Harvest amidst the snows

I have made my marmalade, which was very well behaved – it didn’t boil over onto the stove, stick to the bottom of the pot and burn, caramelise, or do anything else it shouldn’t. Despite being officially called Rintinaby Mandarin Orange (yes, I’m afraid so), Miss Kit refrained from attempting to assist, and Miss Dog is asleep upstairs, so the ambient stickiness is reasonably well under control. The Professor bought a copy of Country Life the other day because it turned up at the garage – he buys it from time to time for the contents, I then keep it for making collages because it’s printed on good paper  - and it had an article about artisan marmalade. People have got silly about this, evidently. Chilli marmalade, anyone? A touch of lavender? Or how about not? Actually, my own marmalade had an extra special touch of its own: the Professor appeared in triumph this morning, having watered the greenhouse, bearing an orange! From one of our very own orange trees! It has to be admitted, if one is channelling one’s inner Twisby, that the orange in question was almost completely tasteless, and why it saw fit to ripen in mid-January, with snow on the ground outside, I can’t think. However, the state of advertising being what it is, the addition of this single much-cossetted fruit doubtless permits me to claim that my marmalade is made with fruit individually sourced and lovingly hand-picked. So I will. Fortunately all the other oranges, picked by nasty rough machinery in Seville, were quite characterful, and the resulting marmalade is a zinger.