Blackcurrant Jam

Blackcurrants come and go in a fortnight. Miss them and you wait a year. That's why this jam exists: to hold a particular week in July inside a jar, so that some morning in February, when the light is thin and the bread is cold, you can spread a thick layer on toast and remember what summer tasted like.

There's no special skill required. Blackcurrants are full of pectin, which means they set firmly with nothing more than sugar and a hard boil. No added pectin, no lemon juice, no fuss. The fruit does the work. Your job is to stand at the hob with a wooden spoon and pay attention for thirty minutes. We're only making jam.

I make a batch every year when the bushes give up their fruit, and I always make more than I need, because there's nothing quite like handing a jar to someone who didn't expect it. A blackcurrant jam is a gift that holds its colour and its sharpness for months. The notebook entry from last year reads: "Stripped the currants while listening to the radio. Kitchen smelled like summer rain." That was the whole afternoon.

If the blackcurrants haven't come in yet where you are, wait. Frozen will do at a push, but they're worth catching fresh. The market decides.