I have a very complicated relationship with marmalade.
See, now, I didn’t think I was going to start with that, so I’ve surprised myself as well.
I’ve never liked marmalade. In fact, I can’t stand the stuff. I used to have marmalade on toast every morning before going to work at the shop, largely because it was the only thing to wake me up at that time of day. It woke me up because – well, you can’t make that many faces of disgust without waking up a bit.
Anyway, my mother always wanted to make marmalade. She used to buy those tins of preserved Seville oranges and they would sit in the larder, and sit, and sit, and then nothing would happen.
I have known people who thought marmalade would make an excellent side business. Like eggs sold at the side of the road, but – marmalade. Usually, that never went anywhere either.
As I get older, my sweet tooth has gone – completely. I suspect it was one of the ones that was extracted. Now, I’m almost more cheese than woman. But I do a great line in jam.
I don’t eat the stuff, but I make pretty decent jam. I don’t have a jam thermometer, I go rogue and push a dollop of might-be jam around a plate and watch for the wrinkles.
Such a rebel.