substituted at dinner, perhaps some tiny salmon cutlets with egg sauce, or sweetbreads with celery stalks-

My mother had a passion for all fruit except oranges, which she refused to allow in the house. She named each one of us, on a seeming whim, after a fruit and a recipe- Cassis, for her thick black-currant cake. Framboise, her raspberry liqueur, and Reinette after the reine-claude greengages that grew against the south wall of the house, thick as grapes, syrupy with wasps in midsummer. At one time we had over a hundred trees (apples, pears, plums, gages, cherries, quinces), not to mention the raspberry canes and the fields of strawberries, gooseberries, currants- the fruits of which were dried, stored, made into jams and liqueurs and wonderful cartwheel tarts on pâte brisée and crème pâtissière and almond paste. My memories are flavored with their scents, their colors, their names. My mother tended them as if they were her favorite children. Smudge pots against the frost, which we base every spring. And in summer, to keep the birds away, we would tie shapes cut out of silver paper onto the ends of the branches that would shiver and flick-flack in the wind, moose blowers of string drawn tightly across empty tin cans to make eerie bird-frightening sounds, windmills of colored paper that would spin wildly, so that the orchard was a carnival of baubles and shining ribbons and shrieking wires, like a Christmas party in midsummer. And the trees all had names. Belle Yvonne, my mother would say as she passed a gnarled pear tree. Rose d'Aquitane. Beurre du Roe Henry. Her voice at these times was soft, almost monotone. I could not tell whether she was speaking to me or to herself. Conference. Williams. Ghislane de Penthièvre. This sweetness.

Pass the raspberry jam, please.” “It’s called jelly in the States.” Zander handed over the tiny jar of compote.

18-oz. jar blackberry jam 18-oz. jar raspberry jam 1-1/2 oz. container dry mustard 5-oz. jar prepared horseradish 1/4 t. cayenne pepper 1 T. pepper 12-oz. container whipped cream cheese toasted bread slices or buttery crackers Combine all ingredients except cream cheese and bread or crackers in a medium bowl. Stir well and set aside 30 minutes. When ready to serve, spoon cream cheese onto a serving plate; spoon jam mixture over cream cheese. Serve with toasted bread slices or buttery crackers. Sauce may be refrigerated for up to 3 months. Makes 12 to 16 servings.

STRAWBERRY FLIP COOKIES Preheat oven to 375 degrees F., rack in the middle position. 1 cup melted butter (2 sticks) 1 cup white (granulated) sugar 2 beaten eggs (just whip them up with a fork) 1/3 cup seedless strawberry jam 1 teaspoon strawberry extract (or vanilla, if you can’t find it) 1 teaspoon baking powder ½ teaspoon soda ½ teaspoon salt 1½ cups chopped walnuts (or pecans) 3 cups flour (not sifted) small bowl of powdered (confectioner’s) sugar 1 bag frozen strawberries for garnish*** Melt the butter and add the white sugar. Then add the eggs and the strawberry jam. When the jam is fully incorporated, add the strawberry extract, baking powder, soda, and salt. Then add the chopped walnuts and the flour, and mix well. Roll dough balls with your hands about the size of unshelled walnuts. (If the dough is too sticky, chill it for a half hour or so and then try it again.) Roll the dough balls in the powdered sugar and place them on a greased cookie sheet, 12 to a standard sheet. Make a deep thumbprint in the center of each cookie. While the strawberries are still partially frozen, cut them in half lengthwise. (If your berries are too large to fit on your cookie balls, cut them in quarters instead of halves.) Flip the cut piece over and place it skin side up in the thumbprint you’ve made on top of each cookie. Bake at 375 degrees F. for 10 to 12 minutes. Cool on the cookie sheet for 2 minutes, then transfer to a wire rack to finish cooling. Dust the cookies with powdered sugar and place them on a pretty plate before serving. Yield: 7 to 8 dozen cookies. The tart strawberry pieces are wonderful with the sweet cookie. Carrie Rhodes just adores these. As a variant, you can also makes these with seedless raspberry jam and whole fresh raspberries on top. Chapter

While I searched for Clothilde's ingredients, I found a few bottles of juniper eau-de-vie in the dry storage area, nestled among hundreds of glass jam jars filled with Grand-mère Odette's homemade compotes- fig, cherry, apple, strawberry, apricot, raspberry, pear, and peach.

