Jam

And after all the London-ness of the last few weeks (I forgot to mention Afghanistan at the British Musuem, the most beautiful, goldest of gold jewellery, and Cria Cuervos at the BFI, a wonderful film, that lingered), there was last Saturday and Sunday in Norfolk. Cheese from the market, tiny, fiery home grown radishes. A much needed haircut. Ladybird books and china flower brooches from charity shops. Bursts of bright sunshine blanketed between thunderstorms, over-flowing water butts (welcome after the drought status that East Anglia had just been given), sowing carrot seeds in the damp earth after the rain. Agatha Christie's Miss Marple in the evening, a repeat, but I like the chance to ogle the costumes rather than focus on plot twists. A father's day lunch in various shades of early summer greens and creams; broad bean (from the garden) risotto made by my sister, elderflower fizz, gem lettuce, followed by the most heavenly gooseberry and elderflower fool. Sweetpeas on the dining room table, roses in the kitchen, hydrangeas on the drive. Somehow the rain-damp air makes everything smell so much more divine.

And jam. Lots of jam. So much jam making, all in anticipation of the upcoming Big Feastival and our Women's Institute tent. Sterilising of jars, boiling of fruit, bag after bag of sugar. Strawberry jam, strawberry and vanilla, peach and raspberry, strawberry and redcurrant, gooseberry and elderflower. Phew.

This weekend coming is my last free one for an age before festivals and weddings and trips away kick in, so I'm planning on taking it easy, dinner at some friends' Saturday evening, Emin at the Hayward on Sunday, a pub quiz Sunday night.

What are your plans?