Pink Grapefruit and Pineapple Marmalade - aka Anti-Winter Jam

One of my favourite things about Summer and early Autumn is turning the abundance of fruit into jars and jars of jam. I'm always a bit sad when the season ends, but then, just a few months later... Marmalade! I love marmalade. In fact, I'm the only one in my family who does, and I have to admit I eat it in huge, tooth-rotting quantities all winter long ON MY OWN. I'm also quite picky about it; I want a full flavour and lots of peel. Outside of the UK (which I called home for many years) it can be quite tricky to find "proper" marmalade - the kind that is not too sweet - and the imported stuff is becoming ever-more expensive. So this year I decided to make my own. But fancy, with pink grapefruit and fresh pineapple. If this doesn't chase away the Winter greys...

This marmalade is heavy on the fruit and light on the added sugar. I used Kylee Newton's excellent book, The Modern Preserver, to learn the basic techniques of jam and marmalade-making.

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Pink Grapefruit and Pineapple Marmalade

3 pink grapefruit

1 fresh pineapple

5dl water

300g jam sugar

Cut the peel from the grapefruit, reserving the flesh. Remove as much pith as possible from the peel, then slice into very thin strips. Chop the flesh into 1cm cubes, discarding any pips and pith.

Remove the skin and tough core from the pineapple and discard. Cut the flesh into 1cm cubes.

Put all the fruit and zest in a large with the water and bring to a boil.

Lower the heat to add the jam sugar, stir until it has dissolved, then bring the mixture back to the boil. Boil steadily, stirring frequently for 20-30 minutes (or until the grapefruit peel has softened).

When ready*, pour into hot, sterilised jars and seal.

Will keep unopened at room temperature for up to six months, or a few weeks in the fridge once opened.

PLEASE NOTE:

This recipe makes the most of the natural sweetness of the pineapple, and doesn't use as much water or jam sugar as commercial recipes tend to. As a result, the water may separate and pool in the jar if stored for a while. This doesn't affect the flavour at all - just stir it back in before spreading.

*Newton recommends the wrinkle test to check whether a jam or marmalade has reaching its setting point. Place a couple of small dishes in the freezer before you start. When the mixture has come to a rolling boil for the required amount of time, take it off the heat and drip a little bit of it onto one of the dishes. Put in the fridge for a minute or so, then gently push the jam with your finger to see if it wrinkles. If it does, it's ready! If not, return the mixture to the boil and repeat the test after five minutes.

A subtle shift

If I were to mention the dropping temperatures or the dwindling harvest in my part of the world, how many of you would gleefully think of gorgeous woolly sweaters and deliciously melancholic evenings? Would there also be a fair few who, as a new friend lovingly reminded me at the weekend, would want to punch me in the head because EVERYTHING IS DYING? I have to admit that I'm personally ambivalent about the coming of Autumn - I love me some handknitted socks, but I don't relish the November weeks sat desperately staring into my SAD lamp.

What I do love about the shifting seasons though, whether early or late, is the opportunity to take stock. Funnily enough, this is not something I ever feel like doing on the 1st of January. Show me a budding leaf or an emerging mushroom, however, and I suddenly notice what else has shifted. This year, I think it's the kids.

After almost 8 and 3/4 years of parenting, I should know that change comes slowly. Sure, sometimes they make leaps that stop you in your tracks, in a mixture of pride (in the child in question) and shock (at your own inevitable ageing alongside them). The trouser legs that suddenly flap halfway up the calves, vocabulary far richer than it was a mere week ago, a clap-back delivered with a completely straight face. 

Most of the time though, I don't know something has changed until I realise I struggle to remember a time it wasn't so. At some point, I stopped needing to rock them to sleep. "Mornings" no longer start in what is clearly the middle of the night. Somehow I don't just have a little more time to put into the garden rather than into keeping small humans from self-destructing, there is also a kid correctly identifying plants alongside me. 

The current shift is a step in the journey to adulthood (for them) and a life post-tiny-dependents (for us) that feels simultaneously miniscule and seismic. As of this term, I only have one child to collect from school. The older one cycles home by himself now, all of 7 minutes along mostly cycle paths. This new rout‌ine means I add a good 20 minutes to my work day, depending on levels of faffery and general cooperation in the small one. In the grand scheme of things it's such a small amount of time it's almost irrelevant - just enough for an extra cup of tea.

