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I stood in my grandparents’ kitchen, watching the steam curl through the air above the big pot on the stove. It was an annual ritual, as far back as memory would take me: grandpa was making jelly.
Unable to stand for long periods of time due to 1)arthritic knees, Grandpa would get his juices cooking, then drag over one of the kitchen chairs and sit next to the stove. With an elbow 2)propped on the counter top, he stirred the pot with a wooden spoon. I would tiptoe to see what it looked like, but I was too small to peek over the top. From what I could tell, though, Grandpa couldn’t stretch high enough to see in, either.
“How can you tell when it’s ready, Pa?”
“I can tell.”
He would smile at my impatient 3)fidgeting. Most children like jelly, but to me, Grandpa’s was special. It was made from the plums we picked in the yard. While he picked the ones still swinging high in the branches of the little plum tree, I picked up the ones that had been knocked down. Green, overripe or 4)bruised, my contributions were tossed right along with his into the bucket.
Washing the plums in the sink, Grandpa would sort out and discreetly dispose of the unsuitable fruit. Then we steamed the plums, strained the juices and prepared the jars. Quite possibly, I was more of a 5)hindrance than a help, but Grandpa never complained or lost patience.
I can remember the first time he told me his recipe.“There’s an art to making good jelly,” he lowered his voice and told me. “Worms and all, Pammy, that’s the secret. Worms and all.”
6)Aghast, I’m sure, I made faces, while telling him I’d never eat worms. No way! Grandpa threw back his head and laughed. Amusement danced in his eyes.
Then, at long last, the jelly was ready to eat. Jelly jars sat in rows on the tabletop, with the sunlight shining through the window behind. The deep 7)maroon color would lighten to a brilliant red, and the gold tops and rims would glow. We spooned jelly onto bread and folded it over into sandwiches.
I watched Grandpa take that first bite. Surely, if there were worms involved, he wouldn’t be eating it, would he? Feeling assured that it was another of Grandpa’s jokes, I began to eat, too.
Grandma 8)eyed us both suspiciously.
“Merle, have you been telling her there were worms in those plums? Mercy! Don’t you be listening to him, girl! He just says that, so there’ll be more jelly left for him.”Grandpa laughed deeply as he spooned more jelly onto the bread.
Each year was the same. While stirring the juice over the stove, Grandpa would share his recipe with me. He would lower his voice and bend over, so he could look me in the eye, telling me, “Worms and all, Pammy. That’s the secret.” Then, the laughter would come. I imagined that this was a secret he was passing down only to me. Quite possibly, though, he spoke softly, just so Grandma wouldn’t hear from the next room.
The year after Grandpa passed away, my new husband and I moved into a little home in the country. There was a lovely little wild plum tree in the backyard. I waited eagerly for those tiny, hard, green plums to ripen, so I could try my hand at jelly making. It took almost a week of gathering daily to get enough to make even one 9)batch of jelly. I carefully sorted, washed and double-checked the fruit.
Following what I could remember from watching Grandpa all those years ago, I succeeded in making a passable plum jelly at my first attempt. Proud of my accomplishment, I showed the shelf full of jelly jars to my dad.
He held one up and admired the sunlight, shining red through the glass. I imagined his taste buds, waiting for his first bite. Then, I casually mentioned that I had used Grandpa’s recipe.The look of delight faded from Dad’s face as he turned slowly to look at me. Then he asked, “Worms and all?”
I nodded.
At the end of his visit, he only took one jar home with him. His lack of interest in my culinary skills didn’t bother me, though.
As I spread a sweet spoonful onto a bite of toast, I thought with a smile, “It just leaves more jelly for me.”
