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.)
Love the colors in these images. Mouth-watering…for sure!
Salivating. I love oranges. This reminds me of our trips to Portugal, when we used to buy bags of fresh oranges from an elderly man at a roadside stand. He always threw in some extras, along with a sly wink and a grin. Of course, we always handed over a few extra coins as well…
Sun-warmed oranges. Sigh.
I can almost smell it from here! Oh-wait! I can smell mock orange drifting from my garden. Close!