
One of the rituals of late January during my English life was marmalade making. There would be frost on the ground, or at least a bitter, bitter cold, and my mind would turn to bones and bitter oranges. Each batch turned out differently, some burnt, some bouncy, some runny with rock hard bones (in my family the shreds/strips of orange peel were always known as bones. I thought everyone called them this until this very day, when I Googled it and realized it was just us). I cannot claim to have ever been an expert, but what I lacked in precision I made up for in passion. I adored marmalade, and I adored making it, regardless of any inherent skill.
There are not many things you can enjoy without possessing any natural ability, but marmalade making is one of them because even when the finished product was imperfect the process was perfection. There is simply nothing better than the smell of boiling citrus rind. It steams up the kitchen and clears clogged winter nostrils like nature’s own, heavenly, life-enhancing Lemsip.
I remember any day off from work I had in late January going to the greengrocers near Islington, where I could always be sure to find Seville oranges, and boiling them in my tiny Hackney basement until the windows were so fogged we couldn’t see our hopeless, two-meter-squared backyard. The citrus-scented condensation collected in tiny droplets on the vegetables we hung on hooks about the kitchen, unable to fit them in the biscuit-tin fridge. The whole flat smelled like some sort of boiled orange sweet shop, and I felt like I was in The Giraffe the Pelly and Me.
It has been years since I have made marmalade now; I have memories of trying to make it perhaps twice since I moved to Italy, but without much success, partly because no one sells Sevilles. This is ironic, as I frequently notice on my beady-eyed rambles around the countryside that they grow here, even spontaneously. Known as Arance Amare, or Bitter Oranges, I can spot them because of their ugliness, like so many of the most precious citrus they defy the beaty-obsessed; bulbous, baggy-looking, their skin deeply dimpled. Everyone here lusts after one type of orange, the showy Washington, which is big and round and immaculate, with shallow pits and no pips. It is juicy and sweet and as shallow as its dimples. But the Seville, that is a citrus I can get excited about. The Seville is a citrus with charisma. The Seville definitely drinks martinis.
The fragrance from the rind of a Seville is like no other, and the flavour of a good marmalade made from these oranges is one of the most addictively delicious things in the world. It is, like all of the other bitter flavours that I love (black coffee, puntarelle, Campari) something that I actually, physically crave. When I have homemade marmalade in the house breakfast takes on another dimension. I have always loved this first meal of the day, but with homemade marmalade it is made a million times better. The balance of sweetness and bitterness is so invigorating first thing in the morning, and together with toast slathered with cold, thick, salty butter, and hot black coffee, it provides a breakfast which sets you up for anything. I would also add a soft boiled egg for after, with a few more bits of buttered toast, maybe with some anchovy paste. Maybe just on Sundays.
Its fresh, zingy, bitterness also provides a happy bridge between my two homes: my Italian family approves, and it matches as well with Moka as it does with milky English tea. And Sevilles grow here; this time I didn’t look for them at the market but in people’s gardens, and sure enough, after I tentatively asked my neighbour if she planned on using hers I opened my front door to find a huge bucket full.
Marmalade history is a murky business, I always associated it with Scotland, and I was not completely wrong, as Dundee was an important marmalade making centre in the 18th century (the type of marmalade full of ‘bones’ – the one I like the best and eat the most – is still sometimes known as Dundee marmalade). The origins are ancient, dating back over 2000 years to a solid honey and quince pasta not dissimilar to Membrillo, known as marmelada from the Portuguese for quince, Marmelo. In theory, the Scots are responsible for the change from quince to citrus, and for it changing from an after-dinner sweet in the style of Turkish Delight, to a spreadable paste eaten at breakfast.
This year I made my marmalade at Midnight, whilst the Tiny Saint slept, in the dark because his bedroom is also half in the kitchen. There was something a bit enchanted about it, stirring a cauldron of dark amber liquid as I listened to his gentle snores, the ‘bones’ slowly becoming translucent as I stirred, their pale citrus capillaries now only just visible through the jar, suspended in glowing jelly. It felt fittingly ritualistic, and somehow like recapturing a relic of the past. I grew up eating marmalade with my grandmother, it was an unmissable staple of her breakfast table, the open jar placed on a saucer in the centre of the table, and a silver spoon propped inside (you must never dive in with your buttery knife!). I never knew her eat anything else for breakfast, except when my grandfather died and she took up eating honey, which had always been his favourite, as though to bring him back to life.
