When it comes to food, my experience of preserving has been limited to making a batch of muesli last more than a week. When it comes to the real business, involving Kilner jars, jam thermometers and muslin, I am very much the novice. Many a time have I watched as my mother, grandmother and aunt have brewed the annual batch of marmalade, hovering over a large silver cauldron like the witches in Macbeth, and wondered what the fuss was all about. But now that I'm older, wiser and generally more confident wielding a spatula, I've come to appreciate the social and personal value of preserving; and am determined to master it.

Salt, vinegar and sugar have been used for thousands of years to make food last longer - a necessary weapon against the threat of harsh winters and poor harvests. Luckily for us, pleasure and taste were in no way sacrificed in the effort. The earliest records of jam-making date back to the first century AD, when honey was used to preserve fruit in ancient Rome. Over time, this method made its way across the empire to Britain, and appeared in various guises (such as jellies, syrups, and compotes) at Tudor banquets. Robert May's The Accomplisht Cook of 1660, a book containing recipes fit for the great and good of Renaissance England, featured marmalade and various formulae for preserving fruits and vegetables. Fifty years later, cookery schools were teaching housewives how to make pickled vegetables, and by the mid-19th century the nation was hooked on a sumptuous Indian condiment known as chutney. As sugar and spices became more commonplace and affordable, sweet and savoury preserves moved from the domain of the aristocracy to the common British kitchen. And we couldn't get enough of them. The brewing and potting of jams, pickles and chutneys became both a way of celebrating the bounty of the season, and eking out supplies through the winter.


Fast forward a century of industrialisation, pasteurisation, the invention of mason jars and the appearance of brands such as Tiptree and Tracklement's, sweet and savoury preserves are widely available and relatively cheap - there is no need to make them at home. As a result, it is all too easy to dismiss jam-making as a superfluous, old-fashioned skill, practised only by pensioners and WI ladies in floral housecoats. However, while no one is judged for using shop-bought preserves, the homemade stuff still carries a certain cultural currency, as though those who make it know how to do things properly. The way I see it, if the ability to whip up the perfect omelette is the sign of a quality chef, making beautiful preserves is the benchmark of the top-notch home cook.


For this reason, and the fact that autumn was creeping ever closer, I decided that mastering these tricksy condiments would make a very fitting end to my summer recipe challenge. First up was strawberry jam: an elemental preserve, sweet and unsophisticated, without any airs and graces. Saint Delia (with edits from my mother) provided the formula: combine equal parts of sugar and fruit, plus the juice of a lemon. Warm on a low heat "until the wooden spoon no longer feels gritty when you lick it" (my mother’s words, not Delia’s) and then set to bubble fragrantly until you have jam. Simple enough, but my hands were sweating within five minutes, everything got sticky, and for some reason I thought it would be a good idea to put a lid on the pan while the fruit was bubbling. Fortunately Mama was on hand to correct this grave error of judgement.


Still, by the time it came to remove the saucer from the freezer to test for readiness, I was thoroughly fed up and convinced that the whole enterprise was a disaster. The well-known problem with strawberries is that, due to low levels of pectin in the fruit, reaching a jam-like consistency is quite tricky: in my family, only my grandma seems to know the exact moment to turn off the heat. (My mum quips that her own efforts only ever fall into one of two categories: soup or wallpaper paste.) So I was not feeling hopeful. However, to the great surprise of everyone involved, when I prodded the scarlet dribble on the saucer, a little wrinkle appeared. It was officially jam. Hurrah! I whipped it off the hob and (without tasting it) poured it into a single jar with a bendy orange lid. It now has pride of place at the back of the cupboard, waiting patiently until we've finished my grandma's latest batch. Naturally.

An unexpected windfall of apples prompted my next foray into preserving. There's only so much crumble a person can take in a short space of time, and it was my dad who sheepishly asked if I could make chutney, instead. "Of course!" I replied, vaguely recalling my single past attempt: a blackish, sticky and figgy concoction that you could probably lay bricks with. As I don’t really eat chutney (traumatic childhood experiences involving Branston) I’ve never really been tempted to have another go. Still, my father had laid down the gauntlet and, in the context of the recipe project, it seemed churlish to reject the challenge. So off I went in search of the formula.


