Jam

I love Jam.

Something about it's down-home goodness really warms my heart.
I was inspired to write this ode to jam because a few minutes ago I spotted a jar of strawberry preserves that my grandmother had sent off to me just after Christmas. I was instantly transported back to the wonderful early summer days of my childhood. I would always go at the beginning of the season with my mother and grandmother to pick strawberries to make into jam for the rest of the year. I was a sneaky little child. I would pick a few strawberries to put in the pallet, but every so often when I found the perfect strawberry, I would secretly eat it while my mother and grandmother weren't looking. I'm sure they knew, but at the time, it was my little secret- those strawberries and I. After the jam was made, I would have a piece of toast with strawberry jam nearly every morning for a month after. And so, as I return from my childhood daydreams, I would like to show my appreciation for the wonderfully comforting and deliciously delectable memories jam has preserved in me. (Pun.)

la Confiture
par Hannah Boldt

Confiture, oh ma confiture
toutes que tu possèdes
toutes que tu étais
que tu serais
que tu avais été
que tu sois
que tu auras été

Tout ça- Rien ne me fait plaisir
comme tu me fais plaisir.
La jouissance de tes fraises,
tes framboises.
Le goût sucré de tes fruits
qui avaient mijoté à la perfection.
Oui. Tu avais atteint la perfection.
Oui, la perfection.