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My friend decided to make the tart in honor of the lemon's existence.
My friend decided to make the tart in honor of the lemon's existence.


When the friend visited me in Washington, DC, we made limoncello together. We filled a third of a jar with Everclear, suspended six lemons in a cheese cloth and sealed the jar. The theory was that the vapor, arising from the spirit of a 95% proof , would "squeeze" the good stuff out of the lemons and infuse the alcohol.
When the friend visited me in Washington, DC, we made limoncello together. We filled a third of a jar with Everclear, suspended six lemons in a cheese cloth and sealed the jar. The theory was that the vapor, arising from the spirit of 95% proof , would "squeeze" the good stuff out of the lemons and infuse the alcohol.


A month later, the clear liquid acquired colors. I was drunk and, coincidentally, proved the theory.
A month later, the clear liquid acquired colors. I was drunk and, coincidentally, proved the theory.

Revision as of 15:41, 22 September 2018

Please, take a moment and saunter with me.

When you later type lemony.space in the browser, you will get to a website that I have inhabited for over six years. I first built it to learn the specifics about the web, but it has since morphed into a living archive of my life.

I used to be obsessed with lemons. My favorite dessert was a tart for which you'd use one, and only one, whole lemon for the filling. One year I spent Christmas with my friend's family in Portland, Oregon, a place with moss-covered trees and tree-lined streets. My friend's mom kept a lemon tree in the living room. She would have liked to plant it in the garden, next to the fig and chicken coup, but the lemon tree — bright and soft and strong under the Sicilian sun, in a different life — curled up in the Northwestern mist. Its pot became the favorite spot for the house cat, who might have, at some point, misused it as a bathroom. It was a scrawny little tree with two branches and countable leaves, but it bore a fruit.

My friend decided to make the tart in honor of the lemon's existence.

When the friend visited me in Washington, DC, we made limoncello together. We filled a third of a jar with Everclear, suspended six lemons in a cheese cloth and sealed the jar. The theory was that the vapor, arising from the spirit of 95% proof , would "squeeze" the good stuff out of the lemons and infuse the alcohol.

A month later, the clear liquid acquired colors. I was drunk and, coincidentally, proved the theory.

I also bought a novel named Lemon, in which the protagonist fell in love with a lemon. Around the same time I fell for, less imaginatively, a guy. Nevertheless, I told him about the book. I wish I could say he sent me a basket of lemons or, perhaps, brought me a lemonade, but instead he felled the bough of my heart.

I listened to a song over and over because somewhere in the lyrics it was spoken: lemons.

The old About page of the website quoted Neruda:

which yellow bird fills its nest with lemons?

When I learned Spanish years later, I went back to the same poem and read to myself:

el pájaro amarillo...el nido de limones...

Fall-color.png

Foliage, Upstate. 2015

I don't feel the same about lemons now, but I keep the namesake.

It reminds me of the stories that I forget from time to time.