Yesterday a friend and I made jam. She had steeped the strawberries overnight in sugar and rose geranium leaves. I slit open the green husks of cardamon pods and emptied the fragrant black seeds into her white ceramic mortar, crushing and cracking them with the pestle.
She put a judicious amount of the cardamon into one heavy pot and lemon verbena in another. As the strawberries bubbled and foamed, we dried jars and talked of dancing and the easy, intimate rapport we had with our bodies when we took class regularly.
When the syrup had thickened, she ladled the steaming dark ruby into our waiting jars and wrote out labels while I made a fresh pot of tea.
We carried our cups to the table and she read my tarot. Later, as I was leaving, I took a jar of honey from the window ledge near the front door. She had infused the honey with cinnamon and stacked the clear jars where light from the setting sun would catch their dark amber contents and make them glow, like jewels.
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