Country Style – September 2019

Thesedays,I alwaysmakemarmaladethelongway—the

slowway.I makeitfromthefruitinourorchardandittastes

thewayI dreamilyrememberfromearlychildhood,before

mygrandmotherbecamesick.Atthesametime,this

marmaladeisanentirelynewbeast,madefromfruitthatwe

havegrownandharvestedourselves.Weshareeverycold

nightandsunnydaywiththeorchard.Whenwetastefood

—anyfood—thatwehavegrown,wetasteourownplacein

theworld,ourownhistoryandstory.

I nowknowStephanieAlexander’smarmaladerecipeby

heart.Makingmarmaladethiswayisa lengthyprocess,but

oneI enjoy.Theslownessofithasa quietsortofrhythm,

whichisparticularlycharmingoncolddays,withthefire

roaringinthenextroomandthekitchenwindowsfogging

over.Timeisprecious,butsoisthefoodwe’vegrownand

whatitcanremindusof.Itisworthtakingthetimeto

preserveitintosomethinglovely.

MybabyandI listentopodcastsaboutgardening,food

andfolktales.HesucksonrindsandwatchesasI juice,dice

andboilthelemonsandbloodoranges.Webothendup

sticky.I rummageinthecupboardforjarsthatneedtobe

cleanedbeforethemarmaladeisfinishedandthenI leave

thesaucepan,thejarsandsugartositinthekitchenuntil

tomorrow.He’lleatmarmaladeonedayandI wonder

whetherhe’llloveitorhateit.I wonderwhetherhe’ll

inexplicablythinkofhotblacktea.Perhapshewillthink

onlyofourorchardandwhatit’slikeintherainandfrost,

thesunshineandwind.Ofwhattheweatherher t

tastelike,preservedinjarsthatlooklikejewels.

ElizaHenry-Jonesisa novelistwholivesona smallfarm

in Victoria’s Yarra Valley. Visit elizahenryjones.com

MYGRANDMOTHERLOVEDMARMALADE, butitwasn’tuntil

aftershediedthatI finallystartedtomakeit.Shehad

Alzheimer’sand,growingup,I shareda housewithher.

Shemovedthings,brokethings,hidthings.Shedidn’tknow

whoshewas.Shedidn’tknowthatshewashome.Ourhouse

alwaysfeltrawandjagged,nothingstayedinitsplace.

Marmaladewassomethingrareandsteady;itcamefrom

before,fromwhenshewaswholeandwithus.I remember

itbeaded,sticky,onmyfingers.I rememberthesmell

ofit,servedalongsideblacktea.

Ourcitrusorchardwasalreadyestablishedwhenwemoved

toourfarm.Lisbonlemons,bloodoranges,naveloranges,

mandarins,grapefruits,andcumquats.Everymorning,I put

mybabyinhiscarrierandwewalktothetopoforchard,with

viewsofrollinghillsandfog.Weshareanicycoldmandarin

whilethehorsesandgoatswatch,theirbreathmisting.

It’smarmalademakingseason,sotodayI pickblood

orangesandlemonsandluga basketofthembackdown

tothehouse.Intheyearsafterwelostmygrandmother,

makingmarmaladefeltsuddenlyvital.Myinitialattempts

werecloudyandwatery,evenwithaddedpectin.Therecipes

I usedweresourcedimpatientlyfromtheinternet,always

thequickestonesI couldfind.I wastryingtofindmyway

backtosomethingI couldn’tproperlyrememberbut

desperatelywantedto.Againandagain,I madethegoopy,

dullmessandwonderedwhatI wasdoingwrong.I’dthink

aboutmygrandmother,abouthowsheatemarmaladeon

whitetoastwithscaldingblacktea.

I continuedtomaketerriblemarmaladeuntilI asked

a wisefriendhowshemadeherownwonderful preserves.

She said that she made them slowly. PHOTOGRAPHY

ALAMY

BITTER SWEET

INSPIREDBYHERLATEGRANDMOTHER,ELIZAHENRY-JONES

LEARNS THAT THERE IS ONLY ONE WAY TO MAKE MARMALADE.

A DAY IN THE COUNTRY

16 COU NTRY ST Y LESEPTEMBER 2019