See that beauty of a Meyer lemon up there?
Yup, I grew that.
That might not seem so remarkable until you realize that I’m the woman otherwise known as “Black Thumb Jung.” Yes, that’s what my dear husband calls me. With the utmost affection, of course.
Admittedly, I’m not the world’s greatest gardener. I have killed ivy and cactus, after all, which are supposedly indestructible. Just not in my hands, though.
I wasn’t born a gifted gardener like my late-Mom was. She could grow anything — even tubs of sweet, juicy tomatoes inside our family house, which too often was enveloped in dreary San Francisco fog to give those delicate seedlings a fighting chance outside.
But that’s not to say that I don’t give it the ol’ school-girl try. Every year, I fill my backyard planters with new soil, new plants, and a bushel of hope. Yes, the utmost optimism that something, anything will actually go on to live and flourish. Usually, at least a few things do. Oh sure, I’ve lost my share of cilantro, tarragon, roses, snapdragons, and butter lettuce that blossomed brightly, then in an instant just died out. Gosh, was it something I said?
Fortunately, a few things actually do go on to thrive. I can grow basil like there’s no tomorrow. Rosemary and I get along just like that. And I once had a tomato plant that not only produced for a full summer, but somehow managed to endure a rainy, cold, neglected winter only to sprout beautiful round orbs once again the following year. Go figure.
So, last year, I planted a dwarf Meyer lemon tree, and waited with bated breath. Sure, many of my friends already have such trees and are only to eager to load me up with their abundance of lemons. But there’s just something wonderfully satisfying about growing your own.
I watched as the blossoms turned into little, hard green spheres that grew and grew, and slowly started turning taxi-cab yellow. I picked the first few last month, all the while beaming with pride.
So, what to do with these special lemons that I grew with my very own black thumb?
Why, make lemon bars, of course.
San Francisco Pastry Chef Emily Luchetti’s, to be exact.
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