The Things We Make for Love

Twice a year, my dad would arrive home with two large wooden crates filled to the brim with ripe tomatoes.

My mum never said much, but a small eye roll always gave her away.

They had a silent language that only the two of them understood. By bringing home those tomatoes, my dad was really saying:
“I want tomato marmalade.” And without a word, my mum would begin preparing herself for the task ahead.

As a child, I could never understand why anyone would turn tomatoes, something I associated with salads and savoury dishes, into something sweet.

For years, I helped make the marmalade without ever actually tasting it.

Then one day, in my early twenties, after watching the rest of the family happily spreading it over buttered toast and hearing endless praise about how good it was, I finally gave in and tried it myself.

To my surprise, I loved it.

The texture, the sweetness, the slight citrus bitterness from the oranges. Suddenly I understood my dad’s yearly craving and my mum’s labour of love.

Because the marmalade was never really just about tomatoes.

It started with my grandmother, who passed away when my dad was only twelve years old. She used to make tomato marmalade on the farm when tomatoes were in abundance, and wasting food was simply not an option.

For my dad, marmalade tasted like childhood.

Like comfort.
Like being looked after.
Like happier times.

And every year, my mum quietly recreated that memory for him.

That’s the thing about long marriages. Sometimes love looks less like grand gestures and more like making the same recipe for decades because you know it brings the other person comfort.

The process always began the same way.

My mum cooked thinly sliced oranges slowly until the peel softened, turned translucent and lost its bitterness. Then came the tomatoes. They had to be peeled, deseeded and carefully measured.

My job was much simpler.

I would carry the prepared tomato chunks down to Chito’s corner store, trying very hard not to spill them along the way. There, the tomatoes were weighed so I could buy the exact same amount of sugar to bring back home.

That was my contribution to the marmalade-making operation.

Back in the kitchen, my mum stirred everything together in a giant pot while the smell of sugar, tomatoes and citrus slowly filled the house.

To me, it felt like watching a witch prepare a magical potion.

Once the marmalade reached the perfect consistency, she poured it into hot glass jars and sealed them tightly. After cooling, each jar was wrapped carefully in newspaper and tucked away in a dark pantry corner until needed.

For years, those memories stayed tucked away too.

Then one day, living in Australia and missing home more than usual, I suddenly craved tomato marmalade.

I immediately called my mum and asked for the recipe.

But there wasn’t one.

Like so many family recipes, it had never been written down. It existed only through memory, repetition and instinct. An oral piece of family history passed from one kitchen to another.

So I bought a kilo of tomatoes and an orange and began trying to recreate it myself. It took a few attempts to get close to the flavour I remembered. But somehow, that made succeeding feel even sweeter. Tomato marmalade will always have a place in my pantry.

And in my heart.