And yet. It hit me yesterday that I have two, maybe three years left of doing any school runs at all. Will there soon come a time when I simply wait for the click of their key in the door, and realise with a start that it was once different? Will I know when they've flung themselves into my arms and tell me they've missed for the last time, and remember to hold on extra tight before they inevitably spread their wings even wider? Probably not. Better have that extra cup of tea. 

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UPCOMING RELEASES

There's a lot of stock-taking going on at work, too. After half a year spent focusing entirely on magazine commissions, and therefore not being able to show anyone anything for months, so much is being released. More kids flying the nest! Last month marked the release of one of my favourite patterns to date, I think, and happily the response on social media was fantastic as well. 

Kishie Vest

The end of September sees the release of a new garment pattern as well as the start of what I hope will be a long and brilliant adventure for all involved; The first issue of new crochet magazine Moorit, brainchild of the amazing Alyson Chu, will go on sale (and if you're in the UK, you can still pre-order a copy now). I poured my heart & soul into every stitch and every line of this highly-textured, versatile vest (do have a look at how Moorit styled it), so I hope you all fall madly in love with it! 

A summer's work

School summer break 2021 turned, inescapably, into another staycation. [There is a Swedish word for this, too: "hemester", an amalgamation of "hem" (home) and "semester" (vacation).]

With the border to the UK still closed, our second vaccinations not scheduled until the very end of the kids' time off, and being kind of unable to keep up with changing travel regulations in Belgium & France anyway... There is no doubt that, with every month that goes by, the heartache of not seeing family and friends abroad only grows. I don't know what to do with that loss - none of us do.

But if all that sounds very down and pessimistic, in reality our summer was filled with abundance too. A different kind, not one of a carroussel of places, faces, and suitcases bulging with things-we-must-bring-back. We've had to work a little harder to find joy close to home. Another thing I guess many of us have had in common, throughout this pandemic {I saw someone call it The Motherf*cking Panny, which I think is thrillingly accurate}.

We found it, of course we did. Maybe most of all me: As someone who instantly wilts like a sad flower in heat, nowhere is more perfect than Sweden in summer. I've dragged everyone else along, up the trees laden with tiny cherries, into freezing cold lakes, and through forests heaving with both mosquitoes and blueberries. The garden has given us handfuls of sweet peas, French beans and all sorts of tomatoes. The heavy clay sod I got Mr E+L and the neighbour to shift in June? That's now the beginnings of a community garden, a strip crammed with sunflowers and runner beans and insects. Soon we'll dig up the potatoes and foist apples onto anyone who passes.

I'm not always sure that everyone else shares my enthusiasm, equally reserved for fruit picking and the pulling on of knitted socks during an inevitable August (and July too, if I'm honest) cold spell. Although...

Last weekend the 8yo came blackberry picking with me. Or rather, he held the box while I wrestled with the thorns. But at one point he looked around the thriving meadow and said gravely, "Mum, are we in the middle of nowhere?". I laughed and pointed out the noise of the nearby ring road and the 3-minute cycle ride home.

"But is feels like it, doesn't it Mum. All I can see is green and it's kind of magical."

My heart did a little leap.

You get it, I thought. Though I'm not sure whether I can take credit or whether you're just being your usual amazing You, though you might prefer to leave off from the juice-stained fingers and tuck straight into the finished crumble... You know how much this is all worth. And I hope, my lovely child, that it goes some way to making up for what you've lost as well as give you something to fight for.

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Over the coming two months I can finally reveal the patterns I’ve been working on this year, starting with this piece of bright & woolly bling:

Dawn to Dusk Shawl, out now in issue 139 of Inside Crochet Magazine. Photo taken by my 8.5yo!

An Autumn {love} Story

The coming of Autumn always causes a feeling of melancholy in me, so profound I can almost taste it. It’s a kind of delicious flavour. There is something indulgent about savouring memories of long, warm summer days, feasting on the last bursts of colour, and not being able to help but feel a bit sad when the last of nature's bounty has gone. It is, after all, just so more-ish.

