Making traditions

There's nothing like the pure intoxication of huffing Seville oranges on a cold January morning. The snow turning to sludge outside (as is the English way) and chopping a dozen orange rinds with a sharp knife.

Marmalade reminds me of my childhood. My grandparents always used to have marmalade in the fridge when I came to stay. They had butter as well - not the cheap margarine we got through at home. So now I suppose I'm hardwired to feel primal joy whenever I find bread, real butter and real marmalade. The thought of it taps into pleasure centres I didn't know I was allowed in January; the serotonin running as freely as the saliva.

I felt for a long time that I'd lost the good life in the relentless pursuit of happiness. I'm now trying to win it back and that's what this blog is all about. Microdosing nature and bottling joy.

Marmalade is cheap; you can buy even the good stuff for less than a pint of beer, but I rarely, if ever, buy the stuff. Does that make me less generous if I still really want to give it away?

Shoving my nose into a citrus bath, getting my hands involved in the process, jarring up the fruits of my labour:- this is what I'm here for. Printing out the labels, shoving it in friends hands, discussing the process, this is how we used to live.

My parents were big jam makers and gardeners growing up. There was joy in it. I want to feel more joy. I want to gift more joy. I want to make an annual tradition of making and bottling joy.