Marmalade

In January she would put on her apron
the one with sunflowers on the pockets
and go into the larder to find the pans
big wide pans with handles
scrubbed and shiny
put away on the top shelf
among the pickle jars
and a Christmas pudding
on bone cold slate shelves
the smell of cooking apples and vinegar
she had a special knife to scrape the skins dry
to chop and tip the peel
into the pan with juice
sugar and water
gathering the pith and pips
in a muslin cloth
which she tied to a cooking chopstick
from Tokyo
with string from the drawer
dangled in the liquid
heat on with a whoosh
deep auburn barley sugar
saucers chilling
awaiting a wrinkle
a sign it’s set
ready to be poured
molten bubbling gold
into assorted glass jars
gathered through the year
labels steam cleaned
placed on the windowsill
until cool
I still have the pans
they live on a high shelf
above my fridge
and today I remembered her
when I got them down
and made marmalade