Blue Jean Chef

It doesn’t last long, but it’s happening right now! It’s Honeybell season.
As promised, juice dripped down my chin and through my fingers as I enjoyed my first Honeybell last week. It was, indeed, the juiciest “orange” I’ve ever eaten. No wonder the company that was selling my particular case of [...]

It doesn’t last long, but it’s happening right now! It’s Honeybell season.

As promised, juice dripped down my chin and through my fingers as I enjoyed my first Honeybell last week. It was, indeed, the juiciest “orange” I’ve ever eaten. No wonder the company that was selling my particular case of the fruit included two plastic bibs with the purchase. It did make me wonder, however. Two bibs? Did they expect me to eat twelve Honeybells in one sitting, or was I supposed to wash that thin plastic bib and re-use it? I resorted to eating over the sink.

A Honeybell is not actually an orange, though it looks much like one. It is in fact a hybrid cross between a Duncan Grapefruit and a Dancy Tangerine, which first appeared in Florida in the 1930s. Also known as a Minneola Tangelo, it is deep sunset orange in color, and feels noticeably heavy. That weight comes from all the juice inside, waiting to burst forth and turn you into a sticky mess. It is almost startling how much sweet and slightly tart juice can be squeezed out of one single Honeybell (about 5 oz!).

The season for Honeybells is short. They are available in January, and then they can’t be found again until the following year. That is Nature’s own brilliant marketing plan – the simple rule of supply and demand. Supply is short, and so demand is high. When the supply is only available for a limited time, however, the demand intensifies and creates a sense of urgency. Even if growers could extend the season, I would advise against it. They’ve got a good thing going, naturally.

Last week I came home with a case of Honeybells. That’s about 24 individual pieces of fruit. What was I thinking? How many tangelos can a girl and her dog eat… especially when the dog turns her nose up at anything citrus? While I love good fruit, and appreciate the limited supply of Honeybells, I’m also a strong believer in variety being the spice of life. It didn’t take me long to tire of eating oranges merely because they were sitting there on the counter. Sure, I could cut one open and enjoy a cool glass of fresh Honeybell juice, but somehow that felt wasteful. So much of the fruit gets tossed into the garbage can when you simply juice it. I started to think of all the ways I could use the tangelos – the segments went into salad; the zest went into a breading for chicken breast; the juice and zest, combined with butter and mint, turned into a delicious pasta recipe by Marcella Hazan. Still, it soon became crystal clear that I could only take so much Honeybell flavour in any one day. Apparently, you can have too much of a good thing. What to do?

It was my mother who gave me the best suggestion. (Isn’t that always the way?) Marmalade. Of course! Why didn’t I think of that? Probably because though I’ve made jams and jellies in the past, I’ve never actually made marmalade before. I pulled Delia down off the shelf and read what she had to say about making marmalade. Then I embarked on the project.

What most appealed to me about the endeavor was the sense of satisfaction that it brought. I used the entire fruit in the process. The juice formed the base. The seeds and pith were tied up with cheesecloth and simmered in the juice, later squeezed out to extract the pectin. The peel was sliced very thin and added to the pot – this was to be a chunky marmalade. I loved the fact that I wasn’t wasting a single part of the fruit that “comes but once a year”.

As each batch I made bubbled on the stovetop, the fragrance of tangy citrus wafted through my home. What a great bonus for the work! The sweet juice broadcast its scent all the way up to the third floor, overcoming whatever came before it. I left the house for a walk, just so that I could come back in and appreciate the aroma anew. As I entered, I stepped over the opened boxes of cookware, past the mail shredded by my loving dog, and over the carpet that so needed vacuuming. I ignored the growing stack of magazines that required sorting and recycling, and refused to acknowledge the tumbleweeds of dog hair staring at me from the corners of the room. In the kitchen, I didn’t see the sink of dishes waiting to be washed. I just inhaled the smell of Honeybells and thought “Wow. I’m a domestic goddess!” Take heed – making marmalade will make you feel (and smell) like a homemaking genius, despite the condition of the rest of your house.

Finally, the last reward comes in giving the finished product away. These days, how many of us have the time to stay at home and preserve fruit? Well, honestly, more of us should try to find that time. It’s not a difficult undertaking, and you’d be surprised at the pay-offs. I loved the look of surprise and gratitude that I saw on people’s faces when I handed them a pretty little jar of home-made marmalade. It’s a gift that is so unexpected…or perhaps people were just bewildered that it came from me? Well, regardless of what category of home-maker you fall into, I guarantee you won’t have to look far to find a welcoming recipient of the fruit of your labour (so to speak).

I’m on my third batch of marmalade as I write this. The last of the Honeybells are simmering away, waiting for the addition of sugar and, this time, some finely sliced fresh ginger. I’ll try to catch the marmalade at just the right point. The previous batch was a little runny, and the first batch I made should come with a warning – “steak knife required”.

Phew! The Honeybells are no longer hanging over my head, warning me that soon they’ll be unavailable. Strange how I can wait all year for their arrival, and then work so hard to rid myself of them as quickly as possible! This year, however, I’ll be able to enjoy the taste of Honeybells in the middle of July…if I manage to keep a jar of marmalade for myself.