Marmalade

It’s my birthday week! I’m turning 60. And I’ve received my first gift. I am a lucky girl!

My brother Tim makes marmalade! And not only that, he sent me some. Wrapped carefully in bubble wrap, and cardboard boxed to ensure its safe arrival, like Moses lowered by his mother into a basket and gently pushed out into the river so he could live. The jar of liquid gold was preceded with a beautiful texted description of the process.

He told me about the white pulp of orange peel being heated to 220 degrees for the natural pectin to gel with the sugar. About the constant stirring to prevent burning, likening it to stirring molten lava that spits and splashes, each rogue drop landing on your stirring hand, burning little sugar dots into your skin and daring you to hold steady and not jerk away. About trying to hold and read the thermometer while stirring. About his first choice for oranges … a Cara Cara orange…somewhere between a Valencia and a Blood Orange. And that the whole 25 hour process not only yields marmalade but also the gift of a slowed heart, the end game of a meditative experience.

Well, I am ALSO enjoying the process! Each slurpy lick of the sweet awesome sauce, the bitterness hitting the back of my tongue right when my brain is registering this as dessert. The orange rind teasing me, “Just bite down! I know you don’t typically eat rind. But I will give. I promise. I’m not hard. I’ll give.”

It takes me back to childhood and living in East Africa, when “Britishness” was all around me and I learned to love marmalade, especially if I had just lifted a piece of toast out of a silver English toast rack. He says it works on as a glaze on chicken and fish too. I will most certainly take him up on that. And likely be thrice lucky!