J is for Jam #AtoZChallenge

photo courtesy: google images

Jam was a kitchen cupboard staple when we were growing up. Kissan was the brand: mixed fruit was what we liked. It came in a glass bottle and  the label on the bottle was pretty colourful.

Bread-jam, parantha-jam, jam with dahee (yoghurt), jam on toast, jam on spoons, jam on fingers, licked and dipped back when mother wasn't looking were various snack options available to us as hungry children in need of sustenance in between meals. Shop bought snacking hadn't surfaced in the era I grew up in. Three main meals dotted with dhoodh ka glass (a glass of milk) in the evening, fruit on demand or at the most a laddoo or hand full of nimki was considered plenty.

June 1992. A few college graduates who had joined British Airways as fresh recruits were sent by their profit-making and benevolent company to London on what is known in the airline world as a 'fam' (short for familiarization) trip. I was one of the keen ones and it was my first of everything: first flight, first passport, first international departure etc. 

And to top it all, there were people from other parts of the world who had come to BA headquarters near Heathrow to participate in the fam trip with us. People from Argentina, Germany, Japan and Turkey.

The Argentinian lad caught my eye on account of how tall he was (I like tall men). Plus, he smiled a lot--a sort of open, friendly, warm smile that made the grey London skies sunshine sunny.

At the end of day 2, the ice had broken and stories were being exchanged of how we got to this job, lives we had led so far etc. etc. After dinner that night, a group of us (5 or 6 Indians, an Argentinian cutie and 2 Turkish girls) ended up in one room talking about countries, cultures and food.

It was getting late. Someone mentioned they were hungry. 

Out came a bottle of Kissan jam from an Indian bag. (I'm neither kidding, nor exaggerating). My husband (then just a colleague...and did I mention the Argentinian was soooo good looking?) was in the room, so you can ask him to confirm.

(Please note that Indians, like some other cultures I've come across, like to carry food --their food--when they travel. More on this in another post, another time.)

Packets of biscuits appeared from somewhere. The Argentinian was hungry.  He loved the taste of Kissan mixed fruit jam. (We have so much in common, I thought happily.) He ate a few biscuits. I'm not sure what the others were up to. But he really liked that jam.

"Wait here." he said. "I have something for you."

His heart? I hoped while he stepped over the bed to leave the room to go to his and fetch whatever he had for me...I mean us.

He came back with a glass bottle of what looked like chocolate spread.

"Jam from my country." he announced with a beautiful smile and offered us a taste.

OMG! 

No. No...I'm not saying this because his hands had touched the bottle, not even because he spread the chocolate looking spread on some piece of bread/biscuit and offered it to me...his jam was d-e-l-i-c-i-o-u-s.

It was Dulce de Leche. He told us that's what's it's called like we tried to explain to him that he was not relishing 'Kissan' (which means farmer in Hindi) but jam...J-A-M--mixed fruit jam.

But we didn't learn. Neither us, nor he.

For the rest of the trip, we would get together after dinner and hear:

"Any more Kissan? What! No more Kissan!" 

"It's not Kissan. It's only the brand."

"Ya. I know...pass the Kissan....that's my last bit in there."

"Where's  that chocolate..."

"It's not chocolate--it has no chocolate in it. It is Dulce de Leche!"

"Yes, yes, wahee to (same thing) pass the chocolate na yaar.

I think it was the third day of our fam trip when he told us he was going to get married that year. His steady girlfriend was waiting for him back home.

*****

Labels are so unnecessary. No? 

Nationalities, religions, likes, dislikes, gender, status: 

how amazing it would be if all the lines dissolved into one.

***** 

I've evolved into a marmalade lover as I've grown older. 

I like thick cuts of rind in mine. I love the bitter sweet taste of it.

The best marmalade I've tasted recently came from a farmer's market stall in Beirut.

It's called Adma's Original

The label on the jar gives this as their email address:

house-of-marmalade@gmail.com

Just in case, you're planning a trip to Beirut.

Do you like jam?

What's your favourite kind?