Warning: this post is about something edible. And not because Ramadan is almost upon us. The topic is not as left field as may appear in relation to the general thrust of this blog. Marmalade is both becoming and being, quite apart from 'being' Marmalade. Marmalade is a becoming, the transformation of a perishable, somewhat inaccessible fruit into a more durable delicacy that delights. Once it enters the addicionado's digestion, it contributes to beingness, fulfilling one half of Rumi's cook's adage of the two-fold adab of cooking - the adab of enabling a lower order substance to unite with and sustain a higher order of being.
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| Seville Oranges: thick-skinned and sour. |
So…
Marmalade: you either love it or hate it. Or come to love it
– as I did. I’m speaking of bitter marmalade, made from Seville Oranges.
It wasn’t always so. Food regulations designate Marmalade as
referring to citrus, but back in the 15th and 16th
centuries a marmalade could have been used of other fruit. The actual word
‘marmalade’ originates from the Portuguese (marmelada) for a paste made of
boiling up quince (marmelo) and honey which could be sliced as a sweetmeat (I
first came across this treat as ‘membrillo’ in Spain). Though fragrant and apple-like, quince is
almost impossible to eat raw as its so hard, and oxidises quickly if sliced or
grated. The Persians also make it into a morabba (jam or compote) where it turns a beautiful deep pink, but they also
happily stew it with lamb (khoresh-e beh) when in season. My father
likes to keep one or two in his study where it lends a perfumed fruity fragrance to the
air. But I digress!
A fun but aprocryphal explanation of the word’s origin
relates to Mary Queen of Scots, for whom her mother’s French cook in France had
made a confection of Spanish oranges to help her get well and ‘Marie est
malade’ became Marmalade. Too simple by half but amusing nonetheless, and I’m
inclined to believe there is something in the restorative powers of a good, fragrant, bitter marmalade.
For years I have been the marmalade maker in my family –
joined later by my sister Aliya and occasionally by my mum. My father’s
orchards (Spain, then South Africa) would annually provide a plethora of these
thick-skinned inedible fruits waiting to find a place in the higher order of
culinary delights. The only person in my family who ever used them raw was my
uncle. In good Persian style he used them as a substitute for lemons, so sour
was their juice.
Early on in my marmalade making career I stumbled upon a
fabulous recipe in Jane Grigson’s Fruit Book: St. Benoit 3-day marmalade.
I adopted it as my own and adapted it as it suited me and circumstance. It has
proven to be the easiest (and laziest) way to ease into the finnicketyness of
processing produce. Many times I would groan at the bags of oranges left on my
doorstep by my hopeful father, because for a batch of 8 jars you’d only need 6
oranges (and a lemon), and invariably the bag would hold around 20! Quite
frankly slicing so many oranges in one go was arduous, especially if you wanted
to shred the rind finely. Luckily my father prefers the chunky variety,
enjoying these candied strips almost as a post-prandial digestive.
The 3-day marmalade fits in well with the ethos of the slowfood
movement, whose philosophy I admire if not always adhere to. While it was a form
of laziness that triggered my adoption of its methodology, it was the undoubted
superiority of the final flavor that has kept me faithful to it.
The first day demands you slice up 6 oranges and a lemon and
leave them soaking in water enough to cover. On the second day you bring it up
to a boil and then simmer it for at least 30 minutes or so, long enough to cook
but not to create a pulp. The third day is when you weigh up the cooked fruit and measure out the sugar. I can't recall the recipe exactly but the ratio was something like 1.5 kg of sugar to 1kg of pulp, but I use much less sugar, perhaps 1.2kg, and add more lemon juice. Culinary alchemy ignited by good intention transforms this fragrant mass into what I like to think is captured sunlight. On this third and final day you will bring it to a rolling boil, toss in a tiny knob of butter so the scum moves to the sides of the pan, simmer until setting point (anywhere between 20 minutes to 40, depending) and seal it up in sterilized jars.
Since its unlikely anyone from the Women’s Institute will be reading this, I must confess that it’s the rigmarole for sterilising jars that used to put me off. The effort of locating suitable jars aside, the tedium of washing, boiling and then baking off jars does not appeal, even though it is essential. If you don’t sterilize your jars the marmalade will go off. I have cheated on occasion and depending on the climate, gotten away with it, but usually because the climate is cool and dry and the marmalade finds takers rather quickly. Nowadays of course it is far easier to source beautiful jars, ready for jamming.
The beauty of this 3-day marmalade – apart from enabling
me to delay the task of gathering enough jars and sterilising them – is that
the extra time coaxes out such a superior flavour. The maceration, cooking,
cooling, and then cooking again, prods the oil sacs in the skin to release
their aroma and draw down the favour of the fruit gods. The result is
celestial. If you were to eat crystallized sunlight, it would be this 3-day
marmalade.
And so it is time to share the recipe with many a proviso:
you can tweak it to suit and still come up with a delicious marmalade. You can
used less sugar if you prefer or brown sugar for a more caramelized version.
You can remove the seeds and tie them up in muslin, add to the pan when the
oranges are cooking and easily remove the bag, or, if you fancy feeling like a mad
alchemist, you can stand there over the pot as the steam wafts its citrusy
perfume and transports you to 15th century Andalusia and scoop them
out with a slotted spoon. If your back allows it. I confess to hitting a nadir
once when the batch my father sent me was in a sorry state: the tail end of the harvest, blackened by some
blight and barely ‘orange’ in colour, I scraped off as much black as I could
and was so exhausted by the effort that I didn’t even bother to remove the pips
at any point and just bottled up the jam as it came. And it was still
delicious, if a little ugly.
And one last thing: this gorgeous marmalade is as much about the
jelly as the rind. The
suspension of the marmalade will not and should not wobble like a store-bought
packet jelly. There is a skill in the cooking that once gained will give you a
light, pectinacious jelly that stands and sparkles to attention, embedding the chewy peel within.
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| I took these photos almost two years ago - that's how long I've been intending to write this up! |
Its actually hard to botch up Seville Orange marmalade. Try it. I dare you.
Treat yourself to some crystallized sunlight!
