Medders preserves and Eldrick observes. Is this the end of the line?
THE turn of the seasons brings reassuring landmarks, the trusted milestones by which we experience the passing of time. Easter has its eggs. May brings the first barbecue. The weeds overtake the asparagus patch each September. The geese arrive in late autumn. The real tree versus artificial tree debate enlivens every Christmas. And then early in the new year…
‘Jayneymac! I nearly missed them,’ Medders was clearly flustered but evidently relieved as he bustled into the kitchen hauling a large bag-for-life.
‘Nearly missed what, Da?’
‘I told yer man in the fruit and veg shop to tip me off but inevitably he forgot. It could have been a disaster.’
‘Forgot what, Da?’
‘Apparently, with lockdown, everyone’s doing it this year.’ ‘Doing what, Da?’
‘Eh? Doing what? Doing what I do every January, of course. To think that I could have lost out to a bunch of Johnny-come-latelies.’ ‘Except this time Johnny came earlier than you apparently, Da.’ ‘Yes, I suppose, but I have earned first place in the queue. I am drawing from a deep family tradition, following in the footsteps of my late mother and her mother before that.’
‘Which tradition is that, Da?’
‘And you are doubly blessed for you have it from the other side as well. Your mother adheres to methods employed by Her Majesty, your grandmother, who takes her cue from her ancestors, your forebears. This is heritage in living, breathing, glorious action.’
Eldrick gave up asking unanswered questions and peered into the bag-for-life which his father had hoisted on to the kitchen table. The bag was full of oranges – scabby, shrivelled, not quite round, oranges. Oranges with patches of green. Oranges of limited size, but without the cute appeal of mandarin or satsuma. Oranges which looked as though they had been posing for a Picasso still-life. ‘Seville oranges, Da. You are about to make marmalade.’ ‘Did I not say? Of course I am about to make marmalade. What else is there to do?’
‘What else indeed? Don’t worry, Da, I’ll think of something.’ ‘I’m sure I could use a hand here, son.’
‘And I’m sure you’ll get on without me, Da,’ said Eldrick, sidling out into the hall without backward glance.
So it was that Medders set about the annual ritual unaided. First find the recipe, passed down in his mother’s best schoolgirl handwriting. Second gather the ingredients. Third assemble the food processor, laughing at the notion that previous generations slogged away using a manually operated mincer to grind the orange skins. Ah, the blessings of modern technology!
After forty frustrating minutes figuring out how to coax the food processor, with its umpteen ill-fitting components, into life he wished he had dug the manually operated mincer out of storage in the attic. But at last he had the accursed modern technology working briskly and it was a case of all systems gung-ho.
When Hermione returned home to poke her pert and pretty nose around the kitchen door that evening, she found it hard at first to locate her husband amidst great wafts of steam. Advancing to the cooker, she discovered him, clad in a yellow apron, whistling merrily while he stirred a massive vat of spitting viscous lava.
Behind her spouse was a waiting array of ill-matched empty jars, many of them retaining the curry sauce or pickled cabbage labels which betrayed their provenance. A mountain of dirty tools and utensils had accumulated in the sink Hermione left in such pristine condition only that morning. She despaired of finding room where she might prepare a dinner amidst the clutter sugar bags, rolls of labels, sticky wooden spoons and a ball of seeping gunge wrapped in ragged muslin.
‘You know, Ma.’ Eldrick materialised at her side, ‘the way you eat an orange and throw away the peel. Yet Da reckons it is a good idea to preserve the peel in jelly and eat it for breakfast. Marmalade is misguided in concept and unpleasant in reality. And he calls it heritage!’ Youth had spoken.
Living heritage, breathing heritage ? Doomed heritage.