making marmalade

and embracing winter's end

On my days at home I feel inspired to cram everything in – feed the sourdough starter, shred old cabbage into sauerkraut, start a new project, roast a chicken, bake a cake. Something I have never managed until this year is making marmalade. I didn’t grow up eating it, but I have a fondness for anything I can pour into glass jars and display on the shelf like jewels. I have often admired watching others effortlessly making jars of the bitter jelly and wondered if I could, too.

In previous years when a craving for the bittersweet has hit, I have struggled to find Seville oranges anywhere. This year, my veg box was offering big bags of them for marmalade-making, so I added them to my basket quickly before they were out of stock again. I love the ritual of these microseasons being so fleeting, knowing there is prime produce that could simply pass me by again until next year.

The oranges arrived in a brown paper bag, delicate and quite underwhelming, with two green lemons amongst them. I set up a bowl at the table and put my little silver peeler to work removing the peel in short, rugged strips. The air filled with sweet perfumed oil as I hacked away at them.

Once all the peel was removed, I set about slicing it into thin strips. The fact that I spend all week at work chopping vegetables is not lost on me. The sun shone through the kitchen window for what felt like the first time all year.

The sweet scent lingered as I sliced and sliced until I had a bowlful of orange strands. Into the pan they went as I started squeezing the juice through a muslin from the thick, pithy oranges – squeezing the juice straight into my eyes more than once.

Juice and water in the pan, remnants bundled up in cheesecloth and golden strands suspended in the liquid, the mixture was set to simmer for hours.

Later that evening, I strained to squeeze the sticky pulp out of the bag and back into the pan, before adding almost two bags of sugar and getting it back on the boil. Glossy and golden, I stirred the pan for a slow 45 minutes until I was convinced it would set. After one final stir, I poured the marmalade into hot jars and sealed them shut.

a row of jewels

The next morning I made hot buttered sourdough and spread the glistening orange jelly over the toast to eat in bed before the sun came up. It tasted startlingly sweet and yet remarkably bitter.

On Sunday morning, I took a long, slow bus ride into the city centre. It was a quiet bus – just two or three others making the pilgrimage so early in the day. I felt settled and sleepy on the top deck with my headphones on. After a treacherous winter of early morning commutes and crammed Sunday buses hurtling through pitch-black mornings, this one felt different. The sun was already on its way up when I left the house.

As the bus pootled along through villages on the long way round, I spotted a familiar yellow sight on the side of the road. The first yellow crocuses were shooting through the grass, waking from their hibernation. Today I wandered through the churchyard to an almost overnight flurry of purple crocuses and bright white snowdrops covering the ground in every direction.

Through bitter cold and never-ending rain, we’ve finally made it to the other side of winter and I can already taste the sweetness of spring.

isn’t she a beauty???