12. Honor the bittersweet
Lemons are consumed at a yearly rate of nearly 250,000 tons in Italy. That’s a lot of lemons.
I’ve two Meyer lemon trees in my garden. A cross between lemon and mandarin, the fruit flesh is both biting and delightful, the rind even more so. Round and a vibrant deep yellow, Meyers are the epitome of bittersweet.
Sfusato lemons are the famous Italian ones from the Amalfi coast; large and oval, they have a subdued, paler shade, and possess a nipple (...or nose) at one end. If you think of the Meyer as a ruddy baby face, the Sfusato (with a pucker-inducing juice) is the visage of a wizened codger.
I looked in Il Talismano’s index under the heading Limone, expecting to find a solid assortment of lemon-highlighted dishes. After all, it is true (or is it?) that Italians use lemons profusely, especially in their desserts. My mother for one was not fond of Italian pastries, saying that they all tasted the same: sugar, crème, and lemon rind. Italian pottery is often embossed with paintings of the bright fruit. And there is of course the famous limoncello (lemon liquor).
But Ada lists only three insignificant references to the lemon: all simple recipes for chilled drinks. Interesting. Is extolling the lemon’s praises unnecessary because this zesty citrus is simply always there--accepted as an essential staple ingredient? Honored yet un-hyped; both modest and profound?
IT WAS A TUESDAY EVENING in the late summer of 2008. I’d just watched Hillary Clinton’s impassioned speech at the Democratic National Convention in which she spoke about what her mother had passed on to her and she then on to her own daughter. I got up from the sofa, called goodnight to my son, and walked toward the front door to turn on the outside light as I’d done hundreds of times in the prior years, my daughter often being out late with her neighborhood friends. She had a key, but without the light it was difficult to see the lock.
As I stood looking through the door’s glass into the blackness beyond, I remembered that two days before I’d unpacked her into her new life at UC Berkeley and that she was not coming home. This was not simply another extended stay in Europe. She would not be back. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not, in fact, for another four months and maybe not even then. She’d return at winter break and some summers with a suitcase, yes, but I knew that her heart would never come back; she’d never again settle in this manicured suburb in which she’d grown up.
The week before while shopping in San Francisco, we'd discussed the allure of Juicy Couture knee high boots, the transgender populace in the city, the thrilling possibility of an Obama presidency, and how I was going to find my life.
We smoothed bed linens onto her single mattress and plumped and arranged the new down blanket and pillows. (As my mother had done for me, I’d sewn her a duvet and pillow casings to match—fabrics in gold matelassé, red velour with a woven yellow brocade, black and white check.) A hug, then I pulled myself into the Windstar and drove south along Highway 1, a meandering trip home along the rugged coast, windows down, air pressing away tears.
And yet here I stood, again. My hand resting on the light switch.
*
My father had always left the front porch light on for me.
During the final years of my mother’s illness and for the five years he lived after her death, he called each evening at sundown to connect. I have two sisters and he phoned each of us in turn. He lived in Maryland and was settling down for the night; three hours earlier in California we were getting ready for dinner, homework, the day’s cable news.
When the phone rang, my kids would say That’s Grandad!, and I’d pick up the phone, knowing, too, that it was him. I’d forgo a Hello saying Hi Dad, and he’d say Hey Lis, how’s life out in sunny California? Whatever had transpired that day, he was there, a steady presence, his voice unrelentingly upbeat even when he too became ill.
He was there, always. Until one day he wasn’t. For months afterward at 5 pm I’d pause and walk into the kitchen anticipating the ring of the phone, his voice, the honored connection. His calls belonged to the deep rhythm of my hours. I would need to find a new beat, and I did, eventually. But sundown, for the longest time, broke me.
Life: an ongoing, bittersweet hello-goodbye?
I propose thinking of it as hello-goodbye-hello. More sweet than bitter. An acceptance that when old connections cannot be restarted, new ones and new beginnings are on their way. Which brings thoughts to Paul, a recent hello, a dolcezza.