My recipe for for dealing with the sadness is warmth. Steaming soups, sourdough toast, melted butter for our bellies. Wool, wool and more wool over our shoulders, hands, heads. I unwrap all our jumpers with a sense of importance, and the kids just think it's funny to try on all of last year's hats at once.

Usually Autumn is brief here; King Winter comes swiftly and mercilessly, stifling everything for almost 6 months. But this year has been strangely warm, and so at the beginning of November, when I would not expect there to be a single leaf left anywhere, I found myself with the chance to photograph a new design outside.

Not inside, struggling with the lack of natural light and wracking my brains for appealing props, but out in the soft glow of the Autumn sun and marvelling at how much there still remained to enjoy.

Well, photograph the new design was the intention. I got distracted by the model.

With two small children and two jobs, life is full. Very often good-full but also challenging-full, and in either case there is very little time or space for us to just be. Ourselves, a couple.

Even this session was typically rushed; We wolfed down our lunch at a local cafe, spent just half an hour messing about with light and leaves and sleeves. Then it was straight back to work before the evening shift of dinner-bath-bed-COLLAPSE.

It was a nice half an hour though. Full of soft light. Of observing and connecting, however briefly. Of remembering a Before, with melancholy. For just a short while, all the drudgery, loneliness and friction that inevitably make up the darker side of an intense relationship sort of faded into the background.

I can't believe it's been 10 years since he wandered into my office 5 times a day, under the pretense of needing to use the photocopier. He's a good 'un, my husband (and he's hot, in my unbiased opinion). Although he wouldn't give me back my cardigan.

Oof

What, dear people of the Internet, do you think might be the least restful way to spend the summer? 4.5-year-old, newborn, no daycare, lots of guests, a house move, a piddling amount of money, and ALL the rain? Check, check and check.

By the end of it the newborn was suddenly very much a Proper Baby in the throes of the 4-month sleep regression (if anyone tells you this is not a thing, they lie). The 4.5yo had grown out of 90% of his clothes, thought up a whole new arsenal of smart-ass responses, and discovered the joy of Grandmas With Deep Pockets in the Lego Shop. Then as soon as he was back in school, we didn't rest, no we did not. We packed like the wind between the hours of 9 and 2, then spent the afternoons making the most of the late summer sun who'd finally decided to make an appearance. 

The end of the summer, and I'm tired to the bone. I try not to wince at the memory of the many days I was shouty, cross mummy rather than the kind person I want to be. Try, because I think it's okay to cut myself some slack.

Because, no sleep.

Because, despite my grumpiness and the excess of screen time, sugary cereal, and constanstly being told to BE QUIET OR YOU'LL WAKE UP THE BABY, we've somehow ended up with the coolest, funniest of Beans who simply sasses through life.  

Because all four of us managed to get to Copenhagen for a wedding on one sunny day at the end of August, looking vaguely presentable and with no one losing their sh*t.  

Because the comedown after months of flat-searching, penny-pinching, and CV-churning has been more of a crash landing than a slow and measured exhalation (who, pray tell, manages those with two small people anyway, even in the best of circumstances?)

I am waiting for that slow, bumbling sense of contentment, somewhere in the crannies of my chest. I'm waiting to feel roots start to furl out of the soles of my feet. I always do on the cusp of Autumn, but this year there's more to it. We decided to stay in Sweden after so many years of meandering, which has nothing whatsoever to do with a summer spent building Lego or pulling silly faces at the baby perched on my hip, but everything with the hours and hours we worked behind the scenes, all year. All the nights I lay awake worrying, well before the tiniest person in the house decided to add his two-gurgles' worth.

We have a garden now, for the first time in almost 7 years. Woolly sock weather is on its way. And that is about as complex a thought as I am able to hold in my head at the moment. Oof. 

Sanity walk

We hit the summer solstice yesterday, and I think the best thing about the abundance of light is that it makes short shrift of any urge to wallow. The Bug is two months, the Bean is impossible, and the nights... Let's just say that, had I had another winter baby, I would be spending these newborn weeks shuffling around like some kind of narcoleptic mole. 

But as it happens there is light, there is colour. There is a semblance of warmth. It is impossible not to feel buoyed by it, no matter how many times I've whispered furiously (and fruitlessly) "stop singing please, you'll wake the baby". 