我站在爷爷奶奶的厨房里，注视着水气从炉上的大锅里袅袅升起。自我记事以来，爷爷下厨做果酱就是一件每年一度的大事。
由于爷爷患有膝关节炎，不能长时间站立，他就先煮果汁，然后拉过厨房的一张椅子，坐在炉子旁边。他一边胳膊肘支在厨房台面上，用木勺子搅拌着锅里的果酱。此时，我就蹑手蹑脚地走近爷爷身边，想看个究竟，但我当时太矮，炉子太高，什么都看不见。不过据我观察，就算爷爷伸直了项背也一样看不见。
“你怎么能知道什么时候果酱就好了呢，爷爷？”
“反正我就知道。”
看着我焦急不安的样子，爷爷笑了。大多数小孩都爱吃果酱，但对我来说，爷爷做的果酱与众不同，它是用我们在院子里摘的李子做的。爷爷专门从那棵小李子树上摘那些依然高挂在树枝上晃来晃去的李子，我就拾那些已经掉落在地面上的。不管是青绿的、熟透的，还是落地开裂的，我都和爷爷一起把它们统统扔进桶里。
接着爷爷会把李子放在水槽里清洗，仔细地挑拣一番，把不适合的扔掉。然后我们开始蒸李子，熬出汁水来，并准备果酱罐。与其说我在帮忙，不如说是在添乱，但爷爷从来不抱怨，也不发脾气。
我还记得他第一次告诉我做果酱的秘诀。“做一手好果酱可是一门艺术啊，”他压低声音对我说。“长满虫子的李子，帕米（作者的小名），这就是秘方。虫子就是好果酱的秘方！”
我吓坏了，做了个鬼脸，并且告诉他我永远不会吃虫子的。绝对不吃！爷爷仰着头大笑起来，眼神里满是得意之情。
漫长的等待后，果酱终于做好了。果酱罐一排排地摆在餐桌上，从后面窗口射进来的阳光洒在罐子上，使深栗色的果酱淡化为耀眼的红，金属的盖子和边缘都闪闪发亮。我们用羹匙把果酱抹在面包上，再把面包对折，做成果酱三文治。
我看着爷爷咬下第一口。假使果酱里真有虫子，爷爷肯定是不会吃的吧？我确信这是爷爷开的又一个玩笑后，便也放心地吃了起来。
奶奶狐疑地望着我们俩。
“默尔，你告诉她说李子里有虫是吧？我的天啊！孩子，可别听他的！他是故意那样说的，这样他就可以吃更多的果酱了。”爷爷大笑起来，往面包上抹了更多的果酱。
同样的故事年复一年地上演着。爷爷总会一边搅拌着锅里的果酱，一边给我分享他的秘诀。他会弯下身来压低声音，望着我的眼睛说：“长满虫子的李子，帕米，这就是秘方！”说完便哈哈大笑起来。我猜想他一定只把这个秘方传授给了我一个人。也可能就是这样的，虽然说这话的时候，他总是声音很轻，生怕被隔壁房间的奶奶听到。
爷爷去世后的第二年，我和新婚丈夫搬进了乡野的一所小房子里。我们家的后院有一棵可爱的野生小李子树。我迫不及待地等着那些纤小、坚硬而青涩的果子成熟，那样我就可以一显身手，自己做果酱了。我花了将近一个星期的时间，每天摘李子，才刚刚够做一批果酱。我仔细地挑选、清洗并再次检查了这些果子。
我凭着那些年看爷爷做果酱的印象，第一次做果酱就做得相当成功。我为自己的手艺感到自豪，向来访的父亲展示了摆满一层搁板的果酱。
他拎起一罐果酱，迎着阳光细看，光线穿过玻璃瓶闪着红光。我想象果酱如何牵动他的味觉，期待他赶紧咬上一口。然后，我随口提起，我用了爷爷的秘方。爸爸慢慢地转过身来看着我，喜悦的神情从他脸上消失了。接着，他问了一句：“长满虫子的李子，对吧？”
我点点头。
离去的时候，爸爸只带走了一罐果酱。他对我的厨艺缺乏兴趣，但我并不介意。
我把一匙甜甜的果酱涂在一片烤面包上，暗自窃笑，想道：“这样正好我就可以多吃一点了。
Unable to stand for long periods of time due to 1)arthritic knees, Grandpa would get his juices cooking, then drag over one of the kitchen chairs and sit next to the stove. With an elbow 2)propped on the counter top, he stirred the pot with a wooden spoon. I would tiptoe to see what it looked like, but I was too small to peek over the top. From what I could tell, though, Grandpa couldn’t stretch high enough to see in, either.
