Marmalade Joy

Tuesday 1st February

Day 286

Last night, over bowls of wild mushroom risotto, my wise and dear nephew reminded me to find a joyful moment in every day.

Early this morning, while he scraped the bottom of a jar of strawberry jam for his toast, I began my annual marmalade journey. It felt more like a pilgrimage - my companions twelve bitter oranges from sun baked Andalucia, two kilos of soft brown sugar from the islands of spice and human ordeals. And alongside them, memories of my aunty, her husband and her son who all died in recent marmalade winters, the snow still on the ground.

I love the alchemical steps - scooping out and sieving the gloopy, pip-studded flesh from the halved orange shells which I simmered for three hours yesterday, stacking and slicing them into long uneven strips, and stirring it all - gloop and peel - into the boiling cauldron of sugary amber liquid on the stove. Then a sweet sharp aroma pervades the kitchen like a siren spell. Witchlike, I hover with an icy cold saucer, dip my teaspoon through the steam, and snatch up samples, drops of dark coppery gold cooling on white china, waiting for that magical setting point, the crinkle on the surface of the skin.

Then it’s ready. I pour chunky ladlefuls into waiting hot glass jars - mostly recycled Bon Maman - protected with a jam collar so it doesn’t matter how clumsy I am - no drips down the sides. Each one sealed with the kiss of a waxed paper disc, and the stamp of a red checked lid. Ten pots of joy to share.