MARMALADE

Today is another marmalade day. Another, because I made some kumquat marmalade a couple of weeks ago (did I mention this before?) Today it's Meyer lemon marmalade. We have both these fruit trees out on the top deck of home in Los Angeles, and this year has been a good one for both. It's hard to know what to do with so many Meyer lemons (we also have a heavily-laden tree with regular lemons) and so many kumquats except to make marmalade, and even then my marmalade-making ambitions make only a modest dent in our supply of citrus fruit. It's a shame that they all seem to ripen at the same time...

Still, it's an interesting and enjoyable occupation. It reminds me of the time when my mother, Peggy, would make big vats of Seville orange marmalade and various kinds of jams, depending on what fruit happened to be ripening in our garden. I remember the wonderful aromas that wafted through the house as she stirred those big pots with wooden spoons on the coke-burning stove, calling my sister Flora and myself to the kitchen for a spoonful of the tasty "scum" our mother scooped from the surface as the mixture simmered. That was a special treat.

There are only two habits that I brought over with me from England when I left my native country more than sixty years ago. One of them is my indispensable morning cup of tea, and the other is marmalade. I was dismayed, when I first came to America, to be served orange jam in the guise of marmalade when I went out for breakfast. Jam is jam. Marmalade is marmalade. Because "proper marmalade" is made with tart Seville oranges, it has a tang to it. Jam is sweet. Big difference. For breakfast, I need marmalade. Not jam. Not honey. Marmalade. I'm a bit of a snob that way.