‘Literally cannot stop thinking about making rum with the marrow bestowed upon me…’ So ran a tweet this afternoon from @foodstories (aka Helen Graves). And it took me back several years to Chester Street in Oxford, where I lived with several others in a house opposite a pub called the Royal Greenjacket. It wasn’t a great pub. The landlord perpetuated the military theme throughout place, and the pool room was notable for being too small for the purpose – there were special Jeanette Krankie-sized cues to cope with the proximity of the walls. After a night in there when we should have been doing some work, we’d retire to our abode and see what else there was to drink. And eventually the realisation came that there was only one remaining alcoholic substance left in the house – Yair’s mum’s (or maybe his gran’s) marrow rum.
I’ve never made marrow rum. Apparently, or so Yair told me, what you do is hollow out a big marrow, suspend it in a stocking and fill it up with rum. And wait. And wait. Eventually, something rather strong and sticky oozes out – marrow rum. Now most students need little incentive to consume anything vaguely alcoholic, but so foul was this particular marrow rum that we managed an entire academic year without finishing a half-bottle of the stuff – think Buttercup Syrup mixed with meths. Every few weeks, one of would suffer from amnesia and pour out a small glassful – I never saw anyone finish it.
So Helen, I hope your stuff is better, but I won’t be rushing round to check it out.