My first encounter with a gooseberry was as a 10-year-old child. In the summer of 1961 I arrived one day by bicycle at the farm of my uncles outside the village of Borris-in-Ossory, Co Laois, on a mission to bring gooseberries to my mother who had big plans for the annual jam-making.
The day I chose to pick the fruit in my uncles’ Beatrice-Potter like vegetable garden was magical, with the sun gleaming all over the lands as I cycled my way on the narrow country road to Skirk.
Both uncles, Bill and Jack, took enormous pride in their large vegetable garden, where they grew wonderful British Queen potatoes, which were a feast in themselves when eaten with melted butter. The pair also harvested cabbages, beans, peas, carrots, lettuces, onions, parsnips, rhubarb and strawberries. They were so proud of their neat garden, with not a weed to be seen in well-cultivated soil.
The secret place of the gooseberries was a mystery to me.
So after a drink of lemonade on the kitchen table, I could not wait to see where the bushes were located and what they looked like. Uncle Bill placed a tin can in my hand and we marched out to the vegetable garden. I said: “Where are the gooseberries for the jam making?” My uncle said, “Come through this little wooden painted gate.” We walked by a little path of flagstones and then up a little hill, where a collection of green bushes laden with green berries awaited us. It was hard to see them at first as they were hidden under the green scalloped leaves of the bushes. I filled the can to the brim while getting scraped in the process by the sharp spiny branches. Off I cycled back to Derrinsallagh delighted with my achievement.
The work began in earnest topping and tailing the gooseberries, placing them in a large preserving pan, simmering first and then boiling furiously after the sure-set sugar was added to the pot. The bubbles were like a volcano and the jam took on a colour of its own. When the jam was set I got to taste the tangy, tart, bitter-sweet flavour of the jam, which was gorgeous on my mother’s home-made brown bread and scones. To this day it’s my favourite jam of all.
Each year I continue that custom with my own gooseberry jam, and as I do so I am drawn back to my roots in Laois and the little farm in Skirk, where I picked the gooseberries with my uncles. As I write this memory, I gaze proudly at my freshly made dozen pots of jam.
