Many, many summers Mom and I made peach jam. We’d peel and dice, boil and sugar. Then, she’d skim off the foam – my favorite part of any jam – and we’d put up tiny jars of orange light.
It’s the only time I ever ate peaches.
So today, when I took the beautiful fruit that P and I picked up from the local orchard yesterday, when I gripped it into my fingers and sliced, I was overcome with that memory – me dropping jars back into the hot water bath, the “need” to lick up spilled droplets on the edge of the counter, Mom’s laugh.
It’s a sweet – tinged at the edge with pain – memory. One for which I am grateful on this Father’s Day morning when I make muffins scented with laughter and cinnamon for all the men I love.
If you’re interested, here’s the muffin recipe I used.