With the Bug tucked up Snug in the sling, I set off. Up the hill, through the woods, past the fields. Sometimes armed with the big camera but usually not, for reasons of "feeling like a school-run pack horse already".  

A pilfered flower here and there, plenty of deeep breaths, and a silent thank you to a sympathetic stranger; To anyone else successfully keeping two small people fed, clothed and reasonably happy without completely losing the plot themselves, you do, indeed, ROCK.

PS If you want to see what the landscape in southern Sweden looks like in winter, have a look at my ode to Brown

The first days

After over a week of "false alarms", at first I dismissed another bout of contractions on the second Friday after my due date. I had dinner, and they didn't go away. I had a bath, and they didn't go away. But they didn't get any stronger either, so I grumbled and knitted and eventually took myself off to bed at about 11pm, convinced I would wake up in the morning still pregnant. Still grumpy.

I think I slept for all of 90 minutes; In the dead of night my waters broke, and I had a cup of tea. By 4am I figured I'd probably best call the hospital. We arrived just as the sun was beginning to rise. At 6:45am we said hello to our second baby boy. 

Our, in my totally biased opinion, perfect baby boy.  

To celebrate, the hospital gave us tea and coffee, and big open faced sandwiches. They came with flutes of non-alcoholic champagne and a wee Swedish flag on a stick and made us howl. One night in the hospital, and then it was off into the world with our new treasure.

I thought it would take a while, to fall in love, but it hasn't. His soft black hair (so much hair!), his squishy cheeks, the snuffing and mewling and utter devotion to The Boob. I could sit, marvelling, for hours. Right from day one.

Much harder to deal with has been the time warp I feel I'm stuck in with the Bean. His baby brother looks so like him, but there he is, standing a tall and boisterous 4 years old. So big, yet so little. So tender towards his new brother, yet so angry with me. So mature and independent in some ways, yet so scared and needing in others. All the while, I'm mostly unavailable and very torn. He has broken my heart umpteen times in these first days. 

It is true what they say: never worry about how you could love any child as much as your first, for the heart just expands indefinitely. It is also true that change sucks when you're 4 (or the parent of said 4-year-old), the messy bits of post-partum hormones are really very messy, and nothing can soften the pain of just. zero. sleep.

But still. Look at those little old man jowls. 

The best laid plans

... don't involve babies. Or maybe they do, in a roundabout way; When I set out to MAKE ALL THE THINGS before Bug's arrival I assumed I'd only get a fraction done. Turns out that this baby is indeed snug as a bug. 

The Bean was nine days overdue, and back then the waiting drove me nuts. This time around I feel quite stoic about it, really. Yes, I'm aching and tired, I'm excited about meeting this little person, and I don't want to be clucking about for too much longer. But at the same time, when will I next get another chance to just potter, make stuff, snooze, snack to my heart's content? In about 2 years??

So I've been knitting/crocheting/sewing/sowing/nibbling all the things. 

I finished the Bean's Popcorn Vest and made a tiny Harem Romper. I made a Divided Basket for Bug's nappies.

I finally got around to sowing for this year's balcony garden. I started, and to my complete surprise, have almost finished a scrappy baby blanket. I've also started on a Benedetta Cardigan for myself but as it's in sock yarn (AM I MAD??) it is not almost finished. But fun. 

Then there's this one and his Daddy. We've been making the most of our last days as a Three, even managed to get out for our first beach trip last Sunday. It happened to be the day before my birthday too, and the perfect opportunity to celebrate. Sunshine, burgers, ice cream. It was a lovely day, and everyone was happy. 

And now we wait. 

The Little Swede

During a Skype call with some Milanese friends last weekend, it became abundantly clear: The little boy who was weaned on Grana Padano and tortellini, who preferred olives over baked beans and didn't try soft play until he was three, had forgotten every word of Italian he ever knew. 

It was inevitable, of course. The Bean was only 2.5 years old when we left Italy. Children forget as quickly as they learn at that age, and when we got here he needed to learn Swedish fast. He has, astonishingly so. He has changed in so many other ways too. Partly of course due to now being a Whole Four Years Old (which comes with special superpowers, don't you know, like running faster and jumping higher. Not being afraid of the dark may need to wait until Five though). But with so many changes to our environment and lifestyle too, it really was inevitable. 

