Meyer lemons

A couple of years ago, we planted a Meyer lemon tree, and I’m happy to say that, with fairly little intervention from us, it seems to be thriving.

Meyer lemons are named for Frank N. Meyer of the USDA who, on a trip to China in 1908, found them being grown ornamentally.  It’s kind of romantic, don’t you think? An agricultural explorer! A plant hunter!

I grew up with sort of a lemon orchard in the backyard and took for granted that citrus would just appear without any special effort. Loads of it. All the time, it seemed like. 


But I've since married a Midwesterner whose mother used to tuck oranges into his Christmas stocking every year, carrying forward a custom with roots in a time and a place where citrus in winter was precious and rare. A sweet tradition. One that makes me appreciate our fruit a bit more.

Meyer lemons are sweeter and rounder than other varieties. They have a thinner skin and a flowery perfume. Only a few are left on our tree anymore: They’ve gone into salad dressings and baked goods and glasses of water.

My favorite thing to do, though, with all that fruit is make lemon curd. So bright and refreshing – especially when it’s gray outside, it really feels like an indulgence.

I like the recipe featured on Food in Jars. It’s simple, and the three or four times I’ve tried it, it’s worked out beautifully.

We’ve eaten lemon curd spread on corn muffins and stirred into yogurt. My daughter likes it right off the spoon. And I think, with only a little more ambition, it would make a really great cake filling. It tastes like sunshine. No kidding.


Want to plant your own Meyer lemon tree? The folks at Port Stockton Nursery told me it's best to wait until after the threat of frost has passed - so maybe hold off a little while longer. 

It is so nice to meet you.

County Fair, 2011

The first time I visited Stockton was almost 10 years ago. My husband – who was not my husband yet – had a job interview here, and we drove together, straight up I-5 from Los Angeles County.

I dropped him off Downtown and looked for someplace to sit.

There was a farmer’s market – which is how I know it must have been a Friday.

But by the time I got there, most of the vendors were packing up – which is how I know it must have been late afternoon.

After finishing a cup of coffee, I got back in the car.

For me, on that day, all of Stockton existed in those few square miles between Market and Harding, El Dorado and Wilson. There were no paychecks or play dates, dinner parties or doctor appointments in that universe. I couldn’t even find a public restroom.

It feels a little dangerous to think back on times like that, when it could have gone either way – memory tricks you into believing everything that happened next was inevitable. But the truth is, he might not have gotten the job. I might not have followed him.

And yet again, the truth is, he did take the job. I followed him six months later. We got married. We bought a house. We had a child.

I’m not for papering over the cracks: Our community’s challenges are critical. Its problems demand our care and consideration.

At the same time, this isn’t a place I shake my head over from a safe distance. This is where I’m raising a family – and everything that means.

You too?

Well then.

Let’s be in it together.

Let’s lift all boats.

Let’s hope for the best.

Let's swing for the fences.

We live here. We’re home now.