...she was thinking of jelly.
Forty half-pints of it, lined up on her white counter, gleaming in the sun coming through the kitchen window. It should, technically, have been forty-two jars, but one didn’t seal and one jar cracked and so she had poured the stuff into a convenience store plastic cup and stuck it in her fridge. (This was after she had heated up a leftover breakfast biscuit and slathered it with butter and still-warm jelly, eating it out on the back stoop so Cole wouldn’t know and demand a bite. The taste of it, rich and tart and sweet, was summer on her tongue.)
At some point in time, I'm going to shove my muse, Blanche, through Chapter Six so I can get to the rest of the dang book, but for now, I'm stuck wallowing through a decidedly unmagical bit of writing in what is an otherwise magic-adjacent story.
Also, Blanche is demanding that I tell you that the jelly in the novel is actually blackberry jelly, not strawberry jam, and that the biscuits upon which the blackberry jelly is slathered (I LOVE that word) are not lemon-thyme biscuits. Blanche might be stubborn and pokey, but she's meticulously honest.
(Maybe if I thus appease her, she'll let me get through Chapter Six.)
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