Gooseberry Jam

Gooseberries are the first fruit of the year worth turning into jam. They come into the market in early June, hard and green and sharp enough to make your teeth ache, and they sit there looking like nothing much. Most people walk past them. That's a mistake.

There's a particular pleasure in making the first jam of the year. The shelf in the pantry has been thinning out all winter, the marmalade is down to one jar, and suddenly there's something new to put up. The kitchen smells of hot sugar and tart fruit and the windows fog over. It's a Saturday morning kind of job, slow and satisfying, the radio on and the back door open to whatever the garden is doing.

Gooseberries set easily because they're full of pectin, which means you don't need any clever tricks. Sugar, water, a squeeze of lemon, and time. The colour shifts as it cooks, from cloudy green to a strange, pale pink-gold that always surprises me, even though I've watched it happen every June for years. I wrote it down in the notebook once: "Gooseberries. June. Pink, somehow." That was the whole entry.

Make more than you think you need. A jar in the cupboard in November, when the garden is asleep and the mornings are dark, will taste like the day you made it. That's worth the hour of topping and tailing. Trust me on this.