Charlotte’s Jammy Biscuits Makes 5 dozen 1 cup shortening 1 cup granulated sugar 1 cup packed brown sugar 2 eggs ¼ cup sour milk or buttermilk 1 teaspoon vanilla 3½ cups all-purpose flour 1 teaspoon baking powder 1 teaspoon baking soda 1 teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon ground nutmeg Blackberry, raspberry, or strawberry jam Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. In a large bowl, cream the shortening and the sugars. Add the eggs, milk, and vanilla; mix till smooth. Stir together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and nutmeg; stir into the creamed mixture. Cover and chill. On a floured surface, roll the dough to an 1/8-inch thickness. Use a cookie cutter to cut the dough into 1½-inch rounds. Place 1 teaspoon of jam each on half the rounds; use the remaining rounds to top the jam-topped rounds. Lightly seal the edges with a fork. With a sharp knife, cut shallow crisscross slits in the tops of the cookies, to allow the steam to vent during baking. Bake until golden, 10 to 15 minutes.

Joe himself remained the same as ever, picking his early fruit and laying it out in crates, making jam from windfalls, pointing out wild herbs and picking them when the moon was full, collecting bilberries from the moors and blackberries from the railway banking, preparing chutney from his tomatoes, piccalilli from his cauliflowers, lavender bags for sleeplessness, wintergreen for rapid healing, hot peppers and rosemary in oil and pickled onions for the winter. And, of course, there was the wine. Throughout all that summer Jay smelled wine brewing, fermenting, aging. All kinds of wine: beet root, pea pod, raspberry, elderflower, rose hip, jackapple, plum, parsnip, ginger, blackberry. The house was a distillery, with pans of fruit boiling on the stove, demijohns of wine waiting on the kitchen floor to be decanted into bottles, muslins drying on the clothesline for straining the fruit, sieves, buckets, bottles, funnels, laid out in neat rows ready for use.

Can I trust you with the scones? You make them just before they are to be carried in, so that they are still warm. And you know that she doesn't like raspberry jam. Just strawberry or apricot, and the cream whipped very thick. Got that?" "Yes, Cook," I said, feeling both scared and excited at the same time. It was up to me to feed the queen. Mrs Robbins at my former establishment had made very good scones- at least they had tasted good to me. So I made them just the way she did- with very cold butter, double cream, a dash of vanilla extract.

This henbane was used, in this very manner, we are told, in Shakespeare’s works, by Hamlet’s uncle, when he poisoned Hamlet’s father.

½ cup softened sweet butter 1 small (3-ounce) stick of softened cream cheese 1¼ cup flour a small jar of jam—choose apricot, raspberry or apple a sprinkle of powdered sugar Beat the butter and cream cheese until light and fluffy. Add flour, then roll the dough out on a floured

