“I’ll see what I can do,” she said,

that day the bitter oranges came.

Rowanberries, crab-apples

crafted into jellies,

marmeloes of quincy sourness

already lined her larder.

She turned unpromising fruit

into tastiness.

No ļ¬ngertip control of heat,

nor stainless pan,

but her created recipe

. stood time’s test.

Her legacy now rests

on paper spattered brown

with long-dried juice,

testament to time spent

preserving Spanish sunshine

on short Northern days.

My yearly marmalade ritual,

making shoals of slivered peel

transform to sweet-sharp tawniness,

pays homage to my sister cook

who looked at sour oranges and said,

“I’ll see what I can do.”