Protect me from what I want

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic


British People are known to eat the sweet, bitter Orange Marmalade on toast for Breakfast. Of course there are people who like it, and those who don't. But what if some British Gentleman would
enjoy Marmalade a little too much? And what would happen if he ever ran out of it? This is a weird little story about a man who is obsessed with Marmalade

Submitted: February 25, 2018

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Submitted: February 25, 2018

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 Protect me from what I want

 

I really like Marmalade.

I don’t have a particular reason, and perhaps there is no original explanation. I simply do like Marmalade. Always have. The term ‘like’ is probably a bit of a too weak expression for my emotions, my fancy for it goes deeper than just that. I love it. Love everything about it. Maybe it is due to Its fabulous, zesty flavour. Not to mention the succulent consistency, juicy and soft with the bumpy texture of the minced peels. The marvellous flamboyancy of its Golden, orange Colour. Or The delicate balance between its distinctive bitterness, capable of making one squirm, and being sweet enough to make one want to keep on eating to explore more of the sweet, fresh fruity top notes and radiant sensuous undertones. The way it melts on ones’ tongue and evokes the Impression of partaking pure sunshine. Perhaps Its citric, tangy scent of ripe oranges enchanting ones’ sense of smell. I simply love everything about the Sticky, sweet bitter nectar that is Marmalade.

Some people in the past may have described my exceptional fondness of said substance somewhat disturbing, even unhealthy, but I can’t seem to find anything wrong with it. Just as every other fine British Gentleman I entertain a certain appreciation for Marmalade. It is neither strange nor out of the mundane. But then of course I don’t expect those insignificant peasants to comprehend the ways of those walking on paths high above them, for it is the supplement of nobility. It is a permanent and cherished feature in my life. And a very important part, if I may add. My entire daily routine evolves around Marmalade. Today, just as every morning precisely at 8 o clock I emerge from my bedchambers and make my way down the gently winding stair case of my home.  As I saunter through the extensive hallway, I musingly cast a brief glance out through the sizeable window, to watch the delicate rays of dawn caress the rooftops of the neighbouring cottages. Subsequently I make my way into the kitchen. I grab a loaf of bread and a knife and cut about half of it into thin slices, thin but not too thin, to place them on a baking tin. I proceed with shoving said object into the oven. That however is the part where skill and experience are required. Baking the bread at the exact heat necessary is no easy feat and should be handled with care. It shall remain in the oven at 180 C, no degree more or less, for 5 full minutes. The kitchen clock is an advantageous tool for keeping track of the time, and I wholeheartedly recommend it. These minutes of waiting can be used for setting the table and to seek out the other indispensables. Once the last seconds of the countdown have passed it is of utmost essentiality to pull the tin out. Personally, I savour the scent of fresh toast fuelling the morning air, reaching into every corner of my cottage. It elicits a feeling of thrilled anticipation in my chest. I carry one slice over to the table, sit down, and begin to feast. A small spreading of butter, a lavish melt of marmalade. And perhaps a little topping of sour cream, which works so well with the tang of the marmalade.

Bliss.

This is my idea of a perfect way to begin the day. Sipping on my steaming cup of earl grey black tea, I lean back in my chair and allow myself to scoop in the jar once more and relish another spoon-full of orange heaven. The distinctive taste flatters my palate and causes me to close my eyes in delight. Yes, this truly is a substance suited for kings. Gods even.

