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I will never have my favorite jam again.
It had sweetness and almost the balanced tanginess of a pomelo, it had the delicate acidity and the juicy mouthful of a ripe blood mandarin. It tasted like a warm evening in Tuscany, a sunny lake day in the South of France, a late-Summer stroll through vineyards in Alsace.
It paired well with the warmth of a toasted sourdough slice, the soft milkiness of a fresh cheese, the strength of a more mature one, the simplicity of a yogurt with roasted hazelnuts. I had the whole jar on my own, experimenting, trying to find new ways to make the most of it, coming back to pairings that had worked particularly well. I had the whole jar of my own, and yet it tasted like something meant to be shared, something that would make you call your friends and set up a nice dinner or tea, just so they could have a taste of the jam.
The jar came from a small batch, and I’m pretty sure I will sadly never have that exact same jam, from the exact same producer again. Some day, I might get some jam of the same fruit and hope it will be just as complex and straightforward as the first jar. I’ve seen some offers – it’s not a very common jam, but the Internet makes everything easy to find – but have not had the heart to order yet.
In the meantime, its taste is sneaking back into my life from time to time: through freshly brewed coffee or a nice glass of wine, through an elaborate cocktail or a sweet and sour sauce. 
But is taste or the feeling it created? It was a monotonous time, and it created the unexpected. It was a lonely time, and novelty created a multitude. It was a helpless time, and it created choices. It was a gloomy time, and it created light. It created warmth and comfort in the middle of the joyless Spring, and sparked my imagination when it needed it the most. It contained the beauty of silver linings and made loneliness bearable. And even enjoyable, maybe, through the simplest of passions.

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