Butter & Jam

The house was cold and the walls were damp. I drank hot water all the time to be warm because I was always cold. I’ve been looking for daily survival strategies since I was a little child, which was frequently quite challenging.

Butter and jam with warm bread was one of the things that helped me forget those survival times.

Yes, bread with jam and butter made it easier for me to forget how much I wanted a warm house and bed. Buying warm bread from the corner bakery, where the owner greeted all the neighbours while working at the register and serving tamales, cheese and ham.

I will always cherish the moment I spent watching my mum buy sugar and strawberries and begin preparing the jam. Seeing the strawberries soften over heat, followed by the sugar melting. Then waiting for their time until it cools down. My mother’s cooking face was a priceless memory.

Terrorism dominated the nights, and the violence outside frequently caused the house to shake. A corrupt administration enforced a curfew, and there were blackouts. Our mother and grandmother coped by narrating stories about the forgotten communities. I pictured the stories coming true as my sister and I listened carefully to every word. The stories became vivid in my mind as my imagination took hold, and they were frequently a touch scary. It was more than frightening to go to sleep with the possibility that a widow would knock on the door. My grandmother’s typical story: the widow who knocks on the door to kill you!

Still, the tales from the village scared the knights more than terrorism. Because there were blackouts every day, my grandmother’s stories served as my daily diversion. Mum and I used to play board games a lot; we only had one, but it was fun. Also, we had paper and a sheet of paper, which were all that were needed. Many times, I would hide in the dark, in the room that was used as a storage room, and suddenly my mum would call out: “Victoria! Where are you? I’m going to find you!” My sister’s voice would enter and say, “She’s probably in the room no one goes in because of the spiders”—followed by a slight giggle.

I was still hiding, but since I had previously been bitten by a spider, the word “spider” made me a little concerned. My mum’s voice came again: “I’ll say it one more time, Victoria: come out of your hiding place. We won’t be able to get to the emergency room if you stay there; the spiders will bite you, and then we’ll be in trouble.”

I felt my grandmother approach with a candle and find me; I smiled, but my mother and grandmother were not pleased.

When I came out and saw that everything was dark, and we only had one candle, and the store was closed, I realised how upset my mother was when she couldn’t find me or I didn’t answer. 

My sister and I loved cold afternoons and evenings despite the difficulties, the country’s dark times, and those blackouts. Our mother made us feel good with her snacks, which she prepared with great care. Her dedication to bringing us happiness was elegant, impeccable, and perfect. When there were no snacks to prepare, that’s when bread with butter and jam appeared in our cold and dark moments.

Our mother showed us so much love through her meals and taught us to look at everyday life differently. She always found ways to be content with little, even when it was cold and we weren’t dressed appropriately. Bread, butter, and jam brightened our day, as did searching for stale bread in the pantry to eat when it was late and the bakery was closed. My mother and sister are the people I treasure the most from my early years. In the wet winter months of Lima, with butter, jam, warm bread and hot tea.