Ingredients: 2 cups flour (plus extra for dusting work surface) 2 ½ teaspoons baking powder ½ teaspoon salt ½ cup unsalted butter, cut into small pieces with a knife or grated using a box cheese grater or food processor. Leave chilling in fridge until ready for use ½ cup granulated sugar ½ cup buttermilk 1 large egg 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract Filling: 1 cup raspberries, frozen 1 cup white chocolate chips Egg Wash: 1 egg, beaten 1 tablespoon milk or cream Sugar Topping: Turbino or raw sugar for sprinkling Directions: Preheat oven to 400°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. In a medium bowl, combine flour, baking powder, and salt. Add the chilled butter and mix with your fingers. In a small bowl, add sugar, buttermilk, egg, and vanilla. Mix well. Pour liquid mixture into flour mixture and gently mix until the two are just incorporated (I like to use my hands. I rinse them in very cold water or spray them with cooking spray first. That way, the dough won’t stick to my fingers). If your dough is too dry, add more buttermilk. If too wet, add a bit more flour. Your dough will be sticky. When it’s at the desired consistency, add raspberries and chocolate chips. Some of the raspberries will color your dough pink. That’s okay. Gently fold the berries and chips into your dough. Do not overmix. The more you handle the dough, the tougher your scones. Form dough into a ball. If you have time, chill dough in bowl for 15 minutes before continuing. When ready to bake, turn dough out of bowl onto lightly floured surface. Using your floured hands or lightly floured rolling pin, shape dough into 8-inch circle and use a pizza cutter to form 8 equal-sized wedges. Using a floured spatula, transfer wedges to baking sheet. Scones should be at least 2 inches apart. Brush egg wash over scones and sprinkle with sugar. Bake for 20-25 minutes. Scones should be a light golden brown when properly baked. Let cool. Enjoy with clotted cream or fresh jam. Or both! Read on for a sneak peek of the next Secret, Book, and Scone Society mystery, THE BOOK OF CANDLELIGHT coming soon from Kensington Publishing Corp.

You have not asked me, for instance, what is my favourite flavour of jam, to check that I am indeed Professor Dumbledore, and not an imposter.' 'I didn't ...' Harry began, not entirely sure whether he was being reprimanded or not. 'For future reference, Harry, it is raspberry ... although of course, if I were a Death Eater, I would have been sure to research my own jam-preferences before impersonating myself.

Leera, who still snoozed, head lying on the Slam spell scroll. Augum jabbed her with his elbow and she shot up, scroll plastered to her forehead. “There’s only raspberry jam left!

There was raspberry jam on the ceiling. How did raspberry jam even reach a fifteen-foot ceiling?

one always seemed to be getting too old for something.

Sir — I got a Ministry of Magic leaflet by owl, about security measures we should all take against the Death Eaters. . . .” “Yes, I received one myself,” said Dumbledore, still smiling. “Did you find it useful?” “Not really.” “No, I thought not. You have not asked me, for instance, what is my favorite flavor of jam, to check that I am indeed Professor Dumbledore and not an impostor.” “I didn’t . . .” Harry began, not entirely sure whether he was being reprimanded or not. “For future reference, Harry, it is raspberry . . . although of course, if I were a Death Eater, I would have been sure to research my own jam preferences before impersonating myself.

