I’m a terribly inconsistent blogger. Sometimes, I disappear from WordPress and Instagram for ages, and I finally figured out why.
When I was little and lived in a country with zero chances to buy fresh fruits or berries in our properly cold winters, my parents prepared preserves every summer. Dozens of jars filled with pickles, mushrooms, and jams filled the shelves in our cellar. Later, when the snow drifts on the sides of the road piled up to five feet high and it was so cold outside that you would feel that even the insides of your eyelids were frozen, came the time for a special treat. You’d go down to the cellar, take one of the jars with plum jam and almonds, wipe a thick layer of dust from it, open it with a can opener, pull off the lid, and lavishly spread the jam on a piece of toast. Then you would take a bite, savor the somewhat sour taste, close your eyes, and imagine yourself back on the very day you picked those plums, cut them, put them into the large copper bowl, and stirred them with an enormous handmade wooden spoon. I used to call these jars “canned summer”; they felt so warm, so divine, so nostalgic.
Recently, I realized that it’s the same with my stories. I want them to be “cooked” in my head, be stirred and mixed with other stories and associations. And then, after a few weeks or maybe months, when I feel they are ready, I share them. As this summer came to an end, I’m ready to open jars of memories I picked this spring and summer in blooming Luxembourg, rainy Copenhagen, melting hot Greece, stormy Tunisia, sunny Malta, and breezy Portugal.