This week was a scorcher. Three 90 degree plus days in a row. One humid afternoon my grandmother popped into my head. She made the best lemonade. In a second I was time traveling in my memories to when I was 4. My Mom worked and Nana watched me and my sister.
It was the summer that she finally let me help her in the kitchen. I suppose it was a way of keeping me busy, but at the time my goal was to be the best assistant I could be. My assignment. Roll the lemons. That’s it. She’d place the lemons on her brown porcelain enamel kitchen table. With her arthritic hands, she’d demonstrate. Take a lemon and place your hands on it and move it up and down the table as far as my arms could reach repeatedly until they were soft. It was hard work for little arms. I’d kneel on the chair and press down on the fruit as I rolled.
There was no air conditioning in her third-floor walk-up. A small metal-bladed fan in the corner of the kitchen created the breeze. The lemons weren’t refrigerated in the icebox, her name for a refrigerator that recalled days before there were such things. They were usually kept in a bowl on the counter.
I’d pick up a warm lemon and smell the citrusy scent. It took both of my small hands to hold that yellow fruit on the table. I’d roll and roll until my arms ached. Then I’d ask, “Are they ready?” She’d pick it up and poke it with her fingers testing for the right amount of softness so the fruit would release its juice. Usually, the reply was not yet so back to work I’d go. Eventually, she’d take over to finish the task with her strong arms making the motion.
Next, it was time for making the juice. She had a small glass squeezer with a fluted cone in the middle and a pourer on the side. It was a kitchen essential. Freshly squeezed juice happened only one way in those days. You’d take the lemon, slice it in half, putting one half cut side down on the flute and move your hand in a semi-circular motion. Juice and pulp would collect in the glass making it easy to pick out the seeds. I seem to remember that at least six lemons were needed.
Then she’d get her glass pitcher. It’s the one I own today. It has a molded pattern on the outside. It’s a shrine to the life of a woman who raised five children and lived upstairs from us until we followed the pattern of so many families and moved from the city to the suburbs by the sea.
Into the pitcher would go the juice, pulp, water, lots of sugar, and of course ice. Her long-necked spoon would mix it all together. Nana was an expert. She never measured anything when she made things, be it a drink, chowder, or a pie. She knew by sight the right proportions. She’d made this so many times she could gauge its readiness by the color of the beverage.
Finally, it was time for a taste. Oh, that was my other job. She’d pour a little bit into glasses for each of us. Too tart and it needed more sugar. I can’t remember a pitcher of lemonade that was too watery. All that work and we’d all drink down that cool beverage in less time than it took to make it. It was a treat, one that didn’t happen often enough.
Nana died in 1968 and the pitcher retired. It sat in a box in my parent’s basement until given to me. At my house, it’s in the china cupboard too precious to use.
Instead of a pourable lemon drink, I make lemon sorbet and put it in frozen lemon cups. I use an old-fashioned style juicer I bought from Food52, (made by Kilner) and a hand crank ice cream maker that sits in the freezer. There isn’t a time when I follow these steps that I don’t think of my grandmother. She’s guiding my hands as I roll the fruit and juice it.
My family’s long attachment to lemons dates back at least to my grandmother. We clamor for lemon cake, lemon meringue pie, lemonade, and now my lemon cups. It’s a consistent love for a citron taste that connects the generations.
Unlike my maternal grandmother, my paternal grandmother didn’t consider herself a cook. She’d make meals that were edible but not fancy like pot roast on Sundays. I’ve already written about her family famous lemon meringue pie and how I discovered the filling was made from a box.
Sometimes our memories give us a false impression of a moment. Digging deeper into the lemonade origins I found that Sunkist® lemons were widely available in local grocery stores during my childhood and before. You could buy six for 29 cents. If that number sounds familiar it should. That’s the exact number of lemons Nana used for her beverage.
While I’d romantically like to believe that her lemonade was an old family recipe. The facts look a little different. On the Sunkist® website is a recipe for their lemonade. It looks suspiciously like the one that Nana made minus the rolling.
Whatever the origins of her recipes, she made them her own by including family into the details. Including me in the cooking, gave me a life-long love of being in the kitchen.