The survival value of marmalade
by Bart Anderson
All of that changed in 2005. That’s when I realized that, like so much else, the citrus varieties we have available to us are the dull tip of a spectacular iceberg of biodiversity and deliciousness. Like the red delicious apple, I learned, most supermarket citrus, both conventional and organic, offers but a shadow of the fruit’s true glory. That fall, I was given the chance to offer communal support—something so elemental, yet, sadly so rare in these days of frenetic consumption. In the weeks following the devastation of Hurricane Katrina, New Orleans native Poppy Tooker, champion of the self-styled “Eat-it-to-Save-it” Movement, found out that the L’Hoste Organic Citrus Farm in Plaquemines Parish, Louisiana, had escaped Katrina with only minor damage. But the infrastructure and outlets for selling the farm’s produce had been devastated. Through her contacts with Slow Food USA, Tooker got the word out and took orders for the L’Hoste’s prized citrus. I signed on to receive my first 5 boxes. When my Satsumas arrived, their skin was tinged with green, but what lay beneath it was the sweetest, juiciest, most ethereal oranges I had ever eaten. The following year when I contacted the L’Hostes to order more, it was Lester L’Hoste himself who answered the phone while manning his booth at the Crescent City Farmers Market. I found that they were also the growers of Meyer lemons, both sweet and sour kumquats, two varieties of grapefruit, and more. I ordered some of all of them, and have come to anticipate the first Satsumas and Meyer lemons of late fall just like I do the first sun-ripened tomato of summer. My citrus epiphany led quite naturally to a marmalade conversion. Turns out you don’t have to be British to be endlessly enchanted by the stuff! I’m inclined to believe there is no better defense against the winter doldrums than marmalade, toast, and tea. The concentrated burst of sweet, bitter, and tart feels like warm sunshine on my face and sand between my toes.
Jam maker June Taylor has a rabid following in the San Francisco Bay Area, where she creates and sells her preserves. Here, she explains how she makes marmalade, including the mysteries of natural pectin, the importance of instinct, and the economies of scale in artisanal production. Backstory: A passionate scholar of cooking history, Taylor taught herself to make preserves and fruit confections many years ago. She and her assistant, Magali Hernandez, make hundreds of jars of unusual treats by hand in the style of long-forgotten country cooks. Her fruits, such as Rangpur limes, are sourced from local organic farmers, and she grows many of her own herbs. -BA
The first step is to peel the fruit. We've made lemon, lemon-orange, and orange marmalade, but you can use pretty much any citrus fruit. We looked around a bit and settled on this recipe primarily because of its simplicity. It scales well. For a large batch, just keep peeling and cutting fruit until the pot is full or your hands were tired. You can also scale down--grab a couple of oranges from the cafeteria and you'll make a lot of friends in your dorm kitchen.
Scottish marmalade is made from oranges and contains more peel and zest than most other marmalades. Central European and California-style marmalade contains less peel and zest and so are less bitter. In languages other than English, marmalade can mean preserves made with fruit other than citrus.[1] The recipe includes sliced or chopped fruit peel simmered in fruit juice and water until soft; indeed marmalade is sometimes described as jam with fruit peel (although manufacturers also produce peel-free marmalade). Marmalade is often eaten on toast for breakfast. The traditional citrus fruit for marmalade production in the UK is the "Seville orange", Citrus aurantium var. aurantium, thus called because it was originally imported from Seville in Spain; it is higher in pectin than sweet oranges, and therefore gives a good set. Marmalade can be made from lemons, limes, grapefruits, oranges or any combination thereof.
... The Dairymaid The Queen said The King said, (1925) |
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