We’ve all heard the phrase that’s used to encourage optimism and a positive can-do attitude in the face of adversity or misfortune
When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.
It summons us to make something good out of something bad.
Somewhere, there is a photo of me, kicked back in a highchair, sucking on a lemon. My parents must’ve figured the acidity was harmless since I wouldn’t need the enamel on the baby teeth I’d lose several years later.
I eventually stopped sucking on lemons, but never tired of the tart. A quick Internet search revealed that the astringent properties in lemons represent cleansing, freshness and healing. Round and gold, they signify wealth. Citrus trees are considered lucky. They’re popular gifts to celebrate the Chinese Spring Festival.
The belief is that the more fruit your tree has, the luckier it is.
Three years ago, my mom and stepdad gifted my husband a Meyer lemon tree for his birthday. The tree is one of my favorite parts of our small but colorful backyard. Twenty years ago, we gave up three-fourths of our yard in exchange for a pool, but made sure to leave room for trees, flowering bushes, and a swing set for the kids. Jordan and Samuel are now 26 and 21. The swing set was replaced by a hand-built brick firepit surrounded by 4 Adirondack chairs. A Covid project, Samuel and Rick set each brick inside the frame of the railroad ties that formerly surrounded the swing set.
Florida winters don’t provide many opportunities to bundle up around a fire and toast smores. But we can dream, and once the temperatures are low enough to keep the mosquitos at bay, we shove the marshmallows on the wire hanger and relish a rare cool evening.
Before summer arrives to stay through November, I spend a few minutes each day in that tiny oasis, assessing the lemon tree. I count the buds, make sure they’re adhered to the stem, and free of invasion from overnight critters. The tree that arrived in a 10-inch pot is now 4-fee in circumference. Every few months, Rick goes to the hardware store to buy plywood sticks to tie to the horizontal branches to keep them from dragging the lemons to the ground.
I never knew abundancy could present such challenges, but Rick makes sure to keep his tree in tip-top shape. Earlier this year, I counted 69 golf-ball-sized buds, then promptly texted family members, promising them more homemade limoncello this holiday season. My first venture with homemade spirits, which I learned was against the law in Florida (and most states), was making 30 bottles of limoncello for my cousin Shella’s January wedding.
I love a challenge. I researched Etsy and other online sites for the perfect bottle. I sent label samples to Shella for her approval. Making 30 bottles required 30 lemons, 6 liters of grain alcohol, 6 pounds of white sugar and water.
When I planted the 6-liter bottles of grain alcohol on the counter at the local liquor store, the cashier wanted to know how many Jello shots I was making.
Italians enjoy this digestivo as an apertif. Raising their glasses, they toast to life. My father was Italian. His father sailed at 5 from Catania, Sicily, to Ellis Island. However, I only first visited Italy in 2017, at age 48, for our 25th anniversary. That’s where I had the best limoncello. There’s nothing like enjoying a food - or beverage - from the source.
Julia Child was right. There is joy in cooking, even if you’re only dissolving white sugar into boiling water, then combining it with lemon peels that have been soaked in alcohol for two days. Making limoncello isn’t technically cooking, but after peeling 6 lemons to make only 6 bottles, I knew I’d have leftover lemons. Those lemons from our, I mean Rick’s, tree was not going to waste. Time for piccata!
Years of trial and error led me to create a good chicken piccata. It’s a weeknight go-to and staple of family gatherings. Easily replicated in three large sauté pans spread across our 6-burner gas stove (my favorite kitchen appliance), it’s best enjoyed about 8-10 hours after it’s cooked.
I created an assembly line. First comes the olive oil, then two pats of real butter. This is not the time to use a butter substitute. After dipping the quarter-inch breasts in egg wash, I coat them in Italian breadcrumbs. I’d love to say I make my own, but I trust Vigo to provide the perfect combination of parsley and other seasonings. I always include sliced mushrooms, as much white wine as I think is necessary, chicken broth, and the juice of one whole lemon for each pan. The secret sauce comes from our own backyard. I top it with Italian parsley, which grows like a weed in our elevated herb garden, another Covid project.
Did I mention my husband can build almost anything? I know I’m lucky, not because I get to share his lemon tree, or that he’s handy, but because we get to share the gift of time, and simple rituals like a delicious meal with a glass of red wine. Something so simple denied to so many.
Coming off a week of cruising through Glacier Bay, visiting the Alaskan ports of Juneau, Skagway, and Ketchikan, I know we’re luckier than most. In between excursions and ship activities, we intentionally watched CNN each day, balancing our pleasure with the recognition that many are suffering immeasurable pain, devastation, and death in Israel and Gaza.
The Mendenhall Glacier and the Artic Tundra in Skagway are not easy to get to. I can see why many opt to see our 49th state by ship. Beautiful, magnificent and spectacular are meager attempts at describing these sites. The only word that comes close is “gift.”
Travel is a privilege, but it’s also an opportunity for connection with people and places vastly different than us. I learned that much of Southeast Alaska is a rain forest, and that Ketchikan has the largest collection of totem poles in the world. On the ship, Jersey Boys and Six entertained us, the blackjack table was kind to us, and Mervin our steward greeted us daily, always addressing us by name.
As I watched CNN on the flight home, I was relieved to see that two hostages had been released, but saddened by the continued violence, keenly aware that others will never experience what we take for granted.
Our re-entry into reality was eased by delay-free flights, the benefit of a full Sunday to do laundry and reset our stomachs with homemade tortellini soup, and plentiful kisses and incessant giddiness from our Labradors, Jake and Christie.
The morning after our return, Rick took Jake and Christie out back. When he came inside, he declared, “We’ve got lemons!” A week earlier, the buds were still green. Now I was digging out a pretty ceramic bowl and portioning out lemons to bring to my mom and friend, Diana. As I arranged them in the bowl, I thought about our good fortune. I’d heard that sometimes the trees don’t produce fruit every year. Ours had gifted us with the same abundance we enjoyed last year.
We’d just returned from Alaska. After indulging for a week, cooking was the last thing on my mind, but the surprise bounty of dozens of lemons had me planning piccata, holiday limoncello gifts, and finally making a perfect lemon pound cake.
By now, you’re asking, “How do you make this limoncello you rave about?” I don’t mind sharing. The recipe resides on a white, lined, 5” X 7” index card. It’s my gift to you, by way of Maryann, from a man she met in Sorrento more than 50 years ago.
Maryann was my aunt’s best friend. She’s my cousin Shella’s godmother. When my aunt died, 19-year-old Shella was left to navigate college and life without her mom. That’s when Maryann and my mom stepped in. She and my mom guided Shella through college, graduate school, and early adulthood.
I was honored when Shella requested I make limoncello to be given as party favors at her wedding. But it wasn’t my recipe to pass off as my own. I immediately texted Maryann for permission to use her recipe.
She didn’t hesitate.
“It’s a family recipe,” she said.