With the spliced rhythm of tribal Africa, 
with the pulse, and raw hide cloak of riddles,
with the drizzling monsoon on lemon grass,
with the serene river songs of the canaries,
with the dim light of the oil lamps, I reflect
on the times when under the tropical moon
fierce with shine like the sun, elders poured
into the open palms of my mind, the stories
of tortoise, and of birds; stories that are wise,
never fading off the memory, older than wine,
taste like starch and banga soup that’s eaten
in a clay pot, under a mango tree with fruits.

—–00000—–

We’d been married only a few weeks when I decided to make ‘Banga soup’ for the first time. For my husband.  As far as I was concerned, this was a rite of passage, an adult kind of bar mitzvah that would earn me a title, confirm my place as his true wife.

I had grown up feasting on Banga. With fresh fish, with chicken and beef, on rice, with starches…and just plain licking the soup, but make it? I’d never done.

Banga soup is a very special sauce made with the rich pulp of the palm nut fruit, not to be confused with palm oil, or palm kernel oil. Its lovely orange hue transports rich and silky flavours, best developed and best served in a clay pot.

For the Nigerian clay pot speaks to our history and heritage – a precursor to the romertopfs. The clay pot, ‘evwere’ is a cooking vessel that lends earthiness to that cooked within, and is excellent in reducing cooking liquids!

See, Ogbah (my husband) and I are both from the south of Nigeria, where ‘Banga’ is the flagship of soups. It is how southerners from the Niger Delta are recognized. When people ask where you’re from and you say Delta state, they almost always go ‘hmmm, Banga soup.’ A sure conversation starter. The name? An ice-breaker.

Americans would call some varieties ‘surf and turf’ as they combine seafood and meat.

Banga soup is often served with ‘starch’, a really glutinous by-product from the processing of cassava, that is a stretchy and chewy, jelly-like mass similar in some respects to Coco de Nata. 

It can also be served with other cooked  starches like pounded yam, eba (made from cassava meal called garri or gari), amala (made from unripe plantains) and whole wheat flour. These starches resemble bread dough( from the first kneading), though much lighter. To eat them –  The procedure is to pinch off a small ball of the yam and use it to soak up the juices of the stew (with finger bowls provided, of course).

The night before I embarked on this venture, I rang my mother – I’d never made Banga before. She gave me all the instructions – the how-tos, when-tos and why-tos. I hurried to the end of our conversation, anxious to get to bed, eagerly awaiting the dawn that would establish me as ‘his’ woman.

I had my spice mix ready – a small bag chock full of aromatic scents, provided too by my mother – a few heaped teaspoons and the soup would be balanced in flavor. She said.

I’d done everything I needed to do to begin making my pot of soup. I’d boiled the palm nuts till cooked and pounded them to bruise the skins in a huge wooden mortar. I’d extracted the liquid by soaking the bruised nuts in boiling hot water and straining it.

Messy but unavoidable for the palm juice was the ‘bottom line’. I didn’t know then that one could totally eliminate this step – and just buy cans of palm butter. That was to come many years later.

I was going to cook with soup chickens – old layers, mature birds, with good flavor and tasty flesh. There would be freshly caught Tilapia fish too, beef and the freshest tiger prawns ever.

For me, the most important thing was what to do with the prawn heads. I’d seen my mom blend them and add the mixture to the soup. The prawn heads would do two things – one, thicken the soup and two, amplify the seafood flavours, creating the perfect ‘coastal’ taste.

What I’d omitted from my eye bank was the fundamental step of straining the blended shrimp mixture – reserving the liquid and discarding the chaff. Can you see where this discussion is headed…but I shall not digress.

Oh Love. Doth cover. A multitude of sins.

And so the journey began, palm nut sauce, meat and banga spices went in a pot. I let it simmer for half an hour and then checked for seasoning. I couldn’t taste the distinctive, aromatic spices, so I added more and more of the spice mix…..double, triple, quadruple what my mom said to.

My mom had told me how essential the spices were to the soup. The oil soup. One needed the belentientien (dried, slightly bitter green leaves) and atariko (part black pepper, eucalyptus, very aromatic) to ‘cut’ through the richness and the fat, providing that slight acidic balance which creates layers and dimensions of flavor , including sweet and bitter, in the same way that cooks in the West use vinegar and lemon juice to give the dish some ‘acid’.

It is interesting to see how cooks across the world achieve the same results with different ingredients, indigenous to their locales.

Finally the soup was ready and I was excited. As excited as my husband – he had no idea this would test his new-found love for me.

