SOUR PUSS

Not too long ago, in a land very near, I made a discovery. Ed and I were poking around in the terraced gardens that compose our hillside backyard. I was quite surprised to discover a lemon tree, filled with bright canary-colored fruits. It’s not that I suspected some wayward Tree People activist had snuck in and planted it under the cover of darkness. I always knew the tree was there but it never actually bore fruit. I always assumed it was some mock citrus kind of tree when in fact it was the real thing.

Last summer we aggressively cut back some fast-growing shade trees. It seems that the extra hours of daylight reaching the lemon tree resulted in renewed fertility. It wasn’t a fake specimen after all. It was a genuine lemon tree, just clinically depressed and suffering from self-esteem issues brought about by darkness. I realized that like Britney Spears, it could rise again with some medication and strict outside intervention.

I drew a parallel in my head between the lemon tree and myself. It was a connection deeper than the obvious fruit reference. I myself have been suffering from a lack of fruitfulness. I've run into a sort of cooking block. It's like the kitchen is stuck in off-season, airing only reruns of tired "go-to" meal episodes. I've all but stopped slipping Ed experimental recipes and then observing his vital signs for symptoms of poisoning or sudden dementia. That used to be good for hours of fun!

Even my blogging, an activity that I’ve thoroughly enjoyed, has been reduced over the last few months to a scant handful of recipes, and some twisted musings on when exactly Annie Lebovitz began looking for artistic inspiration at the bottom of an Absinthe bottle. Looking at that lemon tree made me realize that I too had some overgrown garbage that was cutting me off from my nurturing energy supply.

I occasionally get emails as a result of this blog. This excites me. Yes, I’m a geek. Usually I’m let down when I discover they were sent from some PR company whose client is pimping them out to seduce me by whispering false flattery in my ear. I find myself excited and fully aroused only to get to the part where the delicious, chocolate-covered compliment dissolves into a request to review some fake “butter-like topping” whose DNA is more closely linked to synthetic automobile oils than a dairy farm. Geeks tend to suffer a lot of false hopes.

Sometimes the e-mails contain feedback from a reader who wishes to heap praise on a particular recipe. Some read, “Dude, pouring Baileys Irish Cream over your breakfast cereal is a great idea” or, "It worked! My mother in-law will never visit us again" or, “Back off! I’ve retained a libel attorney!”

Recently, I received an email that simply read:

"Hey, I'm really interested in your food blog, but haven't seen any updates in a long time. Everything ok?"

***Imagine flashback music here. Or better yet, if you have the "Wayne's World" soundtrack, dust it off and play their version of the flashback music now***

I was an awkward kid. Shy, quiet, and insecure, were adjectives frequently used to describe me. Let’s just say I was always the last one picked for any team sport that required aggression--that’s all of them folks. I was often the kid called on by the teacher when needed to assist with a special project during recess. I suspect this was because the teacher pitied me, knowing that I’d likely spend the time being repeatedly beamed in the forehead with a dodge ball, or sitting alone on a bench whittling a rubber eraser into a goldfish.

Occasionally, to escape the horror of a school-wide track and field “fun day,” I’d feign an illness to be sent down to the school nurse. Once my non-existent symptoms had been carefully ruled out, I’d be released back to class. Of course once their back was turned I’d contemplate eating something off the ground and then throwing-up into the art supply closet in front of an audience for a quick ticket home.

Fortunately, I progressed from a pussy-boy kid into an adept and cool-headed adult, choosing to master my inherit calmness over a more stressful type-A personality.

This temperament often works well for me. I’ve been treading the waters in a dysfunctional workplace for over a year. The organization itself is terribly valuable, but a few of the current key players suffer from chronic diseases of slack-jawed moronity. I hold our organization’s mission dear so I’ve been honing my soundness and waiting for the day when these blockhead
gang members from Obtusetown inadvertently blow themselves up. I’ve even planned a unique and tasty menu for their bereavement gathering that everyone would savor and then heap mounds of praise upon me. It would be my way of having the final word. But that cheery memorial service seems far on the horizon. Even more depressing is that lately I’ve become alarmed to notice hairline cracks forming in my usually solid resolve.

I think I hit a personal low recently when I witnessed myself turn into Naomi Campbell, hurling verbal cell phones at one hapless player. Think “Incredible Hulk” without the verdigris or residual checks. The barrage was intended to spark some motivation and positive action. I tried this route because coolness had seemed to have little effect in the past. I suddenly turned from the kid standing in deep, deep, right field into the bully with the glowing red eyes and a locker full of decaying child carcasses stuffed away during recess.

It occurred to me that spending my days pounding inept morons at work was taking away my desire to pound chicken breasts at home. That, and the daily massive caffeine intake I employ to get through the day seems to make my hands too shaky to photograph Strawberry Shrimp at night. So, upon arriving at home at the end of a day I now often defrost some frozen tomato sauce, and boil pasta. That’s a menu easy enough as to not be made impossible by my 6 pm single malt scotch. Then I can chill out, set the table, decant the wine, and have dinner ready for Ed when he gets home from a late evening in his office. This leaves the remainder of my night free to download music and scrub wine stains out of my polo shirt and living room rug.

So as I stood there, looking up at the lemon tree, I realized that it’s time to do some heavy pruning. Whoever said, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade” had it all wrong. This guy was under the assumption that being handed lemons was a bad thing. For that means that you are surrounded by life, by nature, and by nurturing environments that are, quite literally, fruitful. And more important than just being surrounded by it, you are actively connected to your environment. It is nurturing you. What you do with it is up to you and completely irrelevant. Who cares if lemons make your lips pucker? Some of my life’s most exciting moments have happened while my lips were puckered.

What I've learned is this:

1. I need to return to regular blogging as a healthy, creative outlet

2. A lawyer on retainer is an excellent thing to have

3. I should walk down into the gardens more often

4. A lemon stand, located just outside the grocery store's property, can be very profitable

5. A thick layer of salt is excellent to blot up red wine stains

6. Miley Cyrus is not a mutant

7. Lemons can be used for whiskey sours