Oranges are not the only fruit

Who would like a completely faff-free marmalade recipe, in which no oranges have been harmed?

If I were to say that I dislike oranges, it would be roughly on a par with Alan Bates saying he’s not much struck on the Post Office. As far as I am concerned, they are the work of the devil and as soon as I’m Prime Minister (shift over, Keir) they’re going to be banned. The smell is the worst part - and you really have no idea how frequently people decide to disrobe an orange in the middle of the day in a crowded tube train. For heaven’s sake people, have some mercy. I have lost count of the number of times I’ve been late for work because I’ve had to hastily switch carriages or wait for the next train due to the careless peeling of an orange.

The funniest thing happens when I tell people that I don’t like oranges - I wait for the look of sheer puzzlement and then the inevitable question: ‘But you like orange JUICE, right?’ It’s weird how nobody turns a hair if someone says they hate fish, can’t abide anchovies, or loathe coriander with a passion, but it’s as though saying that you hate oranges must somehow be frowned upon and discouraged. However, in my defence, I have met fellow orange haters - one of them being my friend’s brother, who also shares my horror of milk - so we’ve pondered from time to time if we are actually siblings, mistakenly separated at birth.

Primary school lunches were a particular challenge for me - school fruit salad with badly dissected oranges, covered in a thick layer of (aaaggghhhh - can barely bring myself to say the word) pith. Attempting to hid them beneath my fork and spoon was futile - the dinner ladies always found them and force fed them to me like a foie gras goose. So, at the age of about six, I developed a seriously nifty sleight of hand, enabling me to store them in my socks, for later disgorgement into one of the playground rubbish bins. Sometimes I forgot they were there, so I expect that was a treat for my mother on laundry day.

However, I DO like grapefruit, lemons and limes (as long as there is no pith involved) and this easy marmalade really does make the most of the fruit. It is particularly fresh-tasting, and nice and tart. Pink grapefruit are nicest for this if you can get them, but any grapefruit in a storm. This recipe was adapted from one by Marguerite Patten, which I found in an ancient cookery book that I bought for about three and six at a car boot sale somewhere around a hundred years ago. I’ve simplified it even further - in fact, so far that it’s positively slovenly.

The amount below (which I always make because I can’t abide having enormous pans of bubbling stuff and because I have the quantities imprinted on my brain - though not much else is, these days) makes between three and four supermarket-sized jam jars (what we used to call 1lb jars in old money).

Slovenly grapefruit, lemon & lime marmalade (makes approx 3 - 4 x 500g jars)

1 pink grapefruit, 1 lemon, 1 - 2 limes (about 500g - err on the heavier side)
1kg ordinary white sugar
1.3 litres cold water

Place a saucer or small plate in the freezer.

Put the fruit and water into a large saucepan (so that it’s half full or less). Cover with a lid and bring to the boil. Turn the heat down and partially cover with the lid (I usually leave a wooden or metal spoon in the pan, with the handle poking out, which props the lid ajar). Cook for one hour, turning the fruit half way through.

Transfer the fruit to a chopping board (squeeze the fruit as you remove it with tongs, squeezing the juice back into the pan if you can - saves you burning your fingers later). Leave the cooking liquid in the pan and stir in the sugar. Remove any cores and pips, then chop the very soft fruit (all of it, including the peel) into smallish pieces and chuck back into the pan with the sugar and cooking liquid.

Slowly bring back to the boil, making sure all of the sugar is dissolved before it boils, then cook on a low to medium heat (uncovered) for about 10 minutes. It should be bubbling fairly merrily, but not at a violent boil, nor in any danger of boiling over. You should see that the marmalade perceptibly changes colour (it will go slightly darker) and if you dunk the wooden spoon into it, then draw your finger down the back of the spoon, you should see a definite channel where your finger’s been. If neither of the above happen, cook for another five minutes, repeating as necessary. Once you think you’re there, spoon a tiny bit onto your frozen plate, wait a few seconds, then push the little dollop of marmalade with your finger. If it wrinkles, it’s ready.

Leave to stand for five minutes, then pour into heated sterilised jars - either put the jars through the dishwasher and use them while they are still very hot, or wash them in hot soapy water, rinse well and stand on a tray in the oven at 100C for a few minutes. In either case, make sure the jars are still hot when you fill them. (And definitely don’t be tempted to try to heat them by filling them with boiling water - my neighbour tried this, and she ended up with a broken jar and scalded feet). Top the jam with circles of waxed paper if you wish (I don’t bother, the marmalade doesn’t last long enough in this house to go off), then seal tightly. Wait until it’s cold, then dollop onto buttered toast for a breakfast to beat all others.