One dip of a morsel of Eba and it was clear to see, this soup was a disaster in almost every regard.

Morsel of eba, in a clay pot

First of all, I could finally taste all of the spice mix. You know, the spice I couldn’t taste while it cooked! All the spice mix that I shouldn’t have added and it was all wrong  – bullish, overpowering and controlling rather than a quiet, strong thread of flavour running through.

But that wasn’t the worst part. The absolute worst thing was the bits of broken shrimp shells and the strands of prawn tentacles that littered my soup. It was like a beach picnic, gone wrong. A picnic where someone, in annoyance launched a handful of wet sand which landed right in your Vichyssoise, and muddied it.

But I didn’t realize all this till we sat down to eat, soups ladled into locally made clay pots called Evwere. The soup which started out liquid, and finished liquid had been transferred to the Evwere, where the magic of claypots was invoked. Slightly thickened and ready for the devouring.

The first ball of the eba, pinched off the mound was dipped into the soup. My eyes were alight with expectation and excitement – I wondered how he would like it, eager as I was to impress him.

Evwere, clay pots from the Niger Delta

The clay pots are essential to the ‘authenticity’ of Banga soup. One buys them from the town markets, dark and dusty, freshly fired.

At home, you season the clay pots. I liberally rub palm oil all round the clay pot interior, and then I heat it up  gently on a stove. It warms up, and I allow it absorb some of the oil before I turn off and let the pot cool down. Once cool, I fill it with water, repeat the heating and then discard the water – my pot it ready to use!

Interestingly, growing up, all my father’s meals were cooked and served in clay pots. My dad was traditional to the core.

And he tempered it well. Swallowing slowly before saying ‘Its not bad….for a first try’. You know those words.  That hide the truth. That shield expectant hearts from extreme heartbreak and are full of ‘kindness’. I was aghast. Ashamed even. All my expectations had been crammed into the little clay pot and it was dashed…..

The soup was tasty, somewhat……but…..it was no way what it should have been. But still, my husband loved me, acknowledged the efforts I’d put into trying it out and we soon ate up the pot of soup – he ate it with plain boiled rice – it was easier to stomach than any of the other starches.

Fast forward ten years on and I’m now a dab hand at making banga soup. Most of it learnt while ‘in diaspora’, living in the Netherlands. It was there I discovered that one could get cans of palm butter. Even my mother was stunned at how good it tasted. Perhaps it was because we were ‘abroad’!

A tin of palm butter

Anyways, back home I continued to buy tins of already processed palm nut juice for I don’t believe that everything of virtue, or worth, of value must be gotten by hard work.

That was till a visit to Warri, my hometown last December when I tasted banga soup made from fresh palm butter. It had a bright orange colour, was lighter and sweeter than that made with tinned palm nut. Truth be told, I got to a point of wanting to experiment. Of wanting to make 2 pots of soup – one with fresh and one with tinned palm butter.

And I did, thanks to the desires of my new partner in cooking crime, B. From the quail incident. Experiment we did, and the verdict will follow……

Palm nut butter/sauce

The recipe I present is the classic ‘Delta’ version of the ‘palm nut soup’ but there are many variations on the theme across the country and West African, albeit known by different names:

Nigeria

West Africa

Variations of the soup include okro and egusi (pumpkin seeds), to thicken the soup, scent leaves (a member of the basil family), bitter leaves, etc.

Due to the  labour intensiveness of making this dish from scratch, I boil up a large amount of palmnuts…..lets just say, its like making apple butter during a harvest, why use a dozen apples when you have 6 dozen more in the barn?

—–00000—–

Palm nut butter, from scratch

Yields about 8 litres of palm nut sauce

Ingredients

Directions

Wash the palm nuts, in a sieve or colander so the dirt is washed away, then place in a large pot with the water

Bring to the boil, and then turn the heat down to medium-low.

Allow the nuts to cook for 15 – 20 minutes, till the hard, fibrous flesh softens and slides easily off the nut.

Remove from the heat.

In a mortar and pestle, bruise the palm nuts, being careful not to crack the kernel which houses the nuts, similar in texture and taste to the coconut.

Put the bruised nuts in a large bowl or pot, note that you may have to do this in batches.

Once complete, Put pour 5 litres of just boiled water over the nuts and leave it to work its magic for a few minutes. The aim is for the water to pull out the essence of the palm, colouring and flavouring the water till a loose sauce forms.

Using your hands and when the temperature is workable, work the nuts and chaff to extract as much thick juice and cream as you can.

Strain it through a sieve and reserve the liquid for the soup.

