All my life I’ve lived in a little village near York. For me, the land has never just been work—it’s a kind of therapy. It heals. Keeps me sane. Gives me strength when everything else feels like it’s falling apart. When my hands are in the dirt and my back’s aching from bending over, my mind is at peace. That’s just how I live. Spring means planting. Summer is a battle against weeds and the occasional heatwave. Autumn? Harvest, chutneys, freezers stuffed with homemade delights, jars lined up like little soldiers, seals tight as a drum.
I’ve got a big allotment. Every year, I grow tomatoes, cucumbers, aubergines, courgettes, peppers, even a row of sweetcorn. Then there’s the fruit—apples, plums, cherries. And from all of it, I make my preserves: chutneys, relishes, jams, pickles, bottled fruit. I’ve got a whole chest freezer just for my veg mixes, homemade chips, and purees for my grandson. Each jar, each bag—labelled, sorted, made with love. Because when winter rolls in, nothing warms the heart like something made from your own hands.
My kids are grown now, scattered all over. But when they visit, they never leave empty-handed. Boots stuffed with boxes, bags, jars. And I don’t mind—they’re family. It’s all for them.
Especially Gemma, my youngest son Oliver’s wife. She never stops praising my pickles, my chutneys, my apricot jam. Even takes little jars for the neighbours, she says. I see how much she enjoys them—and yes, it makes me happy. I put in the hours, follow the recipes to a T, and there she is, delighted. What more could I ask for?
Then, at my grandson’s birthday party, I got a reality check. It was a grand affair—bouncy castle, kids screaming with joy, adults milling about the buffet. Among the crisps and sandwiches were my pickled onions, my courgette relish, my apricot jam. People were tucking in, complimenting left and right. I should’ve been chuffed. Then I overheard one woman say, “Oh, these! Gemma’s always giving me jars of these—your ones, right? Absolutely smashing. Nothing in the shops comes close.”
At first, I brushed it off. Maybe she just visits them a lot. But then another thanked me for the jam. A third said her kids had lived off my chutney all winter.
I looked for Gemma. She wouldn’t meet my eye. Next morning, once the chaos died down, I asked her straight: “You’ve been handing out my preserves, haven’t you?”
She sighed, stared at her tea. “Just a bit. Everyone loves them, and you’ve got so much.”
I didn’t shout. Didn’t make a scene. But something inside me deflated. All those late nights, the steam burns, the aching wrists—and she was giving it away like it was nothing.
On the drive home, my heart felt heavy. It’s not that I’m stingy. But I don’t do this for strangers. I’m not Tesco. I’m a grandmother, a mother, a woman pushing seventy. Today, I can manage forty jars. Tomorrow? Who knows. And what happens when—God forbid—I can’t? They’ll just expect it to always be there.
Now I’m back in my kitchen, stirring a new batch of relish. Four dozen jars lined up. And it hits me—maybe it *is* time for a change. My daughter’s been saying for years: “Mum, you could sell these.” I’d wave her off. But maybe she’s right. Maybe if I don’t set the boundaries, others will keep deciding for me.
I won’t stop sharing with family. But now—only properly. Not so they can pass it around like free samples, but so they *know* what’s behind each jar. Not just “tasty,” but work, sleepless nights, care, love. And maybe—just maybe—someone will stop and think, *How’s Mum holding up? Does she need help? Or is it always just take, take, take?*
