The Story Of Oxford Marmalade

 

I am proud to publish this story from THE OXFORD SAUSAGE by a graduate of my writing course. The author set out to write a spicy mix of Oxford stories from a house once belonging to a city sausage maker.

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Sarah Jane Cooper and her jars of sunshine

One of the activities that perks me up as I claw my way through January is marmalade making. A couple of weeks into the New Year, crates of the required bitter Seville oranges (smaller and more pitted than their sweeter counterparts) appear at Bonners in the covered market here in Oxford.

They are only available for a short period, a couple of weeks if you are lucky. So, as this is a city of marmalade eaters, you must be quick to secure your basketful of Spanish sunshine. My mother used to produce vast quantities, boiling the fruit whole to make the peel soft and easier to shred. She made it principally for my father who loved the thickly cut and chunky variety, spread liberally on buttered toast for breakfast and in suet puddings for Sunday lunch. I use the same recipe though I cut the rind thinner, but the heady smell of boiling fruit and sugar is still sweetly nostalgic for me.

I feel the weight of history as I boil and slice. Because Oxford is as well known for its marmalade as it is for its sausages. Indeed, 151 years ago, at this time of year in 1874, that Sarah Jane Cooper – as the story goes – made her first 75 lbs batch of marmalade just before the birth of her first child, using leftover Seville oranges from her husband Frank’s grocer’s shop in the High St. It was one of several ‘Italian Warehouses’ in the city that sold olive oil, parmesan, tea and hard-to-source oranges amongst other offerings.

Sarah certainly did not invent the bitter spread. More commonly made from quinces – the name is derived from marmelo the Portuguese word for quince, it was used medicinally to settle the stomach and was already popular in Scotland by the nineteenth century. Yet this was Sarah’s own special ‘Oxford’ recipe and it happened to arrive at the right time in the right place. By the eighteen-seventies, lunch was beginning to find favour over the substantial breakfasts of sole, haddock, bacon, eggs, porridge, steak, veal cutlets, kidneys and curried meats still served privately in Oxford college rooms. But toast and marmalade fitted the bill for a cheaper, healthier breakfast that could be eaten communally in the Dining Hall. The jars flew off the shelves and so, after having her baby, Sarah Jane made some more, a lot more. And, as was often the way in those days, her husband took the credit – ‘Frank Cooper’s’ Oxford Marmalade was born.

Sarah came from a well-known local family – the Gills had been ironmongers since the seventeenth century, until quite recently trading from a shop down the narrow alleyway that is Wheatsheaf Yard. To visit was like going back in time, every nook and cranny stacked high with pots, pans and boxes of screws of various sizes which you could buy singly, packed carefully in a brown paper bag. Now ironically the place is a nail bar, but not of the iron sort.

It seems unjust that the concoction Sarah cooked up should be branded with her husband’s name. There is blue plaque in her memory on the eighteenth century house at 83 High St where the family once lived, next to what was the old shop, now the Grand Café. But it is high up and hard to spot, so I hope I am doing my bit to put the record straight.

Cooper’s marmalade was at first produced in copper vats at the back of the shop on the High St by Sarah and a small team. The sweet smell must have been intoxicating as it wafted down the maze of the narrow back alleyways and up through the windows as students were assessed in the Examinations Schools next door. By the turn of the century, its growing popularity demanded an industrial scale of production. In 1903, a purpose-built factory was opened on Park End St – opposite the railway station – each storey catering for a different part of the manufacturing process. And despite the devastation afforded so much of this part of Oxford, it is still there.

Designed by Herbert Quinton and built by Thomas Kingerlee (now in its fifth generation as a family construction business), it is one of the few buildings that deserve attention as you alight from the train hoping for views of dreaming spires. Ornate wrought iron gates still stand where once horse-drawn carriages carried pots of marmalade for direct delivery to the station and shops in town. Huge, light filled curved windows reflect the shape of the roofline and beautifully ornate stone carvings of flowers and oranges adorn the frontage. The factory moved down the Botley Road in 1947, then the family sold up in 1964 and marmalade production moved fo Wantage and then out of the county altogether.

Frank Cooper’s Oxford Marmalade was in its heyday on Park End St. Employing a hundred staff, it was marketed as a cottage industry producing a natural product with no added ingredients, the peel shredded by hand, and packaged in beautiful Malings porcelain jars.

It received the Royal Warrant in 1913 – it was apparently a favourite with King George V – and there is even a tiny sample pot, complete with miniature signature label in Queen Mary’s doll’s house at Windsor. It accompanied Scott on his expedition to the South Pole. One of the only survivors is a rusty tin of the stuff, now on show at the Museum of Oxford, along with other Cooper memorabilia including a huge paddle used to stir the orange jam as it spluttered and spat.

It was to be found on the most aristocratic of breakfast tables. “Cooper’s Oxford, please Linda,” says Nancy Mitford’s Uncle Mathew in ‘The Pursuit of Love’. James Bond eats it in Ian Fleming’s ‘From Russia with Love.’ And you can be sure it was the principal ingredient of the marmalade sandwich the Queen took from her handbag when she met Paddington Bear.

And so it is in Sarah’s memory that I set about concocting what I hope will be a vintage marmalade year. First boiling until the fruit is pillow soft. Cooling, then scooping out the pith and pips, to be boiled again before sieving the amber juices onto the finely shredded peel. Add the warmed sugar, then watching while it boils because if you are not careful it will burn.

Marmalade makers can be a difficult bunch. We all do it slightly differently. Some use brown sugar which makes it darker and richer, others add cardamon or whisky. There is also the question of consistency. I prefer mine not so stiff that it stands to attention but not so runny that it dribbles down your sleeve. I know I have made a good marmalade when I hold the jars up to the light and the thin strands of orange seem to have stopped in the middle of a lively dance, suspended in pure sunshine. Sunshine on toast. I will settle for that. Thank you Sarah Jane Cooper.

On the left is 83 High St where Sarah Jane Cooper made her marmalade

The former jam factory in Park St, Oxford

Women in aprons and removable sleeves to protect clothes, shredding oranges at the jam factory. (courtesy Historic England)

The tin of Oxford marmalade that accompanied Scott to the South Pole

My Seville oranges. I boil them whole and then let them cool so the peel is soft enough to shred easily.

Scoop out the pulp and pips, and add to the liquid. This is what gives it a good set. Cool then strain.

Add the shredded peel and sugar. Then, once dissolved, boil for about twenty minutes.

My Oxford marmalade

Photographs copyright © John Milnes