You can discard the chaff. The nuts can be air-dried for a few days – this will make them easier to crack and extract the ‘palm kernel’, the coconut-tasting small nut at the centre, similar to coquito nuts.

Just like the coconut, a number of products can be extracted from the palm nut all with different consistencies, different flavours and very different nutritional content:

• Palm nut sauce/cream: A thick liquid, similar to coconut milk/cream obtained from the pulp of the palm nut
• Palm oil (extracted using a similar process as for coconut oil, though the result is red in colour), extracted from the pulp of the palm nut
• Palm kernel oil, an oil produced from the kernel (the nut) at the centre of the palm nut. This oil is somewhat antiseptic and is prized for its medicinal abilities in Nigeria

Banga Soup Spice Mix

Ingredients

Back: L – ‘Banga stick’, R – Belentientien; Front: L – Atariko, R – Rigije

Directions

Combine the spices in the spice grinder and blend till a fine, speckled powder forms

Banga Soup

Yields about 8 litres of palm nut sauce

Ingredients

Excerpt from Sasa’s Kitchen:

The food arrived sizzling in clay pots and the waiter was kind enough to bring a bowl of water for us to wash our hand in. He had assumed that we were going to eat with our hands. Thinking back now I don’t think a knife and fork would have done the food justice. It was so delicious I could have gone for two more rounds but I decided to respect myself

Directions

For both methods (tinned or fresh palm nut sauce),  begin by putting the palm sauce in a large pot with the blended onion and chili mixture, ground crayfish, banga soup spice, belentientien, stock cubes and the banga spice stick (whose name I am yet to discover). Cook on medium-high heat, for about 15 minutes.

Both sauces are different.

L – Fresh Orange Palm nut sauce; R – Tinned, orange-brown Palm nut sauce

The tinned version is a thick concentrate which requires the addition of water. It is also quite oily; while the fresh version is liquid and requires cooking down to concentrate the flavours and thicken the sauce.

Add the chicken and beef, along with the shrimp head liquid.

Cook on medium-low heat till the meat is tender, checking for seasoning and adjusting accordingly. The soup should be reduced by at least a quarter to a third.

Add the fish and shrimps/prawns once your meat is cooked, along with the fresh bitterleaf. Do not put the lid on the pot, so the soup doesn’t turn too bitter, and also stay too liquid. Gently stir and leave to simmer for 7 – 8 minutes, being sure not to stir too vigorously so the fish doesn’t break up.

Remove from the heat and serve with a starch.

Note, I deliberately make a huge amount and then portion into meal-sized containers so whenever the craving strikes, I can pull out a bowl from the deep freezer.

The concentrate, is extremely oil so once cool, scoop or decant the excess oil and reserve for Banga rice,  a Jollof rice style dish made with the Banga sauce.

Excess oil from palm butter concentrate

Enjoy your delicious soup!

The verdict was split.

Both soups had different colours – with that made from fresh sauce being more orange, versus the orange-brown of the tinned. In terms of consistency, both were similar. And finally, the crucial element – taste?

Well, there was the surprise, B&I preferred the soup made from concentrate but we were the only ones. Everyone else like that from fresh.

I found the ‘tinned’ version had what I describe as the ‘banga essence’, a lingering taste which distinctly said delta to me. The fresh on the other hand was actually sweeter, and tasted fresher, younger almost. As though some flavour still needed to be developed.

Saying that both were equally delicious!

Let it be known that this soup rocks the house, my home and leaves my husband happier than can be and in love with me….and my banga soup.

For all’s well, that ends well. In a clay pot.

For love has a way of doing that, doesn’t it? Be it love for a man, your child and even a city.

All my life, I’ve dreamt of loving only a handful of cities –Tokyo in the spring when the cherry blossoms perfume the air and carpet the ground in white and pink and Paris all year round, from rue to cafe. Surely my destiny is French.

Tea-Poached rhubarb with clementines, apples and 5-spice

So I wasn’t prepared to fall head over hills in love with Edinburgh.

But head over feet and toes I was, and still am….and for the first time in my adult years, I’m unsure about Paris being the numero uno.

It might be because Edinburgh was the first city I ever visited.

It might be because Edinburgh with its hills and castles was the first place I began my romance with food at Wimpy’s fast food restaurant.

It was 1985 when we flew British Caledonia Airways – my dad, my older sister and I. I can still remember my excitement at the kid’s pack on the flight – white pencil cases with sailor blue and tan inscriptions, full of coloured pencils and God knows what else.

We’d come to spend time with family, to visit my cousin and her husband who lived here.

Its 2013 and I’m back again. This time my sister’s getting married.

