When Life Gives You Lemons (Ink Well Prompt #195)

This week's Ink Well Prompt Word: Gobble
Prompt Link

When Life Gives You Lemons

We walked up the porch steps, stomping forcefully with each step to get the snow off our boots. Finally at the top, I tapped my boots against the cast iron squirrel statue, cluttered among the broom and snow shovels. Sophia vehemently wiped her boots on the parts of the coir mat that weren't already dusted with snow. The bells on the door jingled as the two of us fought to get through first making a pronounced entrance into the house.

Just as Sophia ran past the rug with her boots on, our mother held up her hand, "ah-- ah-- ah--." Sophia backtracked and took her boots off on the rug. I looked down at my mother's other hand and saw she cupped a handheld grater and lemon together.

"But, I didn't want to do the lemon bars, mom," I gestured toward the lemon in her hand, then bent down to take off my boots. I thought we'd agreed after our conversation this morning.

"Sweetie, again, I'm not going out to the store in this weather." She gestured toward the window that overlooked our yard. A white hill sloped down from where our house sat; half of our house was built into the hill. The slope led down to a forest that surrounded our back yard; the trees covered in white and the pine trees' branches drooping from the heavy snow. I looked out and saw the footsteps we'd just made coming up the hill; a light dusting of falling snow was already attempting to fill them in. I let out an exasperated breath as I hung my snow suit on the beam near the heater.

Mom continued to zest the lemon. "Besides, everyone gobbled these up when I made them before."

"Yea, in the Summer," I said. "They're not Christmas-y enough. It's a holiday party," I said for maybe the fourth time that day. I stood at the kitchen island watching the yellow zest pile up in the tiny ramekin. I walked to the pantry that extended from the kitchen. My eyes scanned the spice rack: Ginger. Cinnamon. Cloves. Then they made their way over to the flour, sugar, and -- "Brown sugar! Why don't we do gingerbread?"

"No molasses," my mother said, one step ahead of me, still zesting from the island. "Oh hey, while you're in there, can you see if we have white chocolate chips?" I looked through a pile of brown, purple, and blue Ghirardelli bags sitting haphazardly on the shelf and saw a white bag peeking through. I walked over and set the bag on the counter. She turned it over and examined it. "This expires next month. We have to use this. Another reason we should do the lemon bars." She put the lemon down, then used her finger to scrape the remaining zest off the grater.

We quietly stood squeezing juice out of the lemons as we listened to a Sesame Street on the television in the next room. Sophia sat in the recliner chanting along to Sunny Days. "Zac, can you go put another log on the fire?" my mother asked as she sensed the fire dying down.

When I came back into the kitchen, she was cracking eggs into the metal bowl with the mixer head tilted up. "In case you guys end up having to walk tomorrow, I'll give you my tote bag-- hey, Soph!" she suddenly called into the next room.

"Yea?" A tiny voice came from the recliner in the living room.

"Can you switch the channel to the weather, please?" There was silence as I imagined Sophia looked down perplexed at the remote, so I walked into the other room to help her.

"...will be tapering off somewhat throughout the evening with a low of 28 degrees..." We listened to the weatherman as he examined the swirling whites, greys, purples, and blues traveling across the map. "...more snow tomorrow with another bitter cold day tomorrow with a wind chill of minus 10..."

"Mommy, what does bitter mean?" Sophia asked from the living room.

"It means...um..." My mother paused for moment, perplexed by what appeared to be a simple question.

"It's like how something tastes. Like this lemon" I chimed in. We heard footsteps as Sophia scampered into the kitchen to hear me better.

"No, that's more sour," our mother explained. "Bitter is different. Bitter is..." She tried to think of an example. "It's like the opposite of sweet."

Sophia still looked puzzled. "So it's bad?"

"Well, not always," our mother explained, realizing the complexity of the question. "Sometimes you can pair bitter things with sweet things to complement each other. "I'm trying to think of a food you've had that is bitter... oh, like those dried cranberries you like?" A moment of quiet went by as the wheels turned inside her head. Then her face lit up as she looked at both of us and smiled. She wiped her hands on her apron and walked over to the cabinet above the sink. She stood on a stool as her hand fumbled around bottles of olive oil, a carton of chicken broth, and cans of soup to find what she was looking for. "Forgot we had these!" she exclaimed as she pulled out a bag half-full of dried cranberries. "See? A holiday twist on the lemon bars," she said as she sprinkled the dried cranberries into the mixing bowl and folded them into the batter.