Mourning and Marmalade
The year – that year – 2024 has ended and Past-President Jimmy Carter quietly left so as to watch the next chapter of American history unfold from afar. In a sign of respect – not accorded to every US President – the Union Jack at Buckingham Palace was flown at half mast on the days of, and after, his passing. For us the outgoing tides of 2024 carried out with them family and friend transitions that were close to our hearts. Later this week I will rise with the dawn to think about friends and family gathering in the Norman All Saints village church in Crondall that they have attended for over fifty years, as the patriarch of their family will be remembered and laid to rest in the grounds surrounding the church. This is the winter of our lives and the leaves of love and memory are falling.
The gifts – that is – of this time – are the memories that emerge out of our past – even the worst of them – are coated – if not soaked – with love – and often more than a little laughter. So the old year fades, taxes get paid and we look forward to whatever this year will bring.
The changing American administration will take place on January 20th, ironically falling on Martin Luther King day, whose dream seems to be once more deferred. This change is bringing apprehension to Americans and world leaders alike. Gears must be shifted, and wheels oiled. Ukraine’s President Zelensky has to figure out how to dance around the incoming American President who is in turn dancing to President Vladimir Putin’s music. It’s tricky for whatever happens with Zelensky and to Ukraine will ripple through the rest of Europe and beyond. Elon Musk is traveling in person and on X into London chatting with – and then dismissing – Nigel Farrage now saying “Reform needs a new leader.” Well there is egg or custard pie on Nigel’s face – again. Sir Keir Starmer has too many papers on his desk, The National Health System, housing, Nigel breathing down his neck, the conservatives straightening their skirt hems and now this Musk boy putting his finger in the icing of British Politics, not knowing that the cake inside has collapsed completely. Meanwhile Justin Trudeau is stepping down as Canada’s Prime Minister. Another good-looking chap falling under the wheels of Government failure and a touch of corruption. How do they make such silly mistakes swinging in and out of revolving doors? Maybe one needs to be a fly in the soup to understand that better.
It is snowing in England. ’Makes you feel like a kid again’ says another wistful middle-aged man in a Yorkshire pub. And it does. However inconvenient, the snow is and it can be brutal for farmers and those living in small hamlets, throughout the country we are relieved to see this winter weather. Cold to ward away the concerns of global warming.
Nicolas Watts in Lincolnshire, is a farmer who farms among his crops, a fine line in organic bird seed. Nicolas sits down once a month to write a newsletter about his farm, the crops, the wildlife and the weather.
And every month I read it. He has his figures and facts all lined up and this month says “We only had one frost in December and it was far milder than usual, with a mean average of 7.2°C. … There are no fast moves in here, no rushing to embrace this fad or that. But what Nicholas is showing – on his farm and in his newsletters – are the effects of climate change on this small country – this farm – agriculture, and thus us all. He goes on – telling us about how the price of potatoes has gone up – but that is another story. This farmer is working the land and seeing what is happening to the soil and the Earth we live on.
Meanwhile in January, many English women still make enough marmalade – for their family and friends – to last for the whole year. And those of us who do it are very particular about what we use. Each family has its own recipes and traditions, though now it is mostly us grandmothers who ‘have the time’ and care enough to make it. Oranges from Seville are key, and arrive from Spain to England just after Christmas. They are small, squishy, bitter and full of pips. In years gone by, when lemons were a luxury, the marmalade was made solely from these oranges. Lemons were saved for Lemon Curd. Rose’s brought in Lime Fine Cut Marmalade as an exotic and it remains popular today. I’m thinking those limes came from the Caribbean and that Rose’s got a good deal on them. Now marmalades are mixed, and exotic, with and without, whiskey added, but it is hard to find good old chunky cut marmalade. Marks and Spencers and Fortnum & Mason made a stab at it but both are still too refined. And what about those of us, outside of England for whom making marmalade remains as important as making mince pies? We are lucky in California that citrus and Meyer Lemons particularly grow abundantly. And on this farm we are also lucky. About twenty years ago one of our daughters gave me a Pacific Coast Orange tree. I was dubious and the tree felt my lack of confidence in it and so for years it sat, sulking, hardly growing at all but then maybe the nutrients from all the dead pets in the bury patch released into the soil and now the little shrub is a big tree, with bowed branches full of fruit. Truth be told they are the complete opposite of the oranges from Seville. There is as much pith as fruit in each orange and as for juice – to be kind – it is tart. But I go out into the garden, gather those oranges, a few Meyer lemons – that tree for some reason not as strong as the orange – and chop, mixing the fruit together. It gives me a chunky, tart marmalade that can stand ‘toast to toast’ with the old remembered Seville orange marmalade. This week I have my twelve plus and counting jars of marmalade, and I am happy once more.
As I make my marmalade, I remember my mother making hers and the rows and rows of jars put away in the larder. I am thinking again of my friends in England. We are older now and knocked about by the snow and winter weather. The silent whiteness will only be beautiful if they can be safe walking to the church, laying this loved one into his grave, before returning with their memories to the safety of their homes.
This has been A Letter from A. Broad. Written and read for you by Muriel Murch.
As always supported by https://www.murchstudio.com
Muriel Murch 