Our Little Italian has, slowly but surely, turned into a Little Swede. 

Messy Hair, Don't Care

Gone are the severe crew cuts, sensible navy blue shoes and crisp shirts favoured by the Italians. Swedes strongly believe in a child's right to express themselves based on who they are, rather than on how society expects them to behave. Adulthood, on the other hand, is very much about conformity, but for now at least the Bean is free as bird.  Nobody would bad an eyelid if he went in to preschool wearing a tutu, and like many Swedish boys his hair is almost never cut. Rather convenient, this openmindedness, because he's decided he wants to grow a pony tail. 

Potatoes, potatoes, potatoes

I now struggle to believe it, but there was a time the Bean did not like potatoes. For 2 years he lived on pasta which had the sauce mixed into it (can you imagine!!!), big chunks of oily focaccia, platters of roast or cured meats, juicy peaches handed to him at our local market. Now? Meatballs. The blandest of cooked hams. The odd cucumber stick. Mountains of potatoes. Can you tell I struggle with this particular change? I have to remind myself: fresh, interesting produce is hard to come by in a country where nothing grows for six months of the year, and anyway the summers do make up for it. In Milan he would never have been able to go foraging for blackberries or go on a school trip to pick and barbeque corn. He now knows not only what elderflower looks like when it's ready to pick but also what to do with it. And in any case: he still appreciates a good olive oil and a chunk of Grana, but won't touch pickled herring. Thank goodness.

All the cosy things

I am not going to mention the H-word (because heaven forbid we over-use it), but with two Scandinavian winters under his belt our Bean has the pursuit of creature comforts down to an art. Soft blankets, handknitted jumpers, long afternoons spent doing nothing but watch films and play trains. It surprises me how sloth-like a 4-year-old can be, but the little face tells me he likes nothing more. 
And on a related note...

Layer up

We fought and fought at first, about the overalls and the wellies and the hats, but now even he knows that if you are going to venture outdoors in Sweden, preparation is everything. Our array of outerwear, all with subtly different levels of fluffiness, warmth and waterproofness, has become vast. Children spend a portion of every school day playing outside, with the lower limit in temperature being about -15C, I think. We have not had to worry about an upper limit yet. 
All this layering, in combination with a more gender-neutral approach to children's clothes, has had a fun side-effect: the opportunity to go really funky.

He picks his own clothes and I love watching how his mind works. At the moment it goes something like: Stripes underneath for warmth. Loud leggings (handmade by a friend of mine) for pizzazz. Soft t-shirt with fun print (this one is by Frugi) because, why not. Appropriate head wear to avoid upsetting your mother. 

Then when you are finally ready to get out there...

Get mucky

Perhaps the biggest change of all has been the Bean's attitude to exploring the outdoors. He still isn't that keen on getting wet. But now, see above. He practically has an armour at his disposal, and with he it he comes home covered in mud from his head to his tippy toes. My vaccuum cleaner doesn't like it much, but after so long sheperding him around concrete, smoggy Milan it makes my heart sing. 

In a few years' time the Bean will start proper school. An ordinary Swedish one, most likely, so I'm quite sure we will have an even more Swedish Swedish boy. Lord help us - just this morning he pointed out: "Mum, you can't say Swedish words properly".  Perhaps he will even learn to eat that herring?

I love Brown. Really, I do.

Just a week to go until Midwinter, and the light starts to creep back again. It will help. 

It's hard not to get bogged down in darkness and murk at this time of year, isn't it? We live in the very south of Sweden, the agricultural rather than the forest and lake-covered part. It is utterly glorious in the summer, but our winters are damp, grey, and muddy. Occasionally we get snow or a really crisp, blue-sky-and-winter-sun sort of day, but not that often. Definitely not often enough. 

Still, when there's an almost-4.year-old who desperately needs some exercise, we do as the Swedes would: don the waterproofs and woollies, head out there. 

I took my camera too, fully expecting to leave it in the bag for the duration of our walk. There would be no colours to light up my heart and lens. 

But it turns out there's beauty in brown too, if you look hard enough. A little haunting, quite skeletal, very damp. But beautiful. All right on our doorstep, and we even found some treasure to take home. Where my colourful knitting was waiting, as always.