Page 54 of When Love Gives You Lemons
Tyler jests, “I don’t know what he means,” which makes Monroe laugh heartily.
Niccolò reaches around his back to a pouch-like bag that looks like it’s made of plant fibers slung around his shoulders and pulls out a normal-sized lemon, one that looks similar to what we have in America. “This is probably the size lemon you are used to.” He turns to Nonna. “Cosa vorresti dire?”
“Sì, è guisto,” she says.
“Va bene,” Niccolò says. “But what about—” He goes back into his pouch and pulls out a bulbous lemon the size of my entire damn head! No joke. This is not hyperbole, people! It’s basically a pumpkin or a cantaloupe. But a lemon! It’s so large he palms it like a basketball. “This is the signature Amalfi lemon, which we grow here, and all across the Amalfi region. The typical product of this land is the Sfusato Amalfitano. It’s longer in shape, bigger. Our lemon is different because of the rind, the peel. We”—he refers to the lemon as part of himself—“have a lot of essential oils. Very aromatic. If you want to make a fantastic limoncello or lemon cake or pastry, many master chefs prefer to use our lemons because of the essential oils.”
“How does it get so big?” Ma asks.
“I’m resisting the urge to joke so hard right now,” Matty says.
Zia Rosa smacks him upside the head.
“Ah, I’m glad you asked,” Niccolò continues, and passes the massive lemon around the group, giving each person the opportunity to palm it and marvel at its gargantuan size. “Here, in Amalfi, we exist in what’s called a microclimate nestled between the sea and the Monti Lattari—you may know, or not, but the soilhere in Amalfi is rich in volcanic minerals. Potassium and magnesium. From two active volcanoes. Maybe you’ll go or have been to Monte Vesuvio. Pompeii in Napoli? We plant the trees on vertical soils. The terraces you see here are fortified by stone walls built by hand by my great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather—that’s six generations of Avello! Over two hundred years—anyway, the way the terraces are built controls the flow of rain to help retain water for the groves. Cool breezes from the sea get trapped in the valley there, and with the coastal sunlight, it all creates an ideal ecosystem for our lemons, which you cannot get anywhere but Amalfi,” he explains proudly. “My family have been pioneers of farming these lemons, and protecting them.”
“Is that why we’ve never seen them in the States?” Zia Gab asks.
“And you never will. Not organically. Import, not really. The cost is—” Niccolò’s eyes widen, and he makes an explosive gesture. “These lemons can only be grown here due to the region, soil, and climate,” he says. “Even if you brought back seeds from the mother tree”—he walks over to one particular tree whose thin trunk’s sprouted arms reach up and over our heads, threading into the wooden trellises over us like a vine—“like this one, which is about two hundred years old, most trees go through a juvenile growth period that could last ten years! At least, without any fruit.”
When Ricky passes the lemon to me, his hand lingers on its skin and my fingers graze his, and an electric shock shoots between us. He looks up. His cheeks are red.
The shape of the lemon is wild! Knobby and strange, its soft yellow skin pebbly, and either end comes to what looks suspiciously like a nipple, especially given its swollen nature. Touching the rough-yet-smooth skin releases a lemony fragrance I’venever smelled before—it’s familiar, like slicing open lemons on a wooden cutting board at home with Nonna, but it’s stronger, not pungent, almost . . . sweet. I want nothing more than to taste it, but that’s just me. I’ve always had a palate for sour anything, but Ma used to yell at me for sucking the pulp out of fresh lemons, or segmenting them like oranges and eating each one with a strawberry half and a little sprinkle of coconut sugar.
“It doesn’t even look real,” Ricky says, barely loud enough for me to hear.
Niccolò doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh, it’s real!” He reaches into the breast pocket of his bright orange Hawaiian shirt and pulls out a knife as I hand back the lemon. “Grazie!”
Cupping the fruit in one hand he takes the knife, and, in one swift motion, slices it methodically through until it rests in two halves. He presents the inside. The fruit in the center is familiar, though the segments are semi-separated, and the pulp is a paler yellow and larger than anything I’m used to. Beyond that, there’s about an inch of thick white flesh beneath the surface of the skin. My lips recoil with a sensory memory of eating too much white flesh off a lemon back home and the icky bitterness that filled my mouth.
In another swift cut, Niccolò slices through the bumpy skin, thick flesh, and fruit and says, “Here, when we eat, we eatthe whole thing.” AND POPS EVERYTHING INTO HIS MOUTH LIKE IT’S THE MOST DELICIOUS THING HE’S EVER HAD.
No flinching. No sour pucker.
Pure bliss!
Ma and Zia Rosa both gasp and clasp on to each other. “No,” they say in unison.
Niccolò laughs. “Try it.” He cuts another slice.
But nobody steps forward.
“The lucky guy.” Niccolò gestures toward Topher. “Marriage is scarier than this.”
Sienna side-eyes him. “You haven’t seen me in the morning.”
“Lies, you’re breathtaking at all times!” Topher says. “I gotta get my main man Fielder over here to try this with me. He’s the foodie of the fam.”
Niccolò immediately cuts another piece and beckons me over.
“Field-er! Field-er!” Topher chants, and Tyler and Trav follow suit until every single person in our group is chanting my name.
Ricky leans in. “You’ve eaten worse.” He places a hand on the small of my back. “I believe in you, Fielder Lemon.”
“We don’t eat the skin,” Zia Rosa chimes in. “It’s nasty.”
“Rosa!” Zia Gab says.
“Is okay, is okay,” Niccolò says, sensing the tension in the Coven. “Is organic. We don’t waste any part; it is part of who we are. Here in Amalfi, we do not use fertilizers or pesticides like in the States. And absolutelynowaxing.” He scrunches his face in disgust, and I suddenly feel the shame of being American in my bones. “Everything organic!”
