… In which Mrs Raffald shares with the eager reader the benefit of her many years’ experience in producing good marmalade for the table, and provides recipes for the proper Seville orange variety, for a lavish and delicious all-year-round 'three-fruit' variety, and for the bread which she considers to be the very finest accompaniment to this legendary preserve …

The oranges imported from the Spanish town
of Seville are theatrically rugged, unappealing, and
mis-shapen. Yet they are the only ones to yield a faultless marmalade. Many a modern young woman would do well to remember that 'tis often beneath a marked and pitted peel that the most profitable flesh may be found.

But still, the cachet attached to a proper jar of home-made marmalade is something deep and primal; indeed, my own very grandmother would, on her less memorable attendances at Mr This or That’s weekend party, peer haughtily into the smart porcelain pot on the breakfast table, before groaning into her otherwise good-natured sleeve: “Shop-bought”.

What more can one say? Shop-bought mass-market marmalade is little more than a frivolous orange-flavoured jelly. And the few weedy worms of candied peel suspended in this sloppy gel lie listless in their anaerobic grave, barely hinting at the memory of the deep, lusty joy of a proper pot of Seville marmalade like Dundee’s Mother Keiller used to make.

So, should the careful chatelaine find themselves in need of a few pounds of highly flavoured, fine quality Seville marmalade, must we venture into the grim netherworld of condensation-straggled kitchen walls? Must we condemn ourselves to a lifetime’s toil, hand-slicing those deadly fine streaks of peel? Well, dear friends: in some ways we must, and in others we need not.

The fruit having first been boiled until soft and dark, they must next be disembowelled, and the pips separated from the flesh. The cooking liquor retained, the soft flesh is returned to it in the pan, and the peel is shredded in an electrical cutting machine called, as I understand it, a 'food processor'. The mass of peel too is then placed in the pan for the next boiling.

For modern technology has brought us to such a nirvana of ease in the kitchen that we are now empowered to create a most delicious marmalade with a minimum of fuel – and, most important of all to the beleaguered modern cook – with a minimum of personal effort. You will find this simple process illustrated throughout this essay, and by clicking on the recipe link to the left you may discover the correct weights and with which materials to reproduce the fine marmalade resulting.

In which the Quince is Expelled
from the Kingdom

It has been something of a revelation to me to learn that the mighty quince, that first and most delicious creator of marmalade, is prohibited by the mysterious engine of the European Community from being used in the creation of any confection which might rightfully be named ‘a marmalade’! How shocking a revelation this has been to me!

Must we venture into the grim netherworld of condensation straggled kitchen walls? It is true that there is much boiling to be done. Here is shown the pan at the second boiling, with the cooked and shredded fruit and peel being brought to the boil with the pips now separated and held inside a bag. These will later be taken away, and the sugar then added for the final boil.

These irksome Johnny foreigners have indeed dictated that only conserves concocted from citrus fruits might be called ‘marmalade’. One might in this instance hazard the dangerous opinion that Spain, long classified as the foodbasket of the entire European continent by these Mandarins of Brussels (evidently citrus fruits to a man), has a climate famed for its citric agriculture – while the quince, originally marmaladified to a richly-flavoured hard curd in neighbouring Portugal, may be grown perfectly happily in the dwindling orchards of our precious British Isles.

One might hazard such an opinion indeed; but our dear Mr Greenfinger informs me that such is no more than the espousing of a monstrous paranoia brought on by having been so very long out of the world of men, and thus open to myriad hysterical imaginings of a troubling nature.

In which we design our flavour, and decree whether the preserve shall be light or dark

In considering the variety of marmalade they might wish to produce, the experienced English housekeeper must balance in their mind the desire for deep, richly muscovado’d flavours against the fresh, pure, acidity of a lighter confection. Each is easily achievable with the use of the classic Seville orange, this a delicacy to be snatched at once it appears, since the season for these fruit is brief, extending only from late December to late February at the utmost. Organic Seville oranges yield undoubtedly the finest, most rounded flavours, and it pays the conscientious cook to seek these out. Should you fail to find these in the window of your local fruiterer, search online at the site of Messrs Abel and Cole, and they will obligingly have their man bring a quantity of organic Sevilles to the kitchen door.

The bag of pips is removed from the pan after just a few minutes' boiling, since we required them only for the extra pectin they contained. Now it is time to add and stir in the sugar, and then boil the whole fiercely until it is rendered down to a thick and glassy syrup. Beware: the hot syrup will scald like the very devil if touched but once upon the skin. And steam, as you may observe
to the left of this pan, rises in a fierce
cloud, as the sugar goes in.