You do know scones are not donuts, right?" Nina wasn't one to pass up any baked goods, but a donut was a donut. No scone would do. "This is not your white, British-royals high tea, my friend. This is Highland Park high tea. It opened a month ago, and I think we're about to have our whole world rocked." The Jam's exterior was black-and-white---- if you blinked you'd miss it. But when they went inside Nina immediately spotted a colorful mural of dinosaurs seated on velvet cushions, eating donuts and drinking out of porcelain cups. A pristine glass display case on the opposite wall featured rows and rows of endless donuts--- a happy welcoming committee of frosting and dough. "We'll be having tea for two," Jasmine said at the counter. "And for my donut, could I get the Swirly Rosewater, please?" As soon as she saw the names and flavors of the donuts, she instantly knew two things: one, she was going to love these, and two, Leo would absolutely hate them. Nina suddenly felt sympathy for Leo any time a contestant created a unique flavor pairing on the show. She raced to find the donut her friend had ordered in the case, and landed on a frosted pink cake donut that had a lemon rosewater glaze topped with roasted pistachios. "You live your life in pink, Jas." "No better color. So from what I read online, the deal is that instead of scones, they do vegan donuts---" Nina's eyes narrowed, and Jasmine glared right back. "Don't judge. What are you going to get?" "I need chocolate," Nina said. She scanned the rows in search of the perfect solution. "May I recommend our Chocolate from the Crypt donut?" the saleswoman suggested from behind the display. Her sharp bangs and blunt ponytail bobbed as she explained, "It's our fall-themed donut--- chocolate cake with a chocolate glaze, and it's got a kick from the cayenne pepper and cinnamon we add in." "Oh, my donut," Nina said. In the case was an absolutely gorgeous chocolate confection--- the cayenne and cinnamon flakes on the outside created a black-and-orange effect. "I am sold." "You got it." The saleswoman nodded and rang them up. A narrow hallway covered in murals of cartoon animals drinking tea led them to the official tearoom. Soaring ceilings revealed exposed beams and brick walls, signaling that the building was likely older and newly restored. Modern, barrel-back walnut chairs were clustered around ultrasleek Scandinavian round tables. Nina felt like she'd followed Jasmine down a rabbit hole and emerged into the modern interpretation of the Mad Hatter's tea party. "This is like..." Nina began. "It's a fun aesthetic." "I know, right?" Jasmine replied as they sat down. "It makes me feel like I'm not cool enough to be here, but glad I got invited." Nina picked up the prix fixe high tea menu on the table. The Jam's version of finger sandwiches were crispy "chicken" sliders, potato-hash tacos and mini banh mi, and in lieu of scones, they offered cornbread with raspberry jam and their signature donuts. "And it's all vegan...?" "Yes, my friendly carnivore, and hopefully delicious.

And raspberry jam and apple-tart,” said Bifur. “And mince-pies and cheese,” said Bofur. “And pork-pie and salad,” said Bombur. “And more cakes—and ale—and coffee, if you don’t mind,” called the other dwarves through the door. “Put on a few eggs, there’s a good fellow!” Gandalf called after him, as the hobbit stumped off to the pantries. “And just bring out the cold chicken and pickles!

He knows me. And I know him. And oh, I am stupid, or slow, because Templeton was right. It is simple. Of course I love Owen. I love his steadiness and his stubbornness, the way his face shows his every thought, I love the way he thinks and the way he likes to talk, and the way he likes raspberry jam just as much as I do. I loved him when I was Pin, and I love him as Pen, and I love so much that he loves me, for who I am, because I am absolutely sure that he does.

On the right is Sauce Poivrade, a sauce made from beef or venison stock and lots of pepper. It has a rough bite with a lingering and clear aftertaste. Poivrade comes from the French word poivre, which means "pepper." This heavy and strongly flavored peppercorn sauce gives the mild and light venison a sense of weighty volume, you see. Then I took some of the sauce and added various berries to give it some tangy and refreshing sweetness, making the sauce on the left- Sauce Poivrade au Baie The berries I used are-" "Blueberries, blackberries, and red currants. You also used black currant liqueur, red wine, blueberry vinegar and raspberry jam. Correct?" "Amazing! You got them all. Not surprising, I guess, considering it's you." But that sauce is not nearly as simple as it sounds! It uses liqueur, wine, vinegar, jam and raw fruit... five different forms of fruit actually, all painstakingly and precisely added together. It's what gives the sauce such a deep and complex flavor. But make even the tiniest mistake and the flavor will get muddled or overly bitter! Keeping everything in correct proportion is a tricky balancing act! It can't be done without a full and nuanced knowledge of all of the particular traits and compatibilities of each individual ingredient! It is a superhuman dish only someone like Eishi Tsukasa's skill and knowledge could create. With the two different sauces, he has beautifully expressed both the delicate elegance and the untamed wildness of a deer!

