We’re both itchy-footed jam makers. What I mean by that is that neither of us is content just to go on using the same recipe for years and years – we tinker and tweak and fiddle and twiddle endlessly. Well, I do.
Of the two of us John has always been the marmalade maker, and he’s perfectly fine at it. This year though I decided that I wanted to have a go. Although they’re not easy to find here, a couple of weeks ago a friend managed to get hold of some oranges amères (Seville oranges) and bought enough for us. It was all getting a bit hairy, timing wise, because our kitchen has been out of action seemingly forever while we tart it up (and don’t mention our ongoing but so far fruitless attempts to replace the gas hob …). But finally, four days ago, we were almost back to normal, though still minus the new hob, now the subject of some serious concerted action on my part via a French equivalent of Watchdog.
We both like marmalade that is full of the flavour of the fruit, not too sweet, not too hard (but not so soft that it runs off your toast) and a glowing orange colour. Not for us the dark, thick stuff that you can stand your spoon up in and tastes of treacle, nor the insipid gloopy ‘Golden Shred’ that we both grew up with. Having had some success this year with steeping various jams overnight (thank you Sharon!), I decided to do something similar with marmalade. So, with credit to Jane Grigson whose recipe (or rather that of the Hotel Madeleine in St Benoît sur Loire, whose recipe she acquired) I’ve twiddled, here for the first time is:
Of the two of us John has always been the marmalade maker, and he’s perfectly fine at it. This year though I decided that I wanted to have a go. Although they’re not easy to find here, a couple of weeks ago a friend managed to get hold of some oranges amères (Seville oranges) and bought enough for us. It was all getting a bit hairy, timing wise, because our kitchen has been out of action seemingly forever while we tart it up (and don’t mention our ongoing but so far fruitless attempts to replace the gas hob …). But finally, four days ago, we were almost back to normal, though still minus the new hob, now the subject of some serious concerted action on my part via a French equivalent of Watchdog.
We both like marmalade that is full of the flavour of the fruit, not too sweet, not too hard (but not so soft that it runs off your toast) and a glowing orange colour. Not for us the dark, thick stuff that you can stand your spoon up in and tastes of treacle, nor the insipid gloopy ‘Golden Shred’ that we both grew up with. Having had some success this year with steeping various jams overnight (thank you Sharon!), I decided to do something similar with marmalade. So, with credit to Jane Grigson whose recipe (or rather that of the Hotel Madeleine in St Benoît sur Loire, whose recipe she acquired) I’ve twiddled, here for the first time is:
Maison Grillou’s three day marmalade
8 large Seville oranges
juice of 2 lemons
about 3 litres of water
about 2.5 kilos of granulated sugar
Day 1
Cut the oranges into quarters, squeezing them slightly to loosen the pips. With your fingers separate the flesh from the peel, put everything into a large glass or plastic bowl and add the water and the lemon juice. Cover loosely with a tea towel and leave for 24 hours.
Day 2
Put everything into a large pan and bring to the boil. Simmer very very gently until the skins are soft – for me this was around an hour and a half. Cool, cover loosely with a tea towel and leave for another 24 hours.
Day 3
Fish out the skins, which by now are nicely soft, and cut them into strips of whatever thickness you like. Strain the liquid and pulp through a sieve and put the liquid into a preserving pan; tip the pulp out, line the sieve with some muslin, put the pulp back and let the last bits of juice strain through. Then tie up the muslin so that you have a little bag containing pulp and pips, and add this to the pan.
Bring everything slowly to the boil. Remove the muslin bag, squeeze it out over the pan and discard. Now add the sugar; I did this by taste and ended up adding 2.5 kilos; you may want more or less, so taste as you go. Stir it all around a bit to dissolve, then bring it to the boil and boil to setting point. This bit’s another moveable feast: I use a mixture of a probe thermometer and - erm - my ears. Using the thermometer, I take the mixture to the point where it just goes up from 103°C to 104°C; then I get rid of the thermometer and wait until it makes a particular sort of splut splut noise that tells me it’s made jelly. Then I turn off the heat and test it by spooning a little onto a cold saucer and leaving it in the fridge for 5 minutes.
Some people will tell you that it’s ready when it wrinkles; I like a slightly softer set than that so look for a slightly wrinkly skin rather than a full blown wrinkle (if you know what I mean). If it’s not there, I put it back on the heat and go through the process again until it is. Leave it to cool for 20 minutes or so, adding a knob of butter to remove any scum, then spoon it into hot sterilised jars. Sterilise the lids in boiling water and screw them on while everything’s still warm.
This made 11 jars of varying sizes. The double soaking process really draws out the flavour and the pectin: it sounds like a faff but it’s not, actually. If you think it is, you could just go out and buy a jar.
Or of course you could always come here and try this one.
8 large Seville oranges
juice of 2 lemons
about 3 litres of water
about 2.5 kilos of granulated sugar
Day 1
Cut the oranges into quarters, squeezing them slightly to loosen the pips. With your fingers separate the flesh from the peel, put everything into a large glass or plastic bowl and add the water and the lemon juice. Cover loosely with a tea towel and leave for 24 hours.
Day 2
Put everything into a large pan and bring to the boil. Simmer very very gently until the skins are soft – for me this was around an hour and a half. Cool, cover loosely with a tea towel and leave for another 24 hours.
Day 3
Fish out the skins, which by now are nicely soft, and cut them into strips of whatever thickness you like. Strain the liquid and pulp through a sieve and put the liquid into a preserving pan; tip the pulp out, line the sieve with some muslin, put the pulp back and let the last bits of juice strain through. Then tie up the muslin so that you have a little bag containing pulp and pips, and add this to the pan.
Bring everything slowly to the boil. Remove the muslin bag, squeeze it out over the pan and discard. Now add the sugar; I did this by taste and ended up adding 2.5 kilos; you may want more or less, so taste as you go. Stir it all around a bit to dissolve, then bring it to the boil and boil to setting point. This bit’s another moveable feast: I use a mixture of a probe thermometer and - erm - my ears. Using the thermometer, I take the mixture to the point where it just goes up from 103°C to 104°C; then I get rid of the thermometer and wait until it makes a particular sort of splut splut noise that tells me it’s made jelly. Then I turn off the heat and test it by spooning a little onto a cold saucer and leaving it in the fridge for 5 minutes.
Some people will tell you that it’s ready when it wrinkles; I like a slightly softer set than that so look for a slightly wrinkly skin rather than a full blown wrinkle (if you know what I mean). If it’s not there, I put it back on the heat and go through the process again until it is. Leave it to cool for 20 minutes or so, adding a knob of butter to remove any scum, then spoon it into hot sterilised jars. Sterilise the lids in boiling water and screw them on while everything’s still warm.
This made 11 jars of varying sizes. The double soaking process really draws out the flavour and the pectin: it sounds like a faff but it’s not, actually. If you think it is, you could just go out and buy a jar.
Or of course you could always come here and try this one.
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