North Bridge, Edinburgh

Back to being the little girl in knee high stockings and a Scottish skirt. The memories come in waves. Princes street, upon which the castle sits on a hill. The clock in the gardens, where I spot springs hand of hue, in bright red tulips. The knowledge that my love for food, started 28 years ago when I ate the ‘first meal I ever enjoyed’ at Wimpy’s fast food restaurant.

Real Scotsman playing bagpipes!

Before this time, I was a food hater.

And though I’ve always held Edinburgh dear the week I spent that love has waxed stronger for the city lends itself to love. The best charity shops I’ve ever been in,….

Cake slice – a charity shop find!

the most gorgeous architecture I’ve seen outside of Paris, more history and culture than I can absorb in a couple of visits, and most of all, stunning scenery of green and sea and hill.

Its love that brought me here too, for a few weekends past, my sister got hitched’ to a Scotsman, so yes…an arm of this family is kilt-loving, irn-bru drinking and very welcome to our fold.

But she’s not the only one who’s caught the love bug – I have too.

With the Instagram app on my iPhone. This filter-photo happy app is keeping grown men and women busy….and in love. It reminds me of polaroids, bejewelled. Nostalgia. And the wonderful thing? Even ‘poor’ photos get a new lease on life.

I love the old, colourful doors of Edinburgh;

The sloping streets, stone walls and gorgeous architecture;

Cheesy shop windows;

And Sticky Toffee Pudding,…This version was as light as a sponge served with a whiskey icecream in a brandy snap basket and drizzled with toffee sauce. A stunning revelation in Scottish puds.

It was the Haggis which surprised me – I totally loved it. The combination of liver, pinhead oats and spices had me taken. I even brought some back.

Haggis (bron crumbly bits), east of the black pudding round, and south of the rasher of bacon

I enjoyed my fair share of rhubarb, I even brought some back and have been enjoying all the famous English desserts where ‘celery with pink lipstick’ stars.

And a Rhubarb Crumble to live for. Tea and citrus poached rhubarb, topped with a five-spice and cardamom crumb. Equally delicious with vanilla icecream, warm fromt he oven…and with Greek yogurt, the morning after.

I thought the Dutch had a sweet tooth with Stroopwaffels, but that hardly compares with the national Scottish sweet, known as ‘Tablet’. Think Fudge, but sweeter, and crumblier…..and consumed straight. No black coffee, no straight tea, just sugar, bite after bite.

I didn’t drink the nation brew, Irn bru, but I had sweets, bearing its name.

 Reminded me a bit of Lucozade, the energy-giving drink.

It was a great trip, a wonderful if not ‘restful’ holiday and an absolutely gorgeous wedding.

I leave you with one of my great charity shop finds. Isn’t it wonderful ?

Thin cooks can’t be trusted

Indeed one can find a multitude of ways to worship the Meyer.

#17: Give a Lemon Lesson. Watch children chomp on it with excitement

Below are 34 35 of my absolute favourite ways.

1. Live with Meyer Lemons, in your fridge. Deep freezer. Pantry. Admire them, embrace them, share them too. Make your husband use them as aftershave (thanks Lara )
2. Study the anatomy of a Meyer Lemon: strip its skin, eat its flesh, let its juice drip down fingers and wrists and elbows
3. Make Meyer Lemon Curd: – ‘old’ regular Lemon, and ‘new’ Strawberry and Meyer
4. Make and eat some Meyer Lemon ice cream
5. Enjoy some gorgeous looking bittersweet Meyer lemon focaccia; just lemons and rosemary or amplified with olives and proscuitto
6. Enjoy a genius Strawberry and Meyer Lemon sorbet
7. Go savoury, bake some lemons into Meyer lemon and artichoke chicken
8. Dream of the Mediterranean and preserve some Meyer lemons, with the floral fruit
9. Make a salad with the preserved meyer lemons
10. Marinade some (Wara) cheese curds in lemony goodness, enjoy in an open-faced sandwich
11. Get lazy efficient, bake Lazy Mary’s Lemon Tart
12. Make Meyer Lemon butter, two ways: Pureed Meyer lemon incorporated into softened butter. Version 1. And then that same mix left overnight to infuse, cooked and browned, with the solids removed out and the pure butter essence left over. Think nutty, citrusy, delicious butter that’s delightful on bread, and other bakes.
13. Make fragrant fruit salads – grate meyer lemon zest into chopped strawberries or mixed fruits, serve with pancakes, crepes or just on its own. Kids love it.
14. Head to Spain for some inspiration – Meyer lemon churros
15. Pipe meyer lemon curd into mini-donuts – decadent but ‘healthy’, the donuts are ‘minis’ after all!
16. Sprout the seeds, plant them and watch them grow
17. Give a lemon lesson – gather children around you, segment a lemon and have them tell you what it tastes like. Capture their thoughts in a post
18. Photograph meyer lemons against a black backdrop – enjoy the striking contrast of sunny yellow and pitch black
19. Make some chunky grilled Meyer Lemon salsa. Make other variations with chopped  black olives, red bell pepper, spring onions and the like. Great with fish, and chicken
20. Bake Lemon bars
21. Make Meyer lemon caramel
22. Ladle teaspoonfuls of Meyer lemon caramel into an omelette confiture, thanks to The Wednesday Chef
23. Make a lemony butter sauce for fish, or some Avgolemono, Greek lemon soup
24. Read all about Meyers
25. Consider buying a box of Meyers when they’re in season from the Lemon Ladies
26. Talk about them, non-stop to everyone who cares to hear
27. Make Meyer Lemon Meringues. A suggestion my 9-year old gave, and true to life and Google, it’s been done before. I’ll be making this very soon!
28. Meyer lemon bread sticks. Another suggestion from my 7-year old. I think a nice crusty no-knead loaf would be awesome
29. Make Meyer lemon sugar, by rubbing in grated or microplaned lemon zest. Leave to dry. Freeze it, or use it in tea and bakes
30. Enjoy some lemonade
31. Discover a compatriot to the Meyer – The Menton lemon, from France where their lemons, not with smooth skin though are sweet enough to eat.                                                                                                                                                                                              
    

