Hedgerow Jelly
When we first moved to this valley, I noticed a beautiful hawthorn tree just up the road from our home.
I was blown away by its billowy white blossoms in the spring, whose scent pleased me at first and then repelled me. Later in the year, I was drawn back to the tree by its knobby berries that brightened the bleak landscape all winter long. I figured a tree like that must have a story to tell, so I did some research, which confirmed my suspicion.
To catch you up, hawthorn trees are the subject of various superstitions in British and Irish folklore.
To some, they represent love and optimism:
– Branches of blossoming hawthorn were traditionally hung above doorways to increase fertility and ward off evil spirits.
– Crowns of hawthorn flowers were worn by young women looking to attract a mate during May Day frivolities.
– The original maypoles were made from hawthorn wood (the setting for a fertility dance where feminine ribbons and flowers were woven around a masculine pole.)
To others, hawthorns represent misfortune and death:
– That pleasing/not pleasing scent I described is due to a chemical the blossoms give off to attract pollinators called triethylamine, which is also the first chemical given off by decaying flesh. (The smell of death, which I’ve seen described as ‘sweet and cloying,’ would be more recognized in the past when bodies of loved ones were laid out for several days before burial, to give mourners time to prepare the body and pay respects.)
– The Great Plague of 1665 seems to have contributed to hawthorn blooms being associated with death as the number of plague deaths started to climb drastically that spring. From this point on, hawthorn blossoms were banished from homes in English folk traditions and hawthorn was seen as a possible transmitter of the disease.
In Celtic stories, hawthorn trees are believed to be sacred to the fairies (even serving as a gateway between our worlds). Because of this, lone hawthorn trees that stand in the middle of a field or at a crossroads are never cut down (like, for example, the lone hawthorn at the intersection near our home). These trees are thought to bring good luck to the landowner and terrible misfortune to one who damages it. This superstition is so widely shared that it is not uncommon to drive around Ireland and see fields of farmland with hawthorn trees right in the middle, as many farmers fear cutting them down and instead choose to work around them.
Now, back to our time and this valley…
Each autumn, I ask the owners of the property where the lone hawthorn stands if I can pick some of the tree’s berries to make a jelly. They always say yes, quizzically, ask me why I bother and remind me that they’re not edible.
I thank them for the warning and happily gather a little basket of the berries.
I also thank the passersby who stop their trucks to ask me what I’m doing with a mix of curiosity and suspicion, saying things like: ‘sounds a bit witchy to me’, or ‘to each his own, I guess’. To which I agree and carry on picking.
Once I’ve filled my little basket with hawthorn berries, I add rose hips gathered from sleepy rose bushes on our property and dozens of others I slip into my pockets while out wandering the river paths. Then, to my haws and hips I add a few forgotten apples leftover from the harvest of our neighbours’ orchard next door, and a sprig of bright red sumac from along the dyke. Together, these fruits and berries make a small batch of the sweetest, subtlest jelly you ever did taste, which I call Hedgerow Jelly.
Sadly, my happy autumn tradition looked to have come to an end this year, when, in what the villagers dubbed the Keremeos Chainsaw Massacre, Fortis Electricity shamefully mutilated every tree that came within 5 meters of its power lines.
The lone hawthorn tree at the end of our lane was one of the victims. One can only hope the workers have escaped the fairies’ wrath.
Infuriated by the hawthorn tree’s violation and reminded of my own lack of control of man’s dominion over nature, I sourced a hawthorn tree of my own to plant and treat with due respect. And a little trepidation.
It is now happily situated within a hedgerow of lilacs and wild roses that line our driveway, safe from Fortis’ demonic line of sight. However, it will be some time before the tree is big enough to harvest berries from.
And also, I thought, it would be some time before I could make my hedgerow jelly again.
“We plan, God laughs.” – Old Yiddish Proverb
Fast forward to Thanksgiving dinner out in Chilliwack (single-handedly hosted by my 97-year old grandmother who still lives on her own) where my cousin handed me a bag of beautiful, gnarly, knobby quince fruits she’d found out Vancouver-way.
My thrill at finally getting my hands on this long-coveted, mysterious fruit was muted with sadness as I considered what a perfect addition quince would have been to my hedgerow jelly.
Unbeknownst to me, I needn’t despair, for life had no intention of letting this grateful forager do without her jewel-toned jelly this season.
As is so often the case when we relinquish control (by choice or by chance) life rights itself in pleasing and unexpected ways.
Not a day after I received my unexpected quince fruits, I went out on a walk with my family to shake off the Thanksgiving-supper-stupor and literally stumbled upon a hawthorn tree laden with blood-red berries.
I hastily borrowed a clean poop bag from a friendly dog-walker passing by and thanked her for her warning over the digestibility of the haws. As I got to gathering, I explained to her that the hawthorn tree has been used to treat heart disease as far back as the 1st century and that the berries are in fact edible, but the seeds within are poisonous. Which is why haws lend themselves well to jelly making, where you strain juice from boiled fruits and turn it into preserves, rather than using whole fruit, like you would for jam.
The last happy coincidence for my hedgerow jelly came during a rest stop and leg stretch at Bromley Rock provincial rock on our way home from Chilliwack. The boys were throwing some rocks in the river and I was enjoying the scenery when my eyes happened upon a grove of plump rosehips. Well. Who could ignore all these signs? Like that unexpected last child, this jelly was hell-bent on coming into this world.
I gathered what I needed with gratitude and set about making the beautiful jelly the very next day.
Recipe for hedgerow jelly
In case you ever find yourself in the middle of three happy coincidences like me (a bag of quince thrust in your hands at Thanksgiving dinner, an unexpected hawthorn tree laden with berries, and a pee break in a grove of rosehips) here is how you can make your own batch of hedgerow jelly.
500 g of rosehips and hawthorn berries
500 g of apples and/or quince, chopped into chunks (skin, cores and pips can stay)
A sprig of sumac if you can find one
Sugar (quantity explained in recipe below)
2 Tbsp lemon juice
Gather the hips, haws, apples, quince and sumac (keep the rosehips separate).
Boil the rosehips for 20 mins, then add the hawthorn berries, apples, sumac and quince and add enough water to cover.
Simmer in enough water to cover the fruit for approximately 20 mins more.
Set a strainer lined with cheesecloth over a a large glass bowl, then strain the mixture so juice runs into the bowl.
Once most of the juice has strained out, suspend the cheesecloth with the mushy fruit in it above the bowl and let drain overnight. Do NOT squeeze the bag or your jelly will be cloudy.
The next day, pour your juice into a large pot and for each 1 litre of juice add 800 grams of sugar (or 80g sugar per 100g juice). Add your lemon juice.
Boil the mixture until you reach the jelly setting point (this takes about an hour and a half for me, but it’s possible I’m doing it wrong).
When you’re getting close, wash and sterilize your jars.
Leave the jelly in the pot for a few mins so the bubbles can subside, then pour into hot jars, seal and label.
About the author
Jessica Johnson runs a small, traditional Bed and Breakfast from a vineyard in the Similkameen Valley of British Columbia, Canada.
Raised to be a strong, independent career woman but now a vigneron’s wife and stay-at-home mom on a fledgling homestead, she is clumsily yet happily establishing roots in her new landscape.
An expert at almost nothing but curious about nearly everything, Jessica writes about her adventures in rural B.C. where she raises her son and other wild creatures and is learning the old ways to preserve and grow food.
