Every year my dad grows an incredible quantity of loganberries and raspberries – turning them into jam is his autumn tradition. You can always tell when there’s a pot of jam being made from the scent of the fresh berries bubbling away on the stove, which drifts through the whole house. As do the expletives that are yelled when the jam inevitably boils over and burns, leaving a sticky mess everywhere. Yet somehow we still end up with a cellar of jars filled with the sweet-tart stuff. My dad’s always giving the jam away to everyone, while I’m hiding jars so that there’s enough for the rest of the year. I hoard it because around that time of year my mum makes cornbread. She’ll divide it into six generous pieces and we’ll eat it warm for breakfast. I like to halve it, spread on some salted treacle butter, which melts in, before layering on plenty of berry jam.