For someone who is not fond of the colour orange, there is an awful lot of it in my kitchen at the moment: chubby little navels, heavy with juice; tiny blood oranges with ruby and tangerine flesh; knobbly Sevilles, the fruit for marmalade and Caneton à la orange. There are pink grapefruit and the classic white-fleshed I prefer with its kick of sparkling citrus, and some rounded Bergamot lemons whose fragrance has a mysterious spicy edge to it.I squeeze the occasional orange, mostly one of the blood variety, and swig its juice on a Sunday morning (try half orange, half pomegranate fora real wake-up call), but most citrus fruits in my kitchen end up grated, sliced, stuffed inside a roast duck or a chicken hotpot, simmered into marmalade or peeled and sliced and served in salad. Few are ever eaten as they come, or sliced in halfand turned inside out the way my brother used to eat them. Ivaluethe fruit for its sharpness, that smack of acidity that it gives, and find its peel useful in lamb...
