It might be hailing at this exact moment but it has finally happened. The signs of spring are here. The daffodils are out and I have stopped wearing socks. Still donning a wooly hat with a giant fur pompom and moth-eaten gloves but no socks. Given the winter we’ve had any little bit of brightness is greatly appreciated. It’s no wonder that the appearance of Seville Oranges in January or February has made such an impression on the English. Until very recently, I filed orange marmalade under peculiar British culinary fetishes, in the same box as Marmite and kippers. But also because of the bitterness. Bitterness is not my thing. Radicchio and endive make me unhappy. I don’t get excited by the very fashionable Angostura bitters that everyone else can’t seem to get enough of. Why should bitter oranges be any different? As it turns out marmalade does the bitter orange some favours and, unlike other jams, is multidimensional. Bitter and sweet. A combo I can live with.