Walking from the bedroom into the living room this morning the scent of an orchard greeted me. It was coming from my kitchen counter where yesterday I had emptied a bag of oranges and a pair of lemons. There was a plan.
They teased me most of the morning. Finally, however, I succumbed to their seduction.
It was my neighbour’s fault. After being invited for dinner with them the other evening, I couldn’t help but notice the line of jars on her counter filled with what was obviously orange marmalade. The Seville oranges are in. I missed out on the Seville’s by the time I got to the grocery store but bought navels for an equally delightful essential ingredient. So I washed them and the colour of lemons sitting in my black sink appears to have changed (but it’s only due to reflections).
And then I let them drip dry, as I pulled out my hand juicer, the cutting board, sharpened a knife, and set out my new Le Creuset.
Juicing by hand and taking the time to finely slice all the rinds was a labour of love as I imagined those I will offer a fresh scone or simple piece of toast and some homemade marmalade. Imagine.
The scent of my morning has been a glorious shade of orange. I still feel like I was immersed in an exotic poem. Who wrote that lovely poem about peeling an orange? Oh well, I did one better by being part of the poetry of oranges and putting fruit by.
(Yes, the next post most likely will show you the results of my morning.)