Currant jam

We're jammin'... (do you think this is what Bob Marley meant?).

It's going to be that kind of weekend. Off to the Borough Hall market now, for some more fruit. Just fifteen minutes on foot.

Apart from the perfect, edible things - gooseberries, currants, raspberries, real tomatoes - I can't wait for July and August to be over. The air is clingy, you can't walk without perspiring, and the sky is often that depressing flat white. Relief is in the berries, the bright jam, the intense flavours of real fruit.

I have three enormous jars of black and red currants in gin: when there's a book signing in Brooklyn - probably at Book Court -  I'd like to take some along to be added to nice cold prosecco for the attendees. Probably the black currant. Although that recipe isn't the book.

The big jars are for us, the little ones are for gifts. I eat jam practically every morning, on toast, or, like this morning, on freshly made flapjacks. Vince only helps on weekends (when I'm in South Africa I have to remember to say "at weekends").

So the jam is really for me.