Late night Jam Making

I would rather be curled up in bed,
With a good book,
And a 'hottie'.
Instead I am waiting.
Waiting, waiting, waiting,
For melon,
To become jam.
I'm ever tempted to reach for that cold plate.
The harbinger of the magic word:
'Setting point.'
But the mass of melon, lemon juice and sugar,
"Gurgles and bubbles and slurps and plops",
Boiling away,
Hour on hour.
Oh for that tiny spoonful,
To not continue to slide down the cold plate.
"Set you bugger!
Just get on and set will you."

The jars have been tenderly washed and sterilized in the oven.
They wait more patiently than I,
On the wooden chopping board.
Lined in military ranks.
"Oh come on set!
Pleassssse."

This poem shall just have to go on,
As long as it takes.

The melon was a gift.
I hadn't seen a jam melon,
Since I was a child living in warmer climes.
I grew nostalgic,
When an old timer who lives a few hundred metres lower than us.
Had heaps.
So many he couldn't give them away,
(except one to overzealous me.)
After all,
What else can you do with a basically un-sweet melon.
Only make jam or pie.
So jam it is.
Or hopefully soon will be.