It wasn't, on reflection, the wisest of days to make marmalade. I had pruned the roses, the temperature was a degree or two below freezing, and the skin around my thumbnail had cracked open in the cold. It seemed as if each drop of bitter orange juice, each squirt of lemon zest sent shots of stinging pain through my thumb. But the Seville orange season is over in the blink of an eye and sometimes you just have to shut up and get on with things.
Marmalade making is about as pleasurable as cooking can get. It isn't something for those whose only reason for cooking is the finished product. If the process of peeling oranges, painstakingly cutting their skin into fine strands and constantly checking their progress on the stove is a chore, then don't do it. There is enough exceptionally good cottage industry marmalade out there. Go and buy it. Making marmalade is a kitchen job to wallow in, to breathe in every bittersweet spray of zest, enjoy the prickle of the fruit's oils on your skin and fill the house with the scent of orange nectar. (Or, of course, screech with pain as the bitter juice gets into your wounds.)
Each stage, and there are several, carries with it waves of extraordinary pleasure.
I say extraordinary because it is not every day you get the chance to fill the house with a lingering smell that starts as bright clean as orange blossom on a cold winter breeze and ends, a day later, with a house that smells as welcoming as warm honey.
There is something heartwarmingly generous about marmalade makers. I can't tell you how many jars I have been given over the years. In my experience they like nothing more than passing their golden pots of happiness to others. (It is much the same with those who make chutney, though the gift is often less enthusiastically received.)
There must be hundreds of recipes, but it is the method that changes rather than the ratio of ingredients. Some cooks swear by boiling the oranges whole then chopping them; others cut the fruit into whole slices, others still include the pith in the jam itself, while some nit-pickingly remove it. I have met cooks who chuck their boiled peel in the food processor, some who add a lemon or two, and those who introduce a couple of sweet oranges, too. It probably goes without saying there is someone out there making it in minutes in the microwave (and surely missing the whole damn point).
The method you choose will depend on how you like your marmalade. Don't probe a marmalade fan on the subject of texture unless you are actually in need of a Mogadon. Some of us like ours soft and syrupy, others prefer a jam that will stand to attention on the spoon. I like my peel in thin hair-like strips, while friends insist on juicy chunks. Then there are those who leave the fruit in whole slices or cut it into fat nuggets. In my experience the latter produces the marmalade most likely to fall off your toast while you are engrossed in Nancy Banks Smith. Lastly, there's the lot who insist on sieving their pith out altogether. And the lovely thing is that each and every one of us is right.
I like my marmalade to shine in the morning sun. A bright, jewel-like mixture with thin strands of peel, quivering, but not so loosely set that it drips down the sleeves of my dressing gown. This may well be because I was brought up on Robertson's Golden Shred, which is something of a wimp's version really, very much lighter than the dark and very grown-up Keiller's Dundee my dad was spooning on to his toast at the other end of the table.
But here's the rub. Much of our home-made treasure doesn't actually taste of orange. I know that sounds like saying raspberry jam doesn't taste of raspberries, but it is a sad fact that so eager are we to get our morning spread to set that some of us boil it to death. The time your mixture of peel and juice, pith, pips and water spends boiling will affect not just its texture but the fresh, bright quality of its flavour.
Unlike other fruits, such as strawberry, where you have to add pectin to ensure a decent set, oranges are bursting with it.
That is why you include the pith, spent pulp and pips in the pan with the peel and juice. It is almost impossible to make a batch that won't set unless, of course, you are using the wrong oranges.
The point of this golden jam is its bittersweet quality. It's a wake-up call in a jar. That is why we eat it first thing in the morning. The bitter oranges you need are available for a short season in January and February. There are still a few around now.
I know I am stepping into deep water offering a marmalade recipe, which is partly why it has taken me 16 years to get round to offering you one, but marmalade recipes are very personal things, and we marmalade makers are a proud bunch. (Which is possibly another reason why we give so much of it away.) But here it is, a little pot or two of bright, shining happiness, full of bittersweet flavour and stinging thumbs.
Seville orange marmalade
I made two batches this year. One with organic fruit, the other not. The flavour of the organic one shone most brilliantly and took less time to reach setting point. This is enough to fill about 5 or 6 normal jam jars.
12 Seville oranges
2 lemons
1.25kg unrefined golden granulated sugar
Using a small, particularly sharp kitchen knife, score four lines down each fruit from top to bottom, as if you were cutting the fruit into quarters. Let the knife cut through the peel but without piercing the fruit.
Cut each quarter of peel into fine shreds (or thicker slices if you like a chunkier texture). Squeeze each of the peeled oranges and lemons into a jug, removing and reserving all the pulp and pips.
Make the juice up to 4 litres with cold water, pouring it into the bowl with the shredded peel. You may need more than one bowl here. Tie the reserved pith, squeezed-out orange and lemon pulp and the pips in muslin bag and push into the peel and juice. Set aside in a cold place and leave overnight.
The next day, tip the juice and shredded peel into a large stainless steel or enamelled pan (or a preserving pan for those lucky enough to have one) and push the muslin bag down under the juice. Bring to the boil then lower the heat so that the liquid continues to simmer merrily. It is ready when the peel is totally soft and translucent. This can take anything from 40 minutes to a good hour-and-a-half, depending purely on how thick you have cut your peel. (This time, mine took 45 minutes with the organic oranges, just over an hour with the others.)
Once the fruit is ready, lift out the muslin bag and leave it in a bowl until it is cool enough to handle. Add the sugar to the peel and juice and turn up the heat, bringing the marmalade to a rolling boil. Squeeze every last bit of juice from the reserved muslin bag into the pan. Skim off any froth that rises to the surface. (If you don't your preserve will be cloudy.) Leave at a fast boil for 15 minutes. Remove a tablespoon of the preserve, put it on a plate, and pop it into the fridge for a few minutes. If a thick skin forms on the surface of the refrigerated marmalade, then it is ready and you can switch the pan off. If the tester is still liquid, then let the marmalade boil for longer. Test every 10 to 15 minutes. Some mixtures can take up to 50 minutes to reach setting consistency.
Ladle into the sterilised pots and seal immediately.
Next week: delicious recipes using marmalade
