All my life I’ve lived in a village near Lincolnshire. Ever since I was a girl, the land has been more than just work to me—it’s been my refuge. It heals. It gives strength when everything else feels like it’s falling apart. When my hands are in the soil and my back aches from the work, my mind finally rests. That’s how I’ve always lived. Spring means planting. Summer brings heat and the endless battle with weeds. Autumn is harvest—jars, preserves, freezers filled with homegrown goodness.
I have a large plot. Every year, I grow tomatoes, cucumbers, aubergines, courgettes, peppers, and sweetcorn. Fruit, too—apples, plums, cherries. From these, I make chutneys, relishes, jams, pickles, and compotes. I have a separate freezer just for vegetable mixes, homemade chips, and purées for my grandson. Everything has its place. Because this is how I show love. Because I know, come winter, these will bring warmth.
My children are grown now, scattered across the country. But when they visit, they never leave empty-handed. Their cars are packed with boxes, bags—whatever they can carry. And I don’t mind. They’re family. This is all for them.
Especially Emily, my youngest son James’s wife. She’s always full of praise—my pickles, my aubergine relish, my apricot jam. She even takes jars to her neighbours. I see how happy it makes her, and I won’t lie—it pleases me too. I work through the night, following recipes to the letter, and her joy feels like the best reward. What more could I ask for?
But at his birthday party, I realised something wasn’t right. The celebration was lovely—clowns, children laughing, a table laden with food. Among the dishes were my pickles, courgette relish, apricot compote. Guests ate and complimented them. I should’ve been proud. But then I overheard a woman say, “Oh, these are the famous pickles! I get them from Emily all the time!”
At first, I brushed it off. Maybe she was a frequent guest. Then another woman thanked me for the jam. Later, a third mentioned feeding her children my relish all winter.
I searched for Emily. She avoided my eyes. The next morning, when we were alone, I asked her outright.
“Emily, are you giving away my preserves?”
She sighed, looking down.
“Yes—just a little. They’re so good, everyone asks. And you have so much.”
I didn’t shout. Didn’t argue. But my heart felt hollow. I’d spent nights stirring, boiling, sealing jars—all by hand. And she handed them out like they were nothing.
On the drive home, my chest was heavy. It’s not about the jars. But did I make them for strangers? I’m not a shop. I’m a grandmother, a mother, a woman in her sixties. Today, I can fill forty jars. Tomorrow—who knows? And they’ve grown used to expecting it, never wondering if I’m the one paying the price.
Now, back in my kitchen, stirring another batch of relish, I stop and think: maybe it’s time for a change. My daughter’s been saying for years—”Start selling them.” I always waved her off. “That’s not why I do it.” But perhaps she’s right. If I don’t set the boundaries myself, others will decide for me.
I won’t stop sharing with family. But from now on, it’ll be different—given with care, not carelessness. So they understand that every jar isn’t just “delicious,” but hours of work, sleepless nights, and love. And maybe, just once, someone will pause and ask, “How is Mum? Does she have enough help? Or are we only here to take?”
There’s a lesson in this: love shouldn’t be taken for granted—especially when it’s handed to you in a jar.
