Viscous, glistening, the deep black-red of old blood, my elderberry cordial chugs and glugs throatily as it folds itself out of the jug and into the bottle. The kitchen is filled with the sweet cloying scent of elderberries – an odd, not entirely pleasant aroma, somewhere between ripe tomatoes and decay – and the children come and sniff experimentally, not sure what I am making or whether they like it.

I gathered the fruit two days ago, with my mother (who has faster hands than I) and my partner (who is taller, and could reach the fattest clusters that always dangled just beyond my reach). The tree is a weed that fought for its place in the hedgerow bordering my garden, and I love it for its persistence and for its frothy blossom and jet-bead berries, both of which it bears with exuberant abandon.

We stripped the berries from their umbrella stalks with forks, occasionally giving chase as they bounced out of the bowl and rolled across the floor. The less energetic ones nestled closely in the bottom of the dish, forming a single layer that gradually tesselated into a tightly faceted surface like the concave eye of a giant fly. It seemed a shame to disturb them, but I did, tumbling them into a pan and covering them with water.

Two boilings, a kilo of sugar and a handful of cloves later, and I am in possession of three red, sticky pints of what I am assured (by the internet, so it must be true) is a surefire cold-and-flu preventative. I tried making elderberry jam last year and no one liked it but me (that sweet almost-decay scent again, combined with a shockingly high density of pips), so the cordial this year is an experiment, an attempt to use the fruit from the tree I love in a way that the rest of the family can stomach.

The bottles, now glowing smugly in my pantry, promise winter colds warded off by warm fruit-punchy drinks, perhaps laced with honey or a splash of brandy, and with more than a hint of Christmas about them. I shall thank the tree and toast it through the rainy window as the fire glows in the hearth and the cats argue lazily about who gets to curl up on my stomach.

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