Remind me ...

This evening, I feel I never want to see another orange. Hence the title of tonight's blip: if I  mention, in about a year's time, that the marmalade oranges are back in the shop, please rush to remind me that I have expressed a strong desire never to make marmalade again. It's too stressful. And if I seem resistant, just tell me only to buy a kilo of oranges. Not two. That made for double the stress. It's just that even after all these years I have trouble with the actuality of kilos. I know the theory, I know that theoretically they're easier to do sums with because you don't have to remember 16 and 14 and 8 lbs - but it means nothing to me in real life. Am I alone in this? Is it an age thing because of when I was taught to count? 

Rant over. Sober account to follow. The day was dreary - not wet, not terribly windy, just grey. I didn't rush to get out of bed - there wasn't any interesting light needing suicidal photography. I made my porridge and ate it as I read The Early Line - only today, because it was the weekend, it was The Party Line. Jolly interesting and informative it was too. I was just clearing up, thinking I really had to do something with the fruit that was soaking in the big pan, when Himself appeared, clad as for the far North (or Washington) and announced that he was going to the church to practise, would be home for coffee, and would I refrain from chucking boiling liquids about till he came back? 

So I did my Italian, exchanged texts with #2 son, who's off to cold places himself, made the coffee. Himself reappeared, and I stirred myself. That's when the trouble started. I put the sugar in too early. So I had to cope with heating up this enormous potful of peels and water and sugar and then keeping it simmering for two hours without burning anything...

And then the messy bit. Because my current cooker has a black ceramic hob, the rings don't get hot enough to maintain a proper rolling boil in a preserving pan. So I have to decant the mix into other, smaller pans - last year I used the pasta pot and the deep fat frying pot now relegated to being a soup pot. But because I'd bought too many oranges I also had to press into service the potato pots, old and new. Four pots on four hobs, all boiling away terrifyingly. Me, leaping between them to lift them off if they looked like boiling over. My arms and my core muscles had the work-out to last the month. 

I think it's ok. I think it reached setting point. I had four plates in the fridge to keep track of them when it came to testing. It's all in jars and lids tightened and some is on the shelf in the pantry and some in a dark cupboard in the hall. If it's still liquid, I don't want to know. Not tonight anyway.

I managed a very short, bad-tempered walk down to the shore road and along and up the road again, just for some air. And then I collapsed over the telly. Every now and then I looked to see if it's likely #2 is going to make his connecting flight, as he took off late from London. My insides go into knots just thinking about it, after our last travel fiasco. Tomorrow will perhaps be more normal. I only have to sing a wee Taize piece at Communion (Confitemini Domine). 

Easier than making marmalade. By a mile.