    The Lemons of Menton by Dana Kennedy:“A French lemon takes its place as the most delicious of its kind in the world.Jean-Claude Tosan doesn’t look like a serpent, but he might as well be one as he plucks a ripe lemon from one of his trees, peels it and hands me…the skin.“Faites confiance,” he says. “This is the only place in the world where it tastes delicious.Tosan, whose family has cultivated lemons for seven generations on the terraced hillsides above Menton, is right. The skin of his lemon is sweet enough to eat.”

32. Have a Meyer Lemon festival, like the inhabitants of Menton do with their famed lemons in the French Riviera.  Every year they hold a two-week festival in February, complete with parades, fireworks and exhibitions
33. Make a trifle: Combine cake, curd and cream. Start with leftover ‘white’/cream cake, cut into a 1 inch layer. Cover with Meyer lemon curd, chopped strawberries or other fruits, and top with Meyer lemon scented whipped cream. Finish with sugared Meyer lemon purée (remember: those blended and frozen in ice-cube trays), and garnish with strawberries. Delicious!
    

    #33: Make a trifle. Enjoy the intersection of strawberries and Meyer lemons

34. Bemoan the last of the Meyers. And wait patiently for another season.
35. Make a Meyer Lemon Posset!

What would you add to the list? Letme know and I’ll gladly update it….in wait and hope, for next season.

Love. X X X

The strawberries are no better. They’ve turned an insipid colour that I won’t dignify by calling red. For these bear no resemblance to the  vivid red fruit  I am used to.

My Meyers are deserting me but somehow I know its not forever. I understand it. Have experienced this before – this sense of loss at a much-loved friend leaving. Moving away. Not because of me…but because the time has come, because its time for a new dawn.

We celebrate, we dance, we exchange gifts and we part with a friendly kiss. Hugs tightly given, and eyes awash with tears. I know I’ll see her again. For now though, its time to say adieu, goodbye. She has to leave now. She’ll be back. Though in a new season of my life.

—–00000—–

This recipe used up my last, fresh Meyer lemon – I have 5 in the deep freezer (do those count as still having Meyers in my possession?  I think not. Wink. Wink).

I’d longed for ages to make lemon bars but was afraid they would be time consuming. Till I actually sat down and read a recipe and realised I could whip it up in an afternoon.

After reading a few posts, I decided to go with Bridget’s recommendations. On her blog, The Way the Cookie Crumbles, she explores 3 lemon bar recipes: from Cooks Illustrated, Tartine’s Bakery and David Lebovitz.

She recommended the Tartine crust and the Cooks Illustrated filling, all of which I built on in making mine!

Without further ado, here it is.

Lemon & Lemon Bars

This recipe features a crisp, browned shortcrust base that snaps and crumbles with delight. The filling is made up of a whole blitzed Meyer lemon, as well as lemon zest from regular Eureka lemons. Hence the Lemon & Lemon bar name!

