Forgive Me Foodies, For I Have Sinned
I despise lemons. Before you start judging, I know what you’re thinking. Lemons? How could anyone possibly hate lemons so much? But it’s true, and unfortunately, it’s much worse than the general, run-of-the-mill dislike. It’s a deep, visceral hatred that I’ve found nearly impossible to explain to anyone who dares to ask why.
Truth be told, I’m not a big fan of most acidic fruits, but I can usually tolerate them when they’re mixed with something I enjoy – preferably tequila, simple syrup and a salted rim. Lemons, though? They’re a different story. Perhaps my opinion on them was swayed after the repeated message from Peter, Paul and Mary that blasted from my father’s car speakers:
“Lemon tree, very pretty and the lemon flower is sweet, but the fruit of the poor lemon…is impossible to eat.”
I’m not entirely sure. All I know is that somewhere between the lemon-flavored Kool-Aid and the limoncello, I discovered I was different.
As a kid, this hatred didn’t pose too much of a problem. I simply avoided the sidewalk stands and lemon pies and instead focused my attention on melting the pink, red and blue (but never yellow) Ice Pops to perfection in the summer sun. In fact, I hardly realized my extreme aversions to my citrusy nemesis until I worked as a bartender in a cocktail lounge. At the time, I was living in New York, working as a fashion robot during the day and an underpaid, naïve server at night. I remember my first day of prep before happy hour when I was assigned a seemingly innocent task: cutting the fruit for my shift.
Looking back now, I realize there must have been times when I’d sliced a lemon before, but you’d never know it by the way I recoiled in horror when the aroma hit my nostrils. Being new, I couldn’t walk away, leaving the task for someone else to pick up. So I sliced and cringed and vowed that when I made my first fifty in tips, I’d bribe the other bartenders to relieve me from the hideous job. And that’s exactly what I did. Crisis temporarily averted.
From then on, I took special precautions to avoid lemon at all costs. Sometimes, however, it was inevitable. Like the time my roommate came home from Costco with an industrial-sized tub of lemon-scented dish soap. Or the time I took a big bite of an innocent-looking piece of gluten-free pound cake only to find out it had been infiltrated with lemon curd.
In college, a popular shot nonsensically named Chocolate Cake – vodka and a lemon covered in sugar - made the rounds and I offended many a friend who bought me this seemingly delicious drink (no small gesture for a poor student) only to have me reject their graciousness. And when my ex-boyfriend reincarnated this shot in Key West a few years back, I looked at him with the sad eyes of a puppy dog – does he even know me at all?! Perhaps I should have viewed that symbolic move as a precursor to our impending breakup a week later.
The worst part of my disgust is the reaction I receive from family, friends and fellow food lovers. I’m unable to rejoice at the arrival of Meyer lemons at the market or praise the refreshment of a pitcher of fresh squeezed lemonade at a barbeque.
My peers look at me like I’m crazy when I quietly explain that el limón is just not my cup of tea – but don’t get me started on lemon-based remedies for sore throats or the common cold. It must be said that people are actually more willing to accommodate my insanely strict no-gluten diet than to accept my ill will towards lemons.
I’ve been thinking about starting a support group for people like me. We’d meet in the basement of the church rectory, away from the shaming eyes and curious glances. I’d hang a dartboard on the far wall and we could each take turns aiming to hit the lemon bulls-eye for points. Afterward, we would circle around and patiently listen to everyone as they talk about how lemons have found their way into our most popular foods – what was wrong with plain old peppered chicken to begin with?
I guess in an ideal world, a citrus I actually enjoy, like those cute little Clementine’s, perhaps, might take the place of their less-deserving brethren. But for now, I’ll just be sure to remind the server that the lemon seeds in the bottom of my water glass are slowly but surely carving the path to my ultimate demise. And I won’t even feel guilty when she rolls her eyes and keeps on walking.
