Jars of Blood

I look at the jars of blood on the counter, and I wonder what I did wrong. Clearly something did not go according to plan, and now I need to figure out what to do with thirteen jars of blood. It would be funny if it were Halloween. If we were in October, then I would have the perfect prop for any sort of spooky themed party. It is March, and the jars with the deep red liquid and floating chunks of skin of oranges, don’t look very appealing and it is a little too soon be pulling out the Halloween decorations. I am still recovering from the St. Patrick's Day, Halloween can wait until we are past the threat of frost. 

Somewhere in the last few weeks, it seems that aspects of my world have evolved. If you were to ask me a year ago if I thought I would be on speaking terms with either one of my brothers, I probably would have chuckled and changed the subject. It is amazing what a funeral does, and I think it is true that when one door shuts, another one opens some where else.

You might be wondering how jars of blood and me being on speaking terms with my brother have anything to do with each other. Rest assured that the thick syrupy red substance carefully sealed inside the mason jars, may have some actually blood on in it, but certainly none of my brothers.  If there is any actual blood, it is probably mine, because I don’t own a zester. 

I have been trying to get through my cookbooks.  It has been a challenge, mostly because I am acquiring them at an alarming rate. I received a cookbook for Christmas called Food In Jars.  There was a charming recipe for Blood Orange Marmalade. I don’t really love marmalade, but I thought it would be something different to try, and Moro Oranges are in season.

It was the beginning of the recipe when my brother rang. Modern technology and speaker phone is a blessing. I was able to continue to try and zest Moro Oranges with a potato peeler and talk to him at the same time and then talk with my nieces.  There problem with the deep red juice and an potato peeler is that you can’t tell if you have cut your self until much later, because it all looks the same. I have no idea how many times I cut myself. 

The entire time of prepping the marmalade I was on the phone trying to wrangle my mind around the pink sheep that my niece was telling me about, and how if I ever found a pink sheep it is supposed to be lucky. The conversation bounced from topic to topic in a way that only an eight year old logic can understand, and I marveled at this new dimension of my life.  I am not a cuddly person,I am not always an easy person to get along with, and I build walls and some of my flaws are my best features. Sometimes I don’t even think I am a completely good person,  but I know for a fact that I not have  traded that moment on the phone for all the blue in the sky. I was completely out of my comfort zone, and not just with the cauldron oranges and syrup. It was wonderful.

After it was all over I looked at the jars of blood on the counter, and wondered what I did wrong and if the stain of Moro Oranges would ever come out of my hand, or if I was fated to look like Lady Macbeth for the rest of my life. It didn’t really matter what I did wrong with the recipe, because I know I did something right on the phone.