Nigella Eats Everything

I love jam. That may not be a mystery. My friend Hannah can testify. When we lived together I had a collection of seven jams in the fridge. One for each day of the week you could say. Looking back, I admit it was excessive. Jam on toast, jam on scones, jam on my face, it all sounds good to me. But now, the reason I’m here raving like a mad woman about jam is because I need to talk about bramble jam.

My parents have an enormous apple tree in their garden. It is positively crooked, bent with the weight of hundreds of green, rosy-cheeked apples, some growing to humongous sizes, almost like James and the Giant Peach. I love apples. I would make myself quite at home in a gigantic apple core, although I don’t know how I feel about my fellow squatters. Wasps are always lingering nearby.

During these last days of summer, I sit in the garden and every so often there is a gentle rustle and a plop as another apple tumbles to the ground. Some fall already brown and shrivelled, but others are smooth and red, practically blushing at their own prettiness. My mum and dad have each had a turn with the rake, lifting it up as high as possible to reach those pristine and unobtainable apples at the top. We have collected buckets full of them, carted them inside to peel, chop and stew, then store in plastic tubs in the freezer. Apples we have pouring out of our ears. Blackberries, however, are another matter.

Blackberries are elusive creatures. Year after year I haven’t had much luck. I miss the deluge, each bush appearing gnarled and dead, and traipse home gently weeping, so this year I was determined to get my fix.

The other evening I went out before dinner. The air was muggy and soupy so I shrugged off my jumper as I walked further and further down the overgrown lane, the late sunshine flashing through the trees. I carried an ice cream tub, and every now and then I would pause by a bush to inspect it before pushing on. Again, as with most events in my life, I was late to the party. Bushes were covered in thorns and leaves, but only wilted fruit. Occasionally, I would spot one among the hedges and would plunge in cursing the nettles. Not a lot stands between me and blackberries.

At last, bedraggled and sweaty, I found a thicket. It was small but dotted with hundreds of little shiny blackberries. I went for the plump ones first, naturally, then searched under leaves and behind cobwebs for any gems. I walked home with my ice cream tub full and my hands and arms stained with purple, inky splotches.

Apple and blackberries are an excellent pairing. They must be destined to complement as they are both are autumn fruits, ideal for stewing, or mixing with spice and vanilla for warmth. I used to think blackberries ruined a good apple crumble. They were too sour, too darkly flavoured for my juvenile palette. Then, thankfully, I grew up. Now, together they slowly dance across the tongue, and are perfect crumble-fodder, especially topped with crushed hazelnuts like in my dad’s crumbles.

Blackberry, apple and bay jam – aka Bramble Jam

Together, apples and blackberries are a beautiful couple. And, to me anyway, what is more beautiful than their jam. This flavour is also known as bramble jam, which I think is a lovely name, it immediately conjures images of hedgerows, thickets of berries, and I can practically smell the jam bubbling away.

I have adapted the jam recipe by Honey & Co. Apples were peeled and diced, and they and the berries, sugar and lemon all slipped into the saucepan. Over the heat, the blackberries quickly burst their juice, staining the apples cherry-red. It bubbled busily, frothing like a mad animal, and by some impulse I dropped in a big bay leaf (it’s probably that word bramble again). My parents’ garden is a home of edible treasures, and there is a huge bay bush shaped like a rocket. So, all the ingredients in this bramble jam are, in fact, wild. And like apples and blackberries, there is a certain spice to bay leaves that shouts of autumn.

The bramble jam became syrupy and thick and gloopy, the colour darkening to indigo, almost black. I poured it into two little jars, scraping the saucepan with the spoon and licking it clean.

Surely jam is the answer to everything.