Lemonade’s on my mind. And in my glass a lot lately. In August I had to part ways with my cozy treat, chai latte, because it was giving me belly aches. So more lemons are in the fridge these days, along with a mason jar of simple syrup. (disclosure: so are the cans of MinuteMaid in the freezer, for that quick fix.)
A friend of mine and I–both of us avid cooks–used to say that you can tell someone’s a good cook if he has lemons, shallots and extra virgin olive oil in his kitchen. That theory’s temporarily on hold during the mac-and-cheese years of catch-as-catch-can eating.
I’ve had a cold for almost a week, and my sweet, almost-six-year-old daughter has been offering to help me around the house. Today she wanted to make me lemonade. I found myself teaching her, just as my mother taught me, to cut a lemon on its ‘equator’ for juicing. Then, for contrast, we cut another lemon through its north and south poles. We produced one pair of circles, and one pair of ovals. Wheels and eggs. Then, just for the love of the lemon’s radiant yellow and cleansing scent, I zested a third. Confetti. A lemon love letter in three chapters.
Nice. I really liked this.