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My sister left me a couple of Meyer lemons when they visited 2 weeks ago. A friend had given her several and she brought 2 thinking we might use them for cocktails and then forgot they were in her cooler until she was leaving. I used one of them for a chess pie and it is fantastic. It’s the first time I’ve ever had a Meyer lemon. So, I had no clue that they are actually different from a regular lemon. I’ve known a couple of people who have kept them in pots. But, they have never shared the fruit with me.
After tasting the pie and discovering how different the flavor is, I looked them up and learned that they are not, in fact, lemons. They are thousands years old Chinese hybrids of citron, mandarin and pomelo brought to the US in 1908 by a man named Frank Meyer.
They do taste citrus-y and there is a floral note that I find delightful. But, not exactly lemon. More similar to lemon than anything else, though.
I’m going to make lemon bars with the other one and take them to work this weekend. Chuck is begging me not to leave them here. He says he has no control over his sweet tooth and my baking is a trial for him.
I would be tempted to grow one. But, it would have to stay inside through the winter and I am cautious about adding another plant that has to have floor space in the house. They can thrive outside in zones 8-11. But, we’re still a 7b. 8a is creeping up on us with climate change. But, it isn’t here yet. Additionally, they grow to 8′-10′ and moving that in and out would be a real pain in the back.
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Eyes are not cameras. I’m not sure which way of saying that is best. Both are obviously accurate and, obviously, accurate.
To use a camera well, one must get in the habit of seeing the background and periphery of whatever one is focused on so that one can modify the view to preserve the image one wishes to record. Or one must be prepared to edit the photograph taken to remove the excess.
I am quite sure that professional and habitual photographers look at the world with different eyes than (many? most?). I’m not sure if that means their view/vision encompasses more or less than the eyes of those of us less camera oriented.
My eyes don’t notice the smudge on my window where a bird had a spasm and missed the feeder in its excitement. My camera does. My eyes don’t notice the screen in the window. My camera does. My eyes see the tree. My camera swallows the tree in the green behind it. Frankly, sometimes my eyes don’t see dust on a table until it’s changed the color of the paint.
Eyes as metaphor for Ego is easy. But, cameras are still Ego, just on a grander scale. And with a different Perspective.
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I have a friend who is a potter and I have been the recipient of several gifts from her. She made 3 bonsai pots for me and had given me a small, rectangular decorative pot that used the same glaze even before that. I have been keeping moss in the little pot.
Shitakusa in a Patti pot There is even a name for my pot of moss in the bonsai world. It is “shitakusa.” Shitakusa are little accent plants that are displayed along side bonsai.
Another side item is “suiseki.” These are stones that are particularly interesting. I’m pretty sure that’s where Terry Pratchett got the idea for the bonsai mountains tended to by Lu Tze, the History Monk. The National Arboretum in Washington, DC has a lovely display of suiseki in their bonsai exhibition. I do not have any suiseki.
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I will never in my life watch a wood fire burn without thinking of my maternal grandmother. Kate always had a fire place and used it.
I vividly remember going to her house one year for Xmas and sitting by the fire to eat pound cake and drink orange juice. The orange juice was odd. Not as odd as drinking it after brushing your teeth. But, it should have been milk. I suspect something didn’t get picked up at the grocery. And, aside from my grandfather who had already gone to bed, I have no clue where the rest of my family was.
When I reminded her of that night 30-odd years later, she was surprised that I remembered it, too.
After her house was broken into twice after my grandfather died, she decided to take my parents up on their offer to live with them. (She was out of town both times.) That mother-in-law’s apartment had a fireplace, too. When she didn’t remember to open the flue when she started a fire and sat bundled in a blanket with the windows open until they came home from work, her daughter and son-in-law had to start making plans for her to live somewhere with more supervision as they both still had to work full time and there was no one to stay with her when they weren’t there.
I have no idea how many nights we sat by a fire and talked about poetry and history. She was especially enamored of the Tudors.
Orange and black embers with a lick of blue flame is a portrait of my Mama.
I am the Audience 