This is the best batch of marmalade I have ever made. Maybe because it was dark and I was alone and not busy doing a million other things, or maybe because fate intervened. After 37 years, I have unlocked the secret. A sticky compromise between patience, passion and precision. A stroke of steamy, citrus-scented, midnight magic.
I sort of followed a recipe, but as ever changed it a little, so will give both, plus some pointers in general.
My Midnight Marmalade
I uses Pam’s method but changed the sugar, because I love some brown sugar in marmalade (in anything, really) it adds depth of colour and taste, and the caramel hints work so well with the deeply fragrant bitterness of the Seville. It also fills fittingly wintery, and a lot more ancient and romantic, because Muscovado sugar in general is much more magical (it smells of Christmas and and Gingerbread, it sings of fruitcake and fig rolls).
Makes about 5 small jars
660g Seville oranges (sorry a random quantity but they were a gift! Gift horses and all that)
1 and a half lemons, juice
800 g sugar (I used mostly white granulated, a little demerara or what they call Grezzo in Italy, and then about 2tbsp dark muscovado).
750ml water
1 tsp sea salt (essential if you ask me, there is so much sweetness here you need the salt to offset it. I put a pinch of salt in all my jams, but here it is ever more important).
Pam’s Ratio
Pam the Jam (the River Cottage preserver and queen of fruit) gives this quantity which I roughly followed. She adds sherry to hers, and adds another step of boiling which I skipped..
1kg fruit
Juice of 2-3 lemons (100ml juice)
1 tsp sea salt
1.5 litres of water
1.kg granulated sugar
Method
This applies for any ratio, whether mine or Pam’s, and any sugar you choose to put in. You can also flavour your marmalade with ginger or whisky (or other weirder things) but somewhat unsurprisingly, I am a marmalade purist.
First remove any remaining stib of stalk from your fruit, wahs them briefly, and cut them in half. Place two bowls to one side. Using a simple citurs juicer, or devce of your preference, juice the oranges and pour the strained juice into one bowl. Juice the lemons into here too.
Now scoop out the remaining floppy white pith with a spoon and add it to the second bowl. Scrape off your juicer and add that to the bowl too. Add the lemon halves and their scooped out insides too (this all helps flavour and pectin levels).
Now you will have lots of clean orange half cups, which you need to slice very finely using a sharp knife. I find it easier to quarter them and slice each quarter.
Add the slices to the bowl of juice.
Collect all of the bits from the other bowl and place in a jelly bag/bit of muslin and tie it up with string. Add it to the bowl with the juice and rind, and leave the whole lot to soak for 24 hours (this soften the strips of pith to make sure they are melt in the mouth in the final marmalade).
24 hours later, add the whole lot to a large pan and cook for about one hour and half, covered, until the strips of peel are tender when pressed (I did this in my pressure cooker).
Now add your salt and sugar too. Start to boil.
Place a few saucers in the fridge to test for setting point. Stir the marmalade as it bubbles away over a medium heat, keeping a close eye to make sure it doesn’t catch. After about 20 minutes, begin to check for setting point. It should dribble like maple syrup, and if you dribble a bit onto a cold saucer and wait 30 seconds, then push it with the tip of your finger you should just see a wrinkle or two appear.
Pot in sterilized jars (boiled in hot water for 10 minutes and then air dried), invert to sterilize the lid, then turn the right way up and leave to cool. Will keep for 2 years unopened.
Other Marmalade Fun Facts for True Fanatics
James Bond loves marmalade. Of course. So British, so sophisticated, so complicated.
Paddington Bear carries a marmalade sandwich is his hat at all times (sticky but delicious).
The Bitter Orange is a cross between the pomelo and the mandarin. The fragrant oil found in its rind is the flavouring for Cointreau.
Carlisle in Cumbria is a marmalade hotspot (Cumbria also famous for STP – see next post), in the 17th century it was the site of one of the UK’s greatest fruit markets.
Letitia, I love your posts and the incredible passsion for food they show. I still remember your post about persimmons from a couple of years back -- it inspired me to give a second chance to this fruit that I have loved and eaten every autumn since then! I'm definitely going to try this marmalade recipe. Could you give an estimate of how much it yielded, in volume?
A home made marmalade is the only one worth enjoying, it tastes of summer and healthy citrus fruits. Your version sounds delightful Letitia.