“How can you tell when it’s ready, Pa?”
“I can tell.”
He would smile at my impatient 3)fidgeting. Most children like jelly, but to me, Grandpa’s was special. It was made from the plums we picked in the yard. While he picked the ones still swinging high in the branches of the little plum tree, I picked up the ones that had been knocked down. Green, overripe or 4)bruised, my contributions were tossed right along with his into the bucket.
Washing the plums in the sink, Grandpa would sort out and discreetly dispose of the unsuitable fruit. Then we steamed the plums, strained the juices and prepared the jars. Quite possibly, I was more of a 5)hindrance than a help, but Grandpa never complained or lost patience.
I can remember the first time he told me his recipe.“There’s an art to making good jelly,” he lowered his voice and told me. “Worms and all, Pammy, that’s the secret. Worms and all.”
6)Aghast, I’m sure, I made faces, while telling him I’d never eat worms. No way! Grandpa threw back his head and laughed. Amusement danced in his eyes.
Then, at long last, the jelly was ready to eat. Jelly jars sat in rows on the tabletop, with the sunlight shining through the window behind. The deep 7)maroon color would lighten to a brilliant red, and the gold tops and rims would glow. We spooned jelly onto bread and folded it over into sandwiches.
I watched Grandpa take that first bite. Surely, if there were worms involved, he wouldn’t be eating it, would he? Feeling assured that it was another of Grandpa’s jokes, I began to eat, too.
Grandma 8)eyed us both suspiciously.
“Merle, have you been telling her there were worms in those plums? Mercy! Don’t you be listening to him, girl! He just says that, so there’ll be more jelly left for him.”Grandpa laughed deeply as he spooned more jelly onto the bread.
Each year was the same. While stirring the juice over the stove, Grandpa would share his recipe with me. He would lower his voice and bend over, so he could look me in the eye, telling me, “Worms and all, Pammy. That’s the secret.” Then, the laughter would come. I imagined that this was a secret he was passing down only to me. Quite possibly, though, he spoke softly, just so Grandma wouldn’t hear from the next room.
The year after Grandpa passed away, my new husband and I moved into a little home in the country. There was a lovely little wild plum tree in the backyard. I waited eagerly for those tiny, hard, green plums to ripen, so I could try my hand at jelly making. It took almost a week of gathering daily to get enough to make even one 9)batch of jelly. I carefully sorted, washed and double-checked the fruit.
Following what I could remember from watching Grandpa all those years ago, I succeeded in making a passable plum jelly at my first attempt. Proud of my accomplishment, I showed the shelf full of jelly jars to my dad.
He held one up and admired the sunlight, shining red through the glass. I imagined his taste buds, waiting for his first bite. Then, I casually mentioned that I had used Grandpa’s recipe.The look of delight faded from Dad’s face as he turned slowly to look at me. Then he asked, “Worms and all?”
I nodded.
At the end of his visit, he only took one jar home with him. His lack of interest in my culinary skills didn’t bother me, though.
As I spread a sweet spoonful onto a bite of toast, I thought with a smile, “It just leaves more jelly for me.”