The crust is adapted from the Tartine’s bakery Brown Butter Shortbread. However, I swap their pine nuts (optional though) for almond meal, as I had some left over, and added crushed seeds of green cardamoms.

Recipes adapted from The Way the Cookie Crumbles

Ingredients

For the Crust

For the Lemon filling

Directions

Make the crust

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees and butter a 9-by-13-inch baking pan

To make the crust: Sift the confectioners’ sugar into the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. Stir in the flour. Add the butter and almond meal and beat on low speed just until a smooth dough forms.

Press the dough evenly into the pan and allow it to come up about a ½ inch up the sides of the pan. (I had excess dough because I used an 8-by-8 inch square tart tin. My kids were happy with the remaining dough, eating it by the fistful. As was I)

Line the crust with parchment paper and fill with pie weights. Bake the crust until it is a deep golden brown, about 25-35 minutes.

It can be tricky taking the hot tart base and tin out of the oven, filling it with the filling and putting it back without spilling a drop.

Tough as I anticipated it could be, I did it and did lose some filling.

Don’t be like me.

Instead, turn the oven down to 160 degrees C (about  325 degrees F).

You’ll have yourself to thank for it, trust me.

For the filling

I make the filling while the crust is baking.

In a blender, combine Meyer lemon chunks, sugar, flour, milk. Blend till smooth, about 1-2  minutes.

Add blended mixture to lightly whisked eggs, lemon juice, grated lemon zest and salt. Stir till well blended.

To finish the bars: Stir the filling mixture to re-blend; pour into the warm crust.

Bake until the filling feels firm when touched lightly and the center of the custard is set, about 30 to 40 minutes. Transfer the pan to a wire rack; dust with icing sugar and leave to cool to near room temperature, at least 30 minutes.

Once cold, refrigerate for at least half an hour before cutting. The refrigeration allows it set, and results in a ‘cleaner’ cut.

Transfer to a cutting board, cut into squares and dust the top with confectioners’ sugar, if desired. They will keep in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to 4 days.

They are rich. These bars are.

And at mine, they got mixed reviews.

My son loved the first slice. He came for a second, which ended up in a tussle somehow…with his sister involved. it ended up in the bin.

Daughter number 2 didn’t like it AT all.

Daughter number 1, the lemon lover said it was ‘too lemony’.

I soooooooooooooo wanted them to love it. But it wasn’t to be.

I did enjoy it to be fair but I am determined to embrace all things Meyer.

Especially at this last dance.

The base was perfectly coloured and crisp and the filling was nice and sweet. Pretty too.

Now I understand what lemon bars are all about, and why people cut them into ‘squares’!

Saying goodbye to a friend is never easy, but for one this sweet, it makes it bearable!!

When it becomes beurre noisette et citron, brown butter with lemon, then you know you’re on to a good thing.

I say that with supreme confidence for this bright, citrusy liquid is perfect for many things.

Like to fry pancakes in.

Dinner of Lemony pancakes with a kumquat-strawberry salad, with mint

And to create some buttery, lemony popcorn.

Every bit of the citrus character bursts through – bright, fragrant and delicately flavoured. Pair that with nutty and sweet caramel, and where do you think you’ll be????????? In citrus heaven, I imagine.

And its soooooooooooo easy to be had.

A whole Meyer lemon sans seeds is blitzed up, and then combined with softened unsalted butter.

Both are whizzed till the essence of the Meyer is in the butter.

Overnight refrigeration locks the flavours in, and then the compound butter is heated in a pan.

Till melted.

And it begins to brown. You’ll smell it, before you see it – that hazelnut scent, that close, wonderful smell of Wethers Original sweets.

Your eagle eyes must operate here for brown to burnt is merely a matter of seconds. In that time, you might see the mix sputter, and splatter. Please, keep your face out of the pan.

The solids will toast and brown and your glorious beurre noisette will come to life.

Let it cool down, then separate liquids from solids. Do not discard the solids – they make a wonderful addition to Lemon Madeleines and cakes,

Refrigerate the butter once cold and use accordingly. The butter will firm up and turn a shade of caramel, different from its liquid hue. No problem, just warm it up when you’re ready to use it.

My lemon butter fried pancakes, sprinkled with caster sugar were reminiscent of crepes, lemon and sugar. Fresh, sweet and perfect ‘Breakfast for Dinner’ food.

The last of it got warmed up and tossed into sweet popcorn. To make sweet, buttery popcorn, I pop a batch of kernels.

Once popped, I allow it cool down for a few minutes, then I drizzle my melted butter over the popcorn. This is followed with the tiniest pinch of salt, and then lots of granulated (caster) sugar. A thorough toss and my sweet, lemon popcorn is ready.

