A savvy dame in Dundee cooked up
some strange Seville oranges
and made a jammy piece.
A tradition was set.
Annually in January hours of simmering
oranges and lemons, slicing bitter peel,
pounds of sugar, sticky saucers,
boiling to jam.
Jars lidded, labelled and stored.
Family recipes shelved alongside
the whitewashed golliwog.
Quicker now to click
on a pot of fancy citrus
– fine cut or chunky, translucent jelly
suspending yellow, green or gold shreds
or coarse dark with brown sugar imbued with a dram
– delivered on demand
The genetic soup simmered for centuries
bubbled up redheads.
Singled out in an English classroom
teased and taunted, bullied and picked on
Judas Carrot top ginger
Fiery temper, flaming angry .
Concentrated in the Celts.
Fired up tartan army all foxy wigs and whiskers
Schools drumming in Doric.
Maggie Ruadh speaks precise perfect English,
given the belt for Gaelic, white haired now.
No need for henna to remember her roots.
In her Black Isle bungalow she dreams
of the black house with its peat reek and red
wrapped, medium-sliced, plain white loaves
spread with sweet orange marmalade.
Written in response to Scotland, You’re No Mine(this link will open in a new window) by Hannah Lavery.