The careful selection of sugar is the second important element in your design. A rich, dark muscovado, allied with thorough reducing and caramelising of the mixture on the hob, will produce a  rich, dark marmalade, sultry enough to satisfy even the most masculine of palates. For a lighter, more refreshingly citric flavour, the trick is to use a light and thoroughly refined sugar with little character of its own, and cook down the mixture but lightly. I have discovered that Messrs Silver and Spoon have perfected a means of creating granular sugars by pulping, boiling down, pressing and dessicating the juice of the common English sugar beet. In my day such root vegetables were considered fit only for use as winter cattle fodder; but I find their sugar is eminently fit for the creation of light, sweet preserves of a pure and summer-like flavour.

In which is considered the proper quantity of marmalade to meet a household’s needs

Should one wish to ensure a continuous supply of marmalade throughout the twelve months of the year, I have found that to supply one person with half-an ounce of marmalade, yielding two lightly-spread pieces of toast, on 365 days of the year, a batch using six pounds of fruit to twelve pounds of sugar will be more than sufficient – allowing, of course, a little extra for the enjoyment of an occasional breakfast guest. To ease the Winter duties of the kitchen servant however, a batch containing three pounds of fruit to six pounds of sugar proves adequate for half the year, and then, at such a time as this supply runs out, an alternative recipe may be employed, to create a new and thrilling flavour to carry us through to that short season when we may once again purchase the precious Sevilles. This most delicious all-year marmalade is made with a combination of grapefruit, sweet eating oranges, and lemons. I have of course provided a suitable recipe for your convenience, my dear reader, and you may discover this by passing through the electronic gateway to the left.

A consideration of the best bread, and the fine art of making proper toast

It is all very well, you may say, to have the finest marmalade – but spread it upon an inferior, spongy and flavourless piece of bread and you might as well eat your own muddy shoe. What is required is a wholesome, strongly-flavoured loaf, properly made by a real baker using a real oven, yielding a light, moist crumb and a solid, cobby crust. One most suitable loaf is that supplied by Messrs Richard C Swift Limited, the bakers of Ludlow, a town generally renowned for the fine quality of the victuals there sold. The loaf in question is called a ‘Shropshire Brown’. Its deep, chocolate-like shade is thanks, one supposes, to the generous inclusion of three different types of malt. It is at heart a wholemeal bread, and very like a granary loaf, with crushed grains within and upon it. Sadly, we are situate so far from any shop that fortune dictates I must myself bake for this establishment, if not every week then certainly more often than my sinewy forearms would choose!

The jars must be heated so that they may not shatter when the hot marmalade is poured into them. A jam funnel is a most excellent aid to safe, clean pouring. Lid the jars swiftly, and they will be sealed tight by vacuum as the contents cool.

It is therefore fortunate indeed that my favourite every day bread lends itself most suitably to combination with the strong, sharp tang of marmalade. I have of course supplied a recipe via the gateways to the left, and in a future epistle I may well lend some thought to the weighty subject of how we are best to produce a truly memorable loaf. Briefly, however your preferred recipe may have you construct the loaf, I will here point out the universal essentials of good bread making: to not use more than the essential minimum of yeast, for this lends the loaf a musty odour. Also, set it in a very warm place to rise, and the loaf will be quick to make, and light, succulent and moist when first drawn from the oven.

By far the most delicious toast is that prepared before the open fire, the bread impaled on a good, stout, long-pronged wire fork. It is my observance that the electric toasting machine commonly sold in these times rarely achieves sufficient heat to make a crispy, fragrant outer while preserving the yielding softness of the central crumb. The toast produced by these sad little engines is more of a tasteless, stiff biscuit, and is positively unappetising if not consumed at the first ejection of the thus denatured slice.

Of course, in the modern kitchen, where the housekeeper is expected to lay and light their own fire, a hastier method is essential if the eater of the toast is to meet their morning carriage in good time. I am therefore quite enchanted to have encountered a make of electrical toaster branded ‘Dualit’ by its creators. Not only does it toast with exactly the kind of fierce surface heat required for the proper outer crispness, but it also allows the operator to observe and so tune the browning of their toast to their personal idea of perfection. Not only that, but once the toasting is complete, the machine awaits the operator’s hand in levering their dainties out – this means of course that the toast is maintained at a good temperature until such a time as you might require it. There are many other engaging features of these machines, not least the manufactory’s willingness to supply replacement heating elements, which theoretically means that a Dualit toasting-machine will supply the happy housekeeper with a plentiful supply of the most delightful toast for as long as they can boil up  the marmalade to spread upon it. That is to say, for the remainder of their time upon this earth.

In English Kitchen 3:
An unfortunate young rabbit encounters misadventure upon the highway.

 

 

 

 

"The quince,
originally marmaladified
to a richly-flavoured hard curd in Portugal, may be grown happily in our precious British Isles …"