The Way It Was

A tiny jar filled to the brim with sweet memories

Ifound it in one of those tea rooms you see in small country towns. Such tea rooms are often established in old houses that have been in the same family for generations. The tables are covered with hand-crocheted cloths and set with bone china cups and saucers. Fresh-baked scones and homemade jam are served, and the tea comes in a Brown Betty teapot. The owners’ aspirations are modest; they hope only to attract a few travellers wanting a respite from the busy highway. I was one who made that choice on a sunny August afternoon.

One room of the Olde Tea Room I entered was a gift shop, selling all manner of things, including kitchen wall plaques, fancy baskets, doilies and embroidered aprons. There were also woodcarvings and hand-painted cards and notepaper. I scanned the array with interest but no desire. I’m beyond the age of wanting to add any more trinkets to my already crowded shelves. Then I spotted them—small glass jars in a row on a back shelf; “Pure High Bush Cranberry Jelly” was printed on the plain white labels.

This jelly had not been produced in some high-tech facility. The tiny jars had sealer lids, the kind sold for home canning. The label bore a farm’s name and some basic information—nothing more. It spelled homemade to me.

I held a jar in my hand and the tangy aroma of boiling syrup seemed to fill my nostrils. I was once again in the kitchen of my childhood home, where a large pot of the bright-red fruit bubbled on the large black range. Nearby, a cotton bag bulging with a mash of already cooked berries hung suspended from the knob of a cupboard door, dripping juice, one drop at a time, into a large bowl placed beneath it.

I breathed deeply again, and was now transported back to the bush in northern Ontario, with a jam pail tied to the belt around my waist. Here, I’d pull down the branches of the cranberry shrubs, raining fruit into the pail. Insects buzzed and birds chirped around me. The scent of pine and poplar filled the air.

High bush cranberries. Who gave them that name? They bear no resemblance to the fruit associated with Christmas and turkey dinners. They’re round, not oval and hang in heavy clusters. Each berry has just one flat seed. Who was the first to discover that this sharp, almost bitter fruit could be sweetened to tempt the palate? Were they first pounded into pemmican (a mixture of dried meat, fat and berries) by Native peoples of North America? Or was it the Europeans who experimented and found a way to use them at a time when this was the only fruit available to them?

Contained in that little jar were not just my memories of the

bush and the old kitchen but also the story of those who, with skill and patience, first mastered the art of jelly making—and it did take both. It began by searching the woods for cranberry bushes, recognizable by their clusters of white flowers. Then, waiting till the fruit was ripe and picking, cleaning and boiling the berries to make a mash. The mash was then placed in a cotton bag so the juice could slowly drip out—this was not a process that could be hurried. If you tried squeezing the bag, the juice would become cloudy, which was not acceptable. Finally, the juice would have to be boiled again, adding just the right amount of sugar. Jars were sterilized in boiling water. A good jelly maker would know exactly when the mixture could be taken off the boil to set and firm—a skill learned through experience.

I like to think my little jar came from a kitchen not much different from the one I remember, but no matter how it was produced, I’m happy to know that high bush cranberry jelly still exists. ■