Making Seville Orange Marmalade the French Way
This week was all about Seville oranges. They arrive quietly and briefly, with the main delivery usually landing in January. If you are tuned in to the season, their arrival sparks a frenzied rush. If not, they might just pass you by. Intensely aromatic and sharply bitter, they are entirely unsuited to eating raw — but perfect for making marmalade.
This short season is part of their magic. I’m usually a late starter at the market, but last week I arrived at 8am, determined to be one of the first to get my hands on some. Sadly, my efforts were thwarted — it was simply too cold. When temperatures drop too low, fruit and vegetables freeze, so many sellers had stayed home.
Undeterred, I managed to get my hands on some a few days later and topped up on Saturday from my usual market seller, who was back. His were wonderful: huge, knobbly orbs, a little green in places, which only added to their charm.
A marathon, not a sprint
Cooking marmalade is a marathon, not a sprint. (If you prefer something more straightforward, try my Clementine and Cardamom recipe for a fresher, sweeter citrus flavour.) That said, I was genuinely looking forward to spending a few days properly immersed in marmalade making.
There are many approaches to making marmalade, with time-honoured recipes passed down through generations. In the French method, the peel is softened first through maceration — with the pips tied in a muslin bag, but without sugar. I find chopping the peel surprisingly therapeutic once you get going. Scissors or a very sharp knife work best; anything blunt is hard on the hands.
Before cutting the rind, remove the pith and pips. I discard the pith, but weigh it so it can be deducted from the overall weight of the fruit before adding the rind to the juice and water.
Softening the peel
The rind is left to macerate, often overnight. The next step is to transfer it to a pan and simmer it gently. As I was making quite a large batch, the liquid came right up to the rim, but the copper pan dealt with it beautifully — not a drop overflowed. This is the joy of a French copper pan. If you enjoy making jam, I recommend this one from De Buyer, which is the pan I use.
At one point, the surface took on a lemon meringue pie appearance — it looked good enough to eat. But hold on: there’s still no sugar at this stage, so it’s deceptive. The taste would send you running for the hills.
After around an hour and a half of softening, the muslin bag of pips is removed and the boil begins, with sugar added only at this stage.
Adding sugar and reaching setting point
In French-style Seville orange marmalade, sugar is introduced once the fruit is fully softened and rested.
Rather less sugar is used than in many traditional British marmalade recipes. The sugar supports the fruit, but it doesn’t dominate it.
Heat is increased gradually. Stir occasionally and stay close as the marmalade begins to change. The setting point takes longer than many jams — it’s a patience game. I stayed up past my bedtime; once you reach this stage, you’re in it for the long haul. Testing on a chilled plate and running a finger through it to achieve a light gel effect is, I find, more reliable than a thermometer for marmalade.
Jarring the marmalade
The marmalade remained loose, with the peel beautifully suspended. Waiting a few minutes before jarring allows the peel to settle so it doesn’t sink in the jar. It should remain evenly distributed throughout.
As the jars cool, the marmalade settles into its final texture: softly set, jewel-like, and deeply aromatic. I ate it on seeded toast with unsalted butter.
It was worth the wait.
If this felt like your kind of pace, you may enjoy Notes from the Jam Kitchen — seasonal notes and small observations, written in step with the year.
Joining includes The Five Principles of French Jam Making, a 10-page downloadable PDF.