I love jam and jelly. My mom taught me to make jam (jelly always seemed so much more work and besides, I like fruit pulp.) We specialized in tomato jam (seasoned with cinnamon and cloves). These days I make cranberry-rhubarb and blueberry.
One day, I wanted a snack, something small and light. I opened the fridge and got out the jar of Welch’s grape jelly. I never buy the stuff: I’ve graduated to Trappist brand. The Welch’s probably entered the house during a family reunion last summer (and is still unfinished a year later). I took a spoonful and had such a feeling of wellbeing: I thought it was the sugar.
But the next time I craved a spoonful, a memory came to mind: a bitter penicillin pill tucked in a spoonful of grape jelly and offered by my mom. I realized that grape jelly, which nowadays I regularly eschew, is a comfort food for me.
I had an odd relationship with pills as a young girl. It was an ordeal for me to swallow pills. I still have trouble, even though I have plenty of practice. Between vitamins and psych meds, I swallow ten pills a day. And I still occasionally gag.
One day my mom and I came upon a solution (when the jelly wasn’t sufficient). I kneaded some white bread into a mass of goo and wrapped the pill completely. Without the bitter taste I was able to swallow it. Mom pointed out that the wrapped pill was larger and should be harder to swallow, but for me the wrapping was just what I needed to get the pill down.
I probably won’t make a habit of buying a large jar of Welch’s grape jelly. My homemade cranberry-rhubarb jam and Trappist’s blueberry, cherry, and ginger, hold charms Welch’s can’t match. But the grape jelly warms something in the deep recesses of my heart.
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