Give me Lemons and I’ll make (Meyer)lemonade

I have this very clear memory of the first time I remember seeing snow; I was 6 and the giant windows in my first grade classroom became blanketed in the most perfect and luscious shade of white.  For a moment, the loud screeching sound of 30 other children dimmed and you could hear some kids suck in their breath with wonder. My world was silent and perfect and bright. This is how I feel when I walk into the cosmetics section of any large department store, Bloomingdales say, or Saks, the world goes quiet and my breathing becomes more….more…. relaxed.

I love everything about it; the glistening bottles of moisturizer and colorful tubes of lipstick and trays and trays of eye shadow and the perfect, clear liquid toners. TONER! Really, it is the most underutilized product, you think it doesn’t matter because it looks like water, but so does vodka and clearly vodka is very important so why does everyone overlook toner? It’s so wrong.

When I was in high school, I had a French teacher who was actually French—this was in the 80’s when everyone still assumed the French were the ultimate authority on beauty—we had not yet caught on to the whole hairy armpit thing—anyway I was thrilled to be in the audience of someone so…well…so French! I assumed it would be a beauty tip cornucopia. Well.  The only tip she ever let go was to squeeze lemon in your eyeballs to make your eyes look brighter. Bad, bad idea. Also, she gave me a D+. A year later I learned about the armpits. Horrid.

Twenty years later I moved to California and discovered the Meyer Lemon. Terrible in the eyes but perfection in the mouth. Perfection!



Last week my husband and I had a grand success: We pulled off our first Thanksgiving dinner! The Turkey was divine, the gravy was stupendous, and only one dish (yams) got left behind in the kitchen.

We had a few friends and my husbands’ family to feed. Occasionally I wish I believed in god enough to pray that if we ever get knocked up, our child will have the sweet, kind and laid back demeanor of my husbands people rather that the neurotic, high strung, slightly mad persona of mine. They say your not allowed to pick though which I think is sort of unfair on the part of god, but so it is.

Second in difficulty rating to making the gravy was the hour that I was left alone in our house with my husbands’ adorable five-year-old nephew. I like to think of myself as a real snow white when it comes to kids, but the truth is I need a camera in my hand to bring out my inner snow white. After what seemed like half a day of eating crackers, engaging in a tickling contest (I won) making faces at each other (he won) eating more crackers, accidentally knocking over a coffee table and breaking three glasses after which yours truly let slip a very loud, very inappropriate swear word, and generally utilizing every possible activity in a non-kid household I was exhausted but congratulating myself on a job well done.

Until I realized only 20 minutes had passed.

Fortunately, said nephew is a member of my husbands’ clan and had a fairly practical approach to my panic, he sat down at the table and ate the cookie his mother had left for him. A cookie I had completely forgotten about. Then he asked for a glass of milk. If he had been one of my peoples, he would have decided to throw a temper tantrum instead as a ruse to get the day moving along.

Oh—and in case you’re curious, the most attractive dish on a thanksgiving menu is the cranberry sauce. While it’s cooking anyway. Simply divine. I don’t know why it doesn’t get more play.