The Last of the Summer Fruit: A September Guide to Potting Jam

September arrives quietly, doesn't she. One morning you step outside and the air has changed — there's a dampness to it, a woodsmoke promise, and the light has gone from gold to amber. The blackberries are at their finest right now, fat and ink-dark along the lane, and the apple trees are heavy-shouldered and ready. This is the last true week for serious jamming, and I should hate for it to pass you by without a pot or two to show for it.

I have been making blackberry and apple jam since I was a girl at my mother's elbow, and I still believe it to be one of the most honest things a person can do in a kitchen. The two fruits are made for one another — the blackberry bold and a little wild, the apple gentle and high in pectin, doing the quiet work of helping everything set. You want roughly two parts blackberry to one part cooking apple, a generous squeeze of lemon, and good granulated sugar. Nothing clever. Nothing fussy.

Sterilise your jars the old-fashioned way — washed, then placed upside-down in a low oven for a quarter of an hour. I always set a small saucer in the freezer at the start; when you think your jam is nearly ready, drop a little onto that cold saucer and push it gently with your finger. If it wrinkles, it's done. If it runs, give it another few minutes and don't rush it along.

Ladling hot jam into warm jars is one of autumn's quiet ceremonies, and I mean that sincerely. There is something deeply settling about sealing up the goodness of a season, lining your jars along the shelf and knowing that February — grey, cold, cheerless February — will be made a little warmer for the trouble you took today. Label them in your own handwriting. Date them. They are worth that small dignity.

If you find yourself with a glut of blackberries beyond what your jam-making can manage, remember that they freeze beautifully on a tray before being bagged, or they can be turned into a bramble jelly, strained clear through muslin and utterly lovely on a scone. The hedgerow is generous this year. Do take all that she is offering, and put it carefully, lovingly away.