the countryside. She had a small orchard behind her house—apple, pear, and a single, gnarled quince tree that everyone else ignored. “Too much work,” they said. “Too tart.” But my aunt saw something else. She saw jam.
We spent an afternoon peeling, chopping, and stirring. The fruit softened. The sugar melted. The color deepened into a warm, amber glow. By evening, we had six jars of jam cooling on the counter, their lids pinging as they sealed. I felt like I’d learned a secret. A small, sweet, life-changing secret.Jam