I mainly obtain my supply of Marmalade at the local village shop. But when they are in season, I occasionally take pleasure in making my own out of Seville oranges. The process isn’t too sophisticated, for the true secret lies in the rather high cost of time. One is to slice the amount of oranges desired, and to let them seethe in a few litres of water for about 3 hours. Here it is to keep in mind to place the remaining seeds in a small bag and to add them to the liquid for they are responsible for creating the gelatinous consistency. Finally, one is to stir sugar into the mixture.  After another hour and ensuing cooling, the work is accomplished. The beauty of Marmalade is in its simplicity. There is a satisfying harmony in the fact, the complex flavours create themselves through simple acts of combination and patience. But at this time of the year, the oranges are indeed not in season. In this case I of course made sure to always have a couple of jars in reserve. And, naturally, all around the house to have them at the ready, whenever there should be a need. Which is quite often actually. Come to think of it, a major share of my nourishment consists of the orange delight. I couldn’t imagine a world without Marmalade, not in my darkest nightmares. And why should I even attempt so, while I have as much as I need right here. I push back my chair and rise to clean up the breakfast table. Between my trip to the sink and back I snack on some more Marmalade, the content diminishing significantly by the minute. By the time I finish, the jar is utterly empty. Not a junk left, just as if I licked it clean. I sigh remorsefully and stroll to the cupboard, where I know my nearest reserve stash to be located. I reach in it, only to hear my hand hit upon plain wood. My eyes widen and a sharp jolt of shock pervades my body. I check once more, only to feel the emptiness of its contents. I withdraw my hand and tell myself to take in a deep breath. After all, there is no need to worry. I still have plenty more in store, how I recall it. All I have to do is pay a visit to the next one. But regretfully I find no relief in executing said task, for the cabinet is vacated as well. Anxiety starts to force its way back into my mind. I rush towards the wardrobe and frantically rummage through it, scattering clothing all around me in the process. Normally this would deeply displease me, and cause me to immediately engage in cleaning up. But at this very moment, my thoughts are dominated by pure panic. I reach onto my forehead, messing up my hair, looking around in distress. My surroundings descend into a blurr as I desperately hurry from one deserted stash to another, wrenching open several drawers only to toss them aside as I find them empty. My uncouth behaviour concerns me not in the slightest. All that is on my mind is Marmalade. My left eyelid begins to twitch as I dash upstairs, literally tearing the rooms apart on my distraught and agitated search. I continue to rampage through my home from the cellar and the utility room up to the attic to no avail until I collapse to the floor in the conservatory. Hyperventilating I fight for breath, clutching my chest in a feeble attempt to calm my heart. A terrible realization begins to dawn inside me. This can’t be happening. I can’t be out… Can’t be out of… Not even in my thoughts can I bring myself to finish this dreadful sentence. The top button of my waistcoat has opened and a slightly deranged look has taken hold of my eyes. Further my hand has begun trembling slightly now. On the whole, I am being positively hysterical. I extend my arm and struggle for purchase on the table next to me in order to get up but I immediately smash back down onto the ground as I lose my grip. It seems I attempted to support myself on a piece of paper. Newspaper, to be exact. It gently makes its way down floating into my lap. I am about to cast it aside, as I take note of something of interest. My gaze flickers back unto the advert on it. Apparently, the local shop offers certain supplements for half the normal prize, today. I squint as I strain to carefully read the text printed. Yes, indeed. It was too perfect to be true. Joy and excitement pump through my veins as I scan the text again to be absolutely sure. I briefly kiss the newspaper and swiftly jump to my feet. I rush towards the door, taking my coat with me as I run. There seems to be hope after all!

 

 

 

‘You should be ashamed of yourself, Causing such commotion. I thought I raised you better than this.’ I wriggle about uncomfortably in my chair. Fidgeting with the cuffs of my shirt, I refuse to meet my mother’s accusing gaze. But I can almost feel her raising one eyebrow at me, anyhow. ‘Is that all you have to say for yourself?’ The harsh rigour in her voice makes me flinch. ‘Chester, look at me’ Reluctantly I oblige and lift my chin. The woman in the chair opposite to me stares sternly back at me with cold, blue eyes. Her once brunette hair has adopted a silver tone over the years, and she seems to have lost weight again, making her appear even more severe. I clear my throat and attempt a sheepish smile. ‘I don’t think it was that bad. I merely…’ She straightens up in her seat, cutting me off mid-sentence. ‘It was, Dearie, it was. There is no way around it. You went entirely and completely bonkers, I’m afraid’ She paused briefly to send another glare in my direction. ‘You basically wrecked that charming little shop in your Rampage. Not to mention how you smashed the shelfs and scattered cans over the aisles like a crazy person, scaring customers and owner alike. I suppose you can count yourself fortunate no one got hurt.’ She leaned forward, her voice a low, hissing snarl. ‘And all that because they were sold out of Marmalade.’ The contempt in her Emphasis on the last word was more than obvious. I lower my gaze again as shame rolls in waves over me. There doesn’t seem to be an appropriate response and I am not giving one. My mother’s expression softens slightly as she sighs. ‘Oh dear. What ever am I going to do with you?’ I sink into my chair at the disappointment in her words, pleading the earth to open and swallow me whole. ‘Clearly your Obsession with Marmalade has reached a point of escalation’. She gives me a determined look as she continues. ‘I have sat back and watched this for far too long, I see that now. It is wide about time I take action. I will tolerate this unhealthy proclivity of yours no longer. Today has proven it is a threat to both yourself and the people around you. There will be no more of that diabolic, trouble causing rubbish for you.’ I stiffen and jerk my head upwards at this and stare at my mother with an expression of deep terror and disbelief. ‘You can’t be…’ She raises one hand to stop me once more and counters my gaze intensely. ‘No Marmalade. Not ever again’ All the strength withers from my body and I slump back in my seat. My thoughts are absolutely silent from the shock and a numbness has taken hold of my entire being. Somewhere in the distance I can faintly and muffled hear my mother’s voice. ‘Darling, please understand I am doing this to protect you. You are my son and I love you so much. You might be a grown man but obviously you are in no condition to control yourself. This just isn’t good for you. Tomorrow I will send somebody to take care of…matters….’



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