As they often did when I was tired, my thoughts took a funny turn. Perhaps, like the lighthouse, there were people who were meant to stand out, who were made to be noticed and make a difference. It brought me slap-bang to Sukie. All week I’d savoured doing the delivery round as a time when my brain went blissfully blank. And yet back at Queenie’s I’d looked at Sukie’s note so many times the paper was wearing thin. It had to be a secret of some sort: why else would it be written in code? I’d no idea. My sister had liked raspberry jam on toast, and left long brown hairs in our sink that blocked the plughole. She’d slept late on Saturdays. Turned the wireless up loud when a dance tune came on. But when I thought of her now, it was like there was this whole other Sukie I didn’t know, and it frightened me.

Presently Claude announced, “Breakfast is served!” With those welcome words, the boys and the general sat down to an old-fashioned Southern repast. Chet’s face was aglow as Claude served chilled cantaloupe, followed by crisp-fringed pancakes and broiled ham. Then he brought in a platter of fried eggs, a dish of raspberry jam, and piping hot muffins. Letting his belt out a notch, Chet asked, “General, does everybody eat like this in the South?” “They used to,” the officer replied, smiling. “Most people are in too much of a hurry today to enjoy the art of good cooking.

fine, peanut butter and jelly were fine if your parents understood the jelly/jam issue. Grape jelly was best, by Jar, a nice slippery comforting sugary petroleum-product grape. Strawberry jam was second; everything else was iffy. Take raspberry, for instance—

I've come to realize my market gig is like therapy for me. I've always loved being surrounded by food, but what I have come to cherish most at these markets is the sense of community. I know Frank the cheese guy and Barbara the mushroom lady. I swap muffins for raspberry jam with Josie at Jefferson Family Farms and ciabatta for apples with Maggie and Drew at Broad Tree Orchards. They've started to accept me as one of their own, at a time when I could use the company.

in the middle. You have to be strong and leave well alone.’ ‘Oh, but suppose it’s a bit too hot and the cakes burn?’ Libby wailed. ‘My mother is a really good cook. It would be awful to give her burnt cake; don’t you think perhaps . . . ?’ ‘Oh, Libby, use your loaf,’ Matthews implored. ‘You can cut burnt off, but there’s nothing you can do if it goes all slimy in the middle and I must say,’ he added, beginning to pile utensils into the yellow bowl, ‘the mixture tastes absolutely delicious. I think raw cake is even nicer than the cooked sort.’ He intercepted Libby’s longing glance towards the oven and chuckled. ‘You start the washing up and I’ll dry, then we’ll put all the things away, and by the time we’ve done that, the cake will very likely be cooked.’ The cake was a great success; Libby lovingly clapped the two halves together with raspberry jam in between, and wrote Welcome, Mummy and Daddy in her very best writing. Icing had not been available since the beginning of the war, but a piece of white card propped up on top of the cake was the next best thing. However, it was only Neil who came striding across the yard halfway through Thursday afternoon. Libby and Matthew had been hanging about the lane all day but as luck would have it had gone back to the house to lay the table for high tea when their visitor arrived. Neil gave a shout, stood his suitcase and bag down and caught Libby as she

She doesn’t like alcohol in cakes. That’s Katie’s thing. And she isn’t into gluten-free or, you know, polenta. She doesn’t think it’s right for cake. Anyway, it’s what poor people eat.’ My dad winces, in spite of his best Dr Seuss face. ‘In developing countries like Mexico, I mean. You have to be middle-class to afford it here.’ That didn’t help. When you get stuck, stick to the facts – that’s what Dad always tells me. ‘She’d like a Victoria sponge with lots of cream and some fruit. Raspberries and jam. Something simple.’ He looks disappointed. I can see he wanted a statement of a cake. Like his love.

