‘Jelly’ is what I believe ‘Jell-O’ is across the pond. Here, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich wouldn’t really work out. And ‘jelly’ across the pond is pretty much what the Scots would have down as ‘jeely’. I think jam falls somewhere beyond the jelly of the Americas and the jeely of the Scots and has seeds in. I think.
Jelly in my childhood was generally lime, eaten on a Sunday after going to the Baptist church and coming home to make the gravy.
(My contribution to the production of the Sunday Lunch was to shake the gravy powder into the water in my mother’s Tupperware gravy shaker. Not sure the gravy shaker was entirely necessary. But the Tupperware ladies were great salespeople, if my childhood memories of stored food are anything to go by.)
The lime green jelly was served with cream, to take the edge off the synthetic flavour.
Jelly also appeared on the menu for school dinners. It was dark red and very … gelatinous? Thick? Dense? Whatever the right word is for it, it made a very satisfying suction-based noise when you took a spoonful of it. It tasted like nothing you can imagine, but, very occasionally, some vile cheap confection will bring the memory right back.
Making jelly is very satisfying. Pulling the chunks apart before melting them is good. Watching the cubes melt to blobs compelling viewing also. Eating a cube neat? Always a temptation.
Nowadays I don’t make jelly. Occasionally the children make it, for a thing to do. The nearest I get to it is when I chug back an energy jel during a long race or run, when it’s like jelly cubes that are all melted. Always vile and warm as they’ve been carried along in a pocket near my jelly belly.