Twice a year, my dad would arrive home with two large wooden crates filled to the brim with ripe tomatoes. Although my mum tried to hide it, a subtle eye roll gave away her true feelings. They had a unique silent language that only they understood. By bringing home those tomatoes, he was silently conveying his desire for tomato marmalade, and my mum, without a word, would prepare herself for the task at hand.
As a young child, I couldn't fathom the idea of using a fruit typically reserved for salads and savoury dishes to create a sweet marmalade. For years, I would play my part in the process without ever indulging in the final product. But in my early twenties, after hearing the rest of the family rave about its flavour and witnessing their blissful expressions while savouring a bite of buttered toast topped with tomato marmalade, I decided it was time to give it a go.
To my surprise, the texture and flavour captivated me, and I finally understood my dad's craving for this sweet treat and my mum's labour of love. You see, this marmalade was originally made by my grandmother, who passed away when my dad was just twelve years old. For him, it represented comfort, a warm hug encapsulated in a smear of sweet spread—a cherished memory of happier times. And, of course, it was also a way to make use of the abundant tomatoes because on a farm, nothing goes to waste.
The process would start with my mum cooking the oranges until they softened, becoming translucent and losing their bitterness. Then came the task of peeling the tomatoes, scooping out their seeds, and carefully measuring everything. My role was simple: I would walk down to the corner store, Chito's, with the processed tomato chunks, making sure not to spill any along the way. There, I would weigh the tomatoes and acquire an equal amount of sugar. That was my contribution.
Once back home, it was like watching a witch concocting a magical potion. My mum would mix and stir the ingredients until they merged into a harmonious blend, filling the kitchen with the irresistible aroma of sugar and tomatoes. When the marmalade reached the perfect consistency, she would pour it into hot glass jars, seal them tightly, and let them rest until the vacuum seal formed, ensuring their preservation.
Each jar would then be carefully wrapped in newspaper and sent to their designated place—a dark corner in the pantry where they would reside until needed. For years, the memories of the marmalade-making process and its tantalizing taste lay dormant in a dark corner of my mind. But one day, a longing for the flavours of home awakened those memories. I immediately Facetimed my mum, seeking the recipe. But to my surprise, she explained that it was never written down; it existed solely as an oral piece of our family history.
With a kilo of tomatoes and an orange in hand, just enough to satisfy my craving and fill my soul with joy, I embarked on recreating that treasured recipe. It took a few tries to replicate the flavour I remember but success tasted that much sweeter. Tomato marmalade will always have a special place in my heart and my pantry.