For my eating, and for school lunch boxes.

I know you know that lemony brown butter is only one possibility. Think Mandarins. Oranges. I won’t go on.

I’ll stop here.

With grand visions of beurre noisette et citron.

All my love XXX

Sometimes, home-made is

I first met Deepa ‘virtually’ in 2011, when she commented on my ‘Spiced Pumpkin Churros‘ post.  It turns out she spent many years of her childhood in my very same home country of Nigeria. I was totally bowled over, because not only did she grow up in Nigeria, but also because she wanted to write about one of my favourite ever snacks, puff-puff.

Deepa writes: ‘I chanced on your beautiful site while searching around for any commentaries on puff puffs that might be out there, for a blog I write. I grew up in Kano, and on puff puffs (unbeknownst to my parents, who forbade “outside food” as a matter of course). Just wanted to say here that your post was beautiful, the writing just perfectly sugared and crisp and warm, much like the churros themselves. I’m a repat, too, though not to Kano, but to India. It’s lovely to see narratives like yours out there, in parallel to the ones I’m living and trying to write about. Anyway, I look forward to staying in touch.

After reading Deepa’s puff-puff post, I was struck by how incisive, instructive, engaging, humourous and emotive her writing is. It took one post for me to feel like I had found a sister. And the die for this friendship, this sisterhood was cast. 

And then she showed herself true in loving Meyers as much as I do.

Deepa’s blog, Paticheri is a wonderful showcase of her many parts - cultural anthropologist, college professor, mother, wife, writer and totally wonderful illustrator/graphic designer!  

Her hope for ‘Pâticheri…… that it becomes a site for such narration, a celebration of food in all its messy, difficult, gastronomical ethno.graphic richness‘ is lived out every time she writes a post. 

Thank you Deepa, for agreeing to share not only Indian culture with us, but a view of the Meyer as a cure-all, not only mentally with its heady scents, but also flavourfully!

—–00000—–

When Ozoz asked me to come up with a guest post on Meyer lemons, I thought to myself: sure, that’s easy. There’s nothing easier than writing passionately about the things one loves the most in life, and Meyers fall easily into that category. Right?

Think again.

Trouble is, I’m hardly alone in my expression of unabashed devotion to Meyers. To have swooned at their sweet fragrance and delighted in their generous juiciness. To have marvelled at the way they’d all turn from green to luminous yellow after the first Houston frost–like globular lights turning on, signalling southern Christmastime.

I’m not alone in my crazed stuffing of already overfull backpacks with ripening lemons to convey them great distances on the simple faith that it is a sin to waste a Meyer. Nor in my desperation to retain access to these rare lemons by growing them from seed, even if it means waiting a whole eight years, and battling through seasons and salt water winds, and bugs and vermin of all kinds, in order to hope–just hope–for one more ripe fruit.

The Survivor – Deepa’s Meyer

SaplingI’m certainly not alone in knowing, somewhere in my bones and at the base of my tongue, that what Meyers bring to the dishes they grace are not to be compared to anything else in this world.

A bountiful harvest, to inspire future ones

Those of us who’ve thought these things and experienced these things and done these things belong to a tribe all our own. We don’t meet often. We may not even know of each-others’ existence. But we will recognize each-other at once, through our mutual dedication to the Meyer.

[A bit like those chocolate lovers out there, who will group together in degrees, as milk or 70% cacao types].

What to say to this tribe that hasn’t already been said? The beloved Meyer has already been tarted, curded, roasted, cordialed, and baked upside-down. What other essence could there possibly be left to extract? I was stumped.

I was also, as it happened, dog sick. After a full week of non-stop days and relentless deadlines, my body just caved. Convalescing on the couch, I found myself thinking of Meyers as medicinal rather than indulgences. The 20th cup of honey-lemon-ginger tea warming my hands, I found myself wishing for something less sweet. I found myself dreaming of rasam.

A bowl of Rasam in ‘soup’ form

“Rasam” probably deserves a post (or two) of its own to really do it justice – but for now, a quick overview so as to connect the dots to the Meyer lemon.

Rasam as a dish is basically a clear soup prepared with a few select ingredients and eaten with rice. It’s an essential component of the South Indian meal, but can also be had on its own as a drink. Fantastically soothing and lightly nutritious, it’s perfect for convalescents – a sort-of vegan equivalent to chicken soup. Its variations are endless: rasam can be made with or without dal, with or without tomatoes, with or without tamarind, with or without black pepper and cumin, with or without green chillies, with or without jaggery (raw palm sugar), with or without ginger, with or without garlic, with or without a spice powder. It can be deeply complex, or surprisingly simple.

