Love Looks An Awful Lot Like Jelly

Rhubarb... pink like early spring camellia, like hope, like remembering, like love

It had all started when wandering the antiques fair in Whitstable at the weekend. Very charming things, I noted, though none I really needed. ‘Beebee’ my friend said, ‘What about this lovely antique jelly mould?’ And she showed me how the inside had a very beautifully carved rose in the centre. Prone to rejecting loving advances much like a cat, I went to dismiss it. I caught myself short, however, deciding to at least say thank you, and to enquire after the price. It turned out it was a bit of a bargain, so the deal was sealed, and my friend was pleased for having made a successful recommendation. And she was right. Tackling my first homemade jelly with a big fat rose in the middle was completely on personal brand and I was most grateful for her seeing a small part of me in the depths of a porcelain jelly mould where I might not have done. I have to say that I was reluctant deep down though. Jelly in a mould like that would have to be precise, and I am not a precise cook, preferring to wing it all the way. Shaking the fear from my head we decided that, of course, it would have to be rhubarb: pink like early spring camellia, like hope, like remembering, like love. I knew then that I’d be writing something about it too.

A few busy days passed and eventually I saw the rhubarb in the fridge with a look on its lengths letting me know it had to be now or never. It was late in the evening. I was reluctant again, dismissive, and there was a quiet lack of desire to get stuck in. Was I also really prepared to forfeit sleep to tend to layers of jelly? Perhaps what went on to occur was precisely because of these fears, but who knows.

I set to work lightly oiling the mould, chopping the rhubarb and adding it the pan with a near full cup of water and then sugar. The trick to keeping rhubarb pink is to bring it to the boil and turn off the heat immediately, leaving it covered and set to the side for a few minutes to soften. As I strained it through a linen napkin, it turned the fabric the kind of pink I lusted after for my bedroom walls as a little girl. The resulting liquid was perfectly iridescent and quite hard to resist so I drew a small cupful for myself to drink, taking small, sweet sips.

The recipe called for plenty of gelatine, which I drowned in cold water before wringing it out, which is quite a wonderful sensation in the hands, though it reminded me of riding a ghost train in 1991 and being tickled on the face by a jellied hand extended in the darkness. Spooks aside, I stirred it into the hot rhubarb liquid with my ancient wooden spoon, recalling that I read somewhere lately that deep cleaning wooden spoons has become a Tik Tok sensation. I wonder how well the technique would fare against at least forty years of use. Would it tease out old conversations, too? Would I finally hear the truth of a few old family matters? What did the spoon know that I didn’t? I poured the first layer into the mould, about a third of the way, and popped it into the fridge before turning my attention to the custard.

I love a fresh vanilla pod. I ran a knife along the inside to release the seeds, scraping them into a pan full of milk and cream before bringing it to a simmer, turning off the heat, and whisking in some egg yolks. The thing about custard is that there’s about a second or two between sexy and shiny, and grainy and split. I hit on the edge of the wrong spot and cursed myself for not erring on the side of caution. I decided that eating a spoonful or two before adding more gelatine would make me feel better, even if it wasn’t quite perfect.

‘Has the rhubarb layer been in long enough?’ I wondered, as I plopped a layer of custard on top. It seemed to hold well, and the custard was so thick I assumed that I could also add the bottom layer of rhubarb. BIG MISTAKE. I watched in dismay as the custard peeled itself away and suspended itself in the middle. I pushed it into the fridge and shut the door on the horror. At least I could get to bed on time.

Early the next morning as I made coffee, I ran a knife along the top edges of the jelly in the hope this would help it slide out. It didn’t. So I dipped the mould in boiling hot water. This didn’t help either. I placed the mould in the water for the remaining 30 seconds of Mahler’s 5^th. Once again, impatience had caught me out. I turned the jelly out only to find that the rose pattern had simply melted away to a shocking pink puddle. The custard on the other hand had settled surprisingly into a neat layer. ‘Fuck it’ I thought, as I cut it into thick wedges and doused it with a heavy spray of whipped cream. ‘I’ll just eat it for breakfast’.

Just as I was raising the spoon to my mouth, a light knock came at the front door. It was Alun (my nearly 90-year-old neighbour) calling to apologise for any noise from his visiting grandchildren that week. I suspect he was really seeking the scoop on an after-dark caller and, indeed, had heard the murmur of low voices, cigarette smoke trailing the brick and the silhouette of a waning moon at midnight. I promptly decided that the best way to change the subject was to offer him a bowl of jelly. His face lit up. ‘How did you know that rhubarb was my favourite fruit?’ he exclaimed, practically skipping off down the stairs, abandoning his quest for details. I sank into my armchair and, looking out across the village, filled my face.

I mused over the jelly. Could I call it a success? Had I acted too soon? Even though the beautiful rose hadn’t appeared, wasn’t it still delicious and worth the effort? Did it matter? It was good despite its flaws I decided, a whisper from my after-dark caller echoing in my ears confessing ‘I much prefer to lose. There’s so much more to learn’.

Alun returned with a licked-clean bowl and a small purple glass vase. ‘For you’ he said. ‘Perhaps you can put a rose in it?’. Right there and then, those wibbly wobbly slices began to look different to me, my answer shimmering gently. Pink like bright camellia blossoming in the grey of March, like hope that it will all turn out ok, like remembering that life isn’t precise, things can’t be rushed, and that there’s so much value in feeling your way through. These things I know. And forget. And know again. Like every March that comes to call.

As for love, it suddenly looked an awful lot like pink jelly and custard with extra whipped cream on top.