Lemons

Yesterday at church, there were sacks and sacks of lemons that someone had brought because their tree produced so many lemons that they couldn’t eat that many in a lifetime. We snagged a bag, and then at work today, the same thing happened. Co-workers are bringing their lemons in droves. I knew that West Texas was famous for its citrus, but I had no idea that Houston had a talent for it. These lemons were as sweet as Meyer lemons from California, almost sweet enough to eat without needing sugar. Because I knew it would use a lot of lemons at once, I made whiskey sours for Dana and myself. They were the best whiskey sours in the history of the world. In case you’re wondering, I used Old Overholt rye.

However, you can only drink one whiskey sour with the juice of two and a half lemons. Since there were five lemons in all, I added a cup of Splenda… and even that didn’t stop our esophageal tracts from feeling like they were being ripped out… slowly. I took an acid reducer before I went to bed, and another one this morning.

Hell, yeah it was worth it! I am a good mixologist, but in this case, there was nothing that could go wrong. I used the freshest ingredients I could possibly find. The lemon juice and the pulp were so cool against my tongue and so sweet. It was the kind of bliss that can only be captured by William Carlos Williams:

This Is Just To Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

I am sometimes quite prim, but if I wasn’t, I think I would have been squeezing lemon juice into my mouth, drips on my cheeks and chin be damned. I used my lemon as a reminder that the solstice is coming, and that we will once again be returning to the light. My lemon was a symbol of summer, of sunshine, of carefree play in the sprinklers and sand between my toes on Galveston Island.

I took it as a sign of change.

Grieving the loss of an important part of my past has been the darkness. My lemon reminded me that it won’t always be that way. What I have noticed is that the solstice doesn’t mean very much physically in Houston. Literally right now, it is sunny and 73 degrees. In Houston, the solstice is metaphorical. Advent is a time to turn inward, to think about what we’re going to do with all the hope that breaks into the world.

I have no idea what I am going to do with mine. Yet.

It’ll come to me… probably while I’m making whiskey sours.