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There is something about the comfort of making food in mid-winter. It feels particularly true when making marmalade on a cold wet blustery day in January. The first taste of the new batch immediately after potting and cooling on fresh white fluffy bread is a treat. I wrote this poem immediately afterwards.

It is marmalade making season,

pungent Seville oranges in place;

preserving pan, thermometer, spoon

unearthed, cleared of spiders, dead flies.

Last year’s empty jars washed, oven-dried,

sugar packs in place; cups, bowls, breadcrumbs,

morning debris, removed from counter;

aprons donned, sharp knives ready, deep breath.

A generations old rite begins