I wanted something for myself, a cake that was complicated and beautiful, a cake that would take up time I didn't have with enough tricky steps to keep my mind completely off of the matters at hand. I thought about a chocolate layer cake with burnt orange icing and the orange in the icing made me consider a Grand Marnier cake instead. Finally, in a complete non sequitur, I settled on a charlotte. I would make a scarlet empress. I closed my eyes and imagined myself making a jelly roll, the soft sheet of sponge cake laid across my counter. I spread the cake with a seedless raspberry preserve and then I rolled it up with even ends. I was nearly asleep. My parents were floating away from me. I took a knife and started slicing off the roll, but I didn't let it end. No matter how many rounds I cut, there was more there for me, an endless supply of delicate spirals of cake. It was the baker's equivalent to counting sheep, lulling myself to sleep through spongy discs of jam. There were enough slices of jelly roll for me to shingle the roof, to cover the house, to lay a walkway out to the street. In my dreams I made the house a cake, and inside the cake our lives were warm and sweet and infinitely protected.

That all you got, Bert?” said Mary Poppins, and she said it so brightly you could hardly tell she was disappointed at all. “That’s the lot,” he said. “Business is bad today. You’d think anybody’d be glad to pay to see that, wouldn’t you?” And he nodded his head at Queen Elizabeth. “Well—that’s how it is, Mary,” he sighed. “Can’t take you to tea today, I’m afraid.” Mary Poppins thought of the raspberry-jam-cakes they always had on her Day Out, and she was just going to sigh, when she saw the Match-Man’s face. So, very cleverly, she turned the sigh into a smile—a good one with both ends turned up—and said: “That’s all right, Bert. Don’t you mind. I’d much rather not go to tea. A stodgy meal, I call it—really.” And that, when you think how very much she liked raspberry-jam-cakes, was rather nice of Mary Poppins. The Match-Man apparently thought so, too, for he took her white-gloved hand in his and squeezed it hard. Then together they walked down the row of pictures. “Now, there’s one you’ve never seen before!” said the Match-Man proudly, pointing to a painting of a mountain covered with snow and its slopes simply littered with grasshoppers sitting on gigantic roses. This time Mary Poppins could indulge in a sigh without hurting his feelings. “Oh, Bert,” she said, “that’s a fair treat!” And by the way she said it she made him feel that by rights the picture should have been in the Royal Academy, which is a large room where people hang the pictures they have painted. Everybody comes to see them, and when they have looked at them for a very long time, everybody says to everybody else: “The idea—my dear!” The next picture Mary Poppins and the Match-Man came to was even better. It was the country—all trees and grass and a little bit of blue sea in the distance, and something that looked like Margate in the background. “My word!” said Mary Poppins admiringly, stooping so that she could see it better. “Why, Bert, whatever is the matter?” For the Match-Man had caught hold of her other hand now, and was looking very excited.

A pile of raspberry-jam-cakes as high as Mary Poppins’s waist stood in the centre, and beside it tea was boiling in a big brass urn. Best of all, there were two plates of whelks and two pins to pick them out with.

I laugh and pull out the PB&J donut I got for myself, eager to dig in. The sweet raspberry filling oozes out down my chin and I have to lick it to keep it from dripping onto my shirt. Then the donut is plucked from my hand. “Hey, I’m—” is as far as I get before Zach is kissing me. Or, more accurately, tasting me. Maybe even devouring me. “You had …” he says in between kisses to the corner of my mouth. “… some …” Lick. “… jam …” Kiss. “… right …” Lick. “… here.” Oh God. This man. Could he be any sexier? And then he’s kissing me in earnest, the experience all the sweeter thanks to the donuts. And how good he is at kissing. He pulls me down onto the couch with him and we’re nearly horizontal. Which is so not a bad thing. His fingers twine in my hair and I sigh with happiness.

For two months I bottled oranges and apricots, peaches and pears, raspberries and nectarines, plums and figs in a rich sugar syrup laced with lemon zest. I pickled olives and cucumbers in brine, and packed mushrooms, pepperoni, artichokes, and asparagus in jars with olive oil. I made jams and preserves of berries and fruits, which then lined the shelves on the walls in the cellar, each one labeled in my own hand and bearing the date of my agony.