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MARMALADE
As a young boy, I was fascinated with cooking. Not with cooking food myself – I am usually terrible at it – but with the general act of preparing food, especially baking. I used to sit on the kitchen counter and watch my mother and sisters. Whenever they left a cake to rise or potatoes to roast, I spent hours lying on the floor watching the oven. I often wanted to help but they didn’t let me.
I loved watching my mother make orange marmalade every Christmas. Oranges were not easy to buy and were only really available during the winter. My mother waited for hours outside the local grocer’s for the first oranges of the season, together with half the neighbourhood population.
When I grew up, I lost interest in preparing food. Besides, my hospital duties and seeing patients didn’t give me much free time. This all changed one evening in winter, around a week before Christmas in 1920. On my way home, I passed by the local grocer’s, and that was when I saw a sign outside. ‘Oranges in stock’, it read. I stopped, and read the sign again. Marmalade was the only thing I could make with a sure chance of success, and I wanted to make something for Christmas. I immediately knew what I was going to buy. I paid for all the ingredients I needed, and I felt happy.
It took me a little more than a quarter of an hour to prepare everything. I measured out the sugar and water like a professional chef. I remembered my mother’s recipe for marmalade, so making it was relatively easy. I was so proud that I didn’t need any cookbook to prepare it.
When I was younger, I never waited for the marmalade to cool before I tried some. I always put a finger in it to taste it. This time, however, I waited until it had cooled. Then I tried some. It was exactly how I remembered and wanted it – a little mouthful of sweet sunshine. I repeated this over and over again, and each time it tasted as good as the last.
adapted from Marmalade At Christmas by Agatha Christie