The Last Spoonful

For twenty-seven years, Evelyn Pike had judged the marmalade at St Oswald’s summer fair. Her comments were copied into family arguments.

“Your grandmother’s batch,” people still said, “was the one she called furniture polish.”

Now Evelyn was retiring. The committee had bought her a silver spoon. The contestants had brought their finest work.

This was unfortunate for Martin.

His entry contained burnt peel, three peppercorns and enough sugar to preserve a small animal. He had spent two evenings making it worse.

At eleven, Evelyn tasted jar seventeen.

She paused.

Martin leaned forward.

She tasted it again.

“Interesting,” she said.

Martin’s face fell.

At the presentation, jar seventeen received a highly commended certificate.

He intercepted her beside the tombola.

“You can’t commend that.”

“I just did.”

“It’s terrible.”

“Then why did you enter it?”

Martin took a folded newspaper cutting from his wallet. Twenty-seven years earlier, Evelyn had reviewed his father’s first entry: A brave attempt to make an orange regret its existence.

His father had framed the line above the kitchen table. He had died in February.

“I wanted one for myself,” Martin said.

Evelyn looked at the cutting, then at the new silver spoon in its velvet box.

“Do you know how tiring it is,” she asked, “being the woman who says dreadful things about jam?”

“Marmalade.”

“Especially that.”

Martin put the cutting away.

“What should I do with my certificate?”

“Frame it. Disappoint your children.”

She picked up a clean spoon and sampled his jar once more.

“Well?” he asked.

“The peppercorns are unnecessary.”

He waited.

“So is this conversation.”

Martin smiled.

“No,” Evelyn said. “That is not for the frame.”