Nigella Lawson's How To Be A Domestic Goddess provided the solution, with a simple recipe laden with heady spices: cloves, ginger, chilli, allspice and black pepper. Nigella begins the chapter with the declaration that chutney is “a breeze to make”, and she is absolutely right: you bung apples, onions and spices in pan, add vinegar and cook "until you’ve got a pulpy mass". That's it. I therefore couldn’t understand why homemade chutney is such a rare breed: "why doesn't everyone make it?" I asked myself, “we could all save ourselves so much money!” Then I poured in the vinegar, and the reason became all too clear.


At first I quite liked the smell, and relished in its warm (albeit sinus-cleansing) spiciness. By the time I realised that it would be a good idea to open the window, it was too late. My sister complained of a headache and quickly vacated the room, my mum walked in and started coughing, meanwhile my eyes began streaming uncontrollably. It took two days for the odour to clear. Still, I got three rather excellent jars of chutney for my pains, all of which were opened (in different kitchens) and half empty by the time my grandmother said "you must wait for a few months before you eat it: it tastes much better that way." Ah well. Maybe next time.

All of this meditative peeling, chopping and stirring got me thinking about why everyone seems to love homemade pickles, jams and jellies. Perhaps they simply taste better than their industrial cousins, though I'd be hard pushed to say whether that's due to quality of ingredients and skill, or something deeper, related to the act of preserving itself.

Preserves are inherently associated with homeliness and domesticity, condiments that (once upon a time) would probably be present in every kitchen cupboard. There is comfort in their simple flavour, their sweetness and their straightforward nature: they require little effort to eat, and need only one or two accompaniments to become a meal. Forgive me, male jam-makers of the world, but homemade preserves tend to be associated with women, and particularly mothers. Perhaps this is why toast and jam or cheese and pickle sandwiches are so often named as comfort foods of choice, because they were originally made for us by the person who first gave us nourishment. And, like a mother's embrace, is there any problem a jam sandwich can't solve?


I believe that we cherish homemade preserves because they remind us of friends and loved ones. No one seems to make them for purely selfish enjoyment, but always to share with others. A jar of jam is one of the simplest homemade gifts, one that transcends social boundaries: appropriate for close relatives, colleagues and neighbours alike. True, such generosity may be motivated by nothing more than the desire to shift a glut of allotment produce, but it remains a gentle way of showing friendship and affection, one that is universally appreciated. Where words fail, jam speaks.

Yet it seems ironic that preserves are seen as lovely, homely things, given that their origins lie in frugality, not feasting. After all, the reason we preserve food in seasons of abundance is to arm ourselves against the threat of scarcity. It may now be seen as an idle pleasure, but preserving was once a necessity, a tactic to improve the probability of survival of the winter months, a long sea journey or trench warfare. And although the situation has changed in the UK, there is still something reassuring in stocking your cupboards full of jam and pickles, so you can sleep secure in the knowledge that should it come to famine, alien invasion or World War Three, there will be enough marmalade to see you through.


Preserving is thus a bittersweet practice, both a celebration of the sunshine we have enjoyed and a grim acceptance of the darker, colder days to come. A ritualistic practice at the end of the summer, preserving is a gentle reminder of the seasons and the fact that nothing lasts forever, that the August light must give way to the greyish tint of November. But by bottling and storing the bounty of the season we find a way to enjoy it for longer: when in need of a little warmth on a frosty February morning, comfort can be found in slathering a glistening dollop of apricot jam on hot buttered toast.

Of course, no amount of jam can really preserve the light and optimism of the summer; it only provides a memory, like a faded photograph. The seasons march on and life continues on its twisty, unknowable path, with many a winter storm to blow us off course. But the giving and serving of jam is a beautiful reminder of the one constant in our existence, the one that lasts beyond all seasons and lifetimes. Love.