我站在爷爷奶奶的厨房里，注视着水气从炉上的大锅里袅袅升起。自我记事以来，爷爷下厨做果酱就是一件每年一度的大事。
由于爷爷患有膝关节炎，不能长时间站立，他就先煮果汁，然后拉过厨房的一张椅子，坐在炉子旁边。他一边胳膊肘支在厨房台面上，用木勺子搅拌着锅里的果酱。此时，我就蹑手蹑脚地走近爷爷身边，想看个究竟，但我当时太矮，炉子太高，什么都看不见。不过据我观察，就算爷爷伸直了项背也一样看不见。
“你怎么能知道什么时候果酱就好了呢，爷爷？”
“反正我就知道。”
看着我焦急不安的样子，爷爷笑了。大多数小孩都爱吃果酱，但对我来说，爷爷做的果酱与众不同，它是用我们在院子里摘的李子做的。爷爷专门从那棵小李子树上摘那些依然高挂在树枝上晃来晃去的李子，我就拾那些已经掉落在地面上的。不管是青绿的、熟透的，还是落地开裂的，我都和爷爷一起把它们统统扔进桶里。
接着爷爷会把李子放在水槽里清洗，仔细地挑拣一番，把不适合的扔掉。然后我们开始蒸李子，熬出汁水来，并准备果酱罐。与其说我在帮忙，不如说是在添乱，但爷爷从来不抱怨，也不发脾气。
我还记得他第一次告诉我做果酱的秘诀。“做一手好果酱可是一门艺术啊，”他压低声音对我说。“长满虫子的李子，帕米（作者的小名），这就是秘方。虫子就是好果酱的秘方！”
我吓坏了，做了个鬼脸，并且告诉他我永远不会吃虫子的。绝对不吃！爷爷仰着头大笑起来，眼神里满是得意之情。
漫长的等待后，果酱终于做好了。果酱罐一排排地摆在餐桌上，从后面窗口射进来的阳光洒在罐子上，使深栗色的果酱淡化为耀眼的红，金属的盖子和边缘都闪闪发亮。我们用羹匙把果酱抹在面包上，再把面包对折，做成果酱三文治。
我看着爷爷咬下第一口。假使果酱里真有虫子，爷爷肯定是不会吃的吧？我确信这是爷爷开的又一个玩笑后，便也放心地吃了起来。
奶奶狐疑地望着我们俩。
“默尔，你告诉她说李子里有虫是吧？我的天啊！孩子，可别听他的！他是故意那样说的，这样他就可以吃更多的果酱了。”爷爷大笑起来，往面包上抹了更多的果酱。
同样的故事年复一年地上演着。爷爷总会一边搅拌着锅里的果酱，一边给我分享他的秘诀。他会弯下身来压低声音，望着我的眼睛说：“长满虫子的李子，帕米，这就是秘方！”说完便哈哈大笑起来。我猜想他一定只把这个秘方传授给了我一个人。也可能就是这样的，虽然说这话的时候，他总是声音很轻，生怕被隔壁房间的奶奶听到。
爷爷去世后的第二年，我和新婚丈夫搬进了乡野的一所小房子里。我们家的后院有一棵可爱的野生小李子树。我迫不及待地等着那些纤小、坚硬而青涩的果子成熟，那样我就可以一显身手，自己做果酱了。我花了将近一个星期的时间，每天摘李子，才刚刚够做一批果酱。我仔细地挑选、清洗并再次检查了这些果子。
我凭着那些年看爷爷做果酱的印象，第一次做果酱就做得相当成功。我为自己的手艺感到自豪，向来访的父亲展示了摆满一层搁板的果酱。
他拎起一罐果酱，迎着阳光细看，光线穿过玻璃瓶闪着红光。我想象果酱如何牵动他的味觉，期待他赶紧咬上一口。然后，我随口提起，我用了爷爷的秘方。爸爸慢慢地转过身来看着我，喜悦的神情从他脸上消失了。接着，他问了一句：“长满虫子的李子，对吧？”
我点点头。
离去的时候，爸爸只带走了一罐果酱。他对我的厨艺缺乏兴趣，但我并不介意。
我把一匙甜甜的果酱涂在一片烤面包上，暗自窃笑，想道：“这样正好我就可以多吃一点了。