Are you with me still? Or without? [grinning widely]

It’s difficult to explain what rasam positively is, beyond a “broth.” To go farther, we need a brief primer in Indian aesthetics. Yes, there is a connection, if you’ll bear with me.

Rasa in Sanskrit means juice or essence. As a theory of aesthetics, it refers to emotional states in their most distilled form–so we speak of the navarasas, or the nine rasas: Love (Śṛngāram/शृङ्गारं), mirth or happiness (hāsyam/हास्यं), raudram (anger/ रौद्रं), compassion (kāruṇyam/कारुण्यं), disgust (bībhatsam/बीभत्सं), fear (bhayānakam/ भयानकं), (vīram/वीरं), and wonderment (adbhutam/अद्भुतं). Not all these emotions are expressed together, of course; some are given greater play at certain moments in life, and we usually know what combination is at work at any given time.

The rasa theory of aesthetics carries over into culinary arts in the form of rasam. The dish is a distillation of the juice or essence of tomato, or lemon, or ginger, or black pepper, or even the oddest of vegetables that is the “drumstick” – made possible by aligning it precisely amidst a constellation of other ingredients such that its taste comes across exactly, and powerfully.

But wait, you’re thinking, you need all these other ingredients to make the taste of lemon come through? Why not just the juice? or the essential oil?

But it’s funny, isn’t it – that for us to really be able to grasp, to experience on our palates, to revel in the quintessence of anything, we need to know as much what it is, as what it’s not. And that we often know what feelings and tastes and ideas definitively are, by pinning down what they’re not. Rasam does that for its star ingredient, in this case the Meyer lemon: it distils essence by setting up a play of contrasts.

Since the precise taste of tamarind or lemon or tomato varies by the batch, rasam varies, too. Our mothers were masters at figuring out these variations and distilling essences to soothe our souls daily, with no culinary school or cookbook to teach them precisely how. Knowing how to work with tastes at this most basic level, getting a feel for spices and tastes so that you can choreograph a ballet in which one precise taste comes shining through at will and on demand – for me, this is the source of some real culinary finesse.

In my case, with my mother far away, and my condition and craving as it was, the task at hand was to set a stage on which the essence of the Meyer lemon, its precise rasa, could come shining through. And soothe my nose and throat and throbbing head, while at it.

Basic ingredients: ginger, turmeric, green chillies, fresh coriander, and of course Meyer lemon juice and zest [that last gets sprinkled as a garnish].

The same ingredients with the addition of rice, peanuts, and a few dry lentils, would make a nice batch of lemon rice, I decided. Lemon paired with lemon should have signalled overkill, but I could think of nothing but a jubilant celebration of lemon-ness on the one hand, and the solid, natural dose of Vitamin C I’d be getting, on the other.

The essence of the Meyer in two acts.

 —–00000—–

Thank you Deepa. I am sooooooooooo looking forward to making both Rasam soup and Lemon Rice. Both look and sound stunning.

Visit Deepa’s wonderful blog at Paticheri.

Take Janet and I – twins in our desire for Meyer Lemon Caramel.

One afternoon, I sat at my office desk. I’m not sure what prompted me, but thoughts of golden, citrus-flavoured caramel were swirling around in my head.

I headed to the world wide web to have a look – I was sure great saints of the Meyer had gone before me. And sure, they had.

What made me laugh though was that they too had peered out, and with telescopic eyes dug deep to unearth a lemon caramel recipe a la Martha, which was successfully converted to one for Meyers.

Giving me hope.

Giving me courage.

Perfect Chunky Meyer Lemon Caramel

Most of all, giving me a companion, for Janet of A Raisin and a Porpoise says so eloquently:

Maybe people in California throw away tired lemons. I read recently that a mature lemon tree can produce a thousand or more in a single season, and my friend Laura, who lives in a grove of the fecund little monsters, says this is a severe underestimation.  Here on the scurvious East Coast, where a person can be asked to pay upwards of two dollars for a lemon, we are not composting lemons, shriveled or otherwise.  We look no gift-lemon in the mouth.

Lemon what, though?  Lemon curd, maybe.  These were too far gone for preserved lemons. The musical phrase ‘lemon caramel’ came to me, and I checked to confirm that what I thought might be my own idea had in fact occurred to numerous people before me (the primary function of the internet). Indeed it had.  It had occurred, for example, to Martha.  But three tablespoons of lemon juice was not going to get me very far through this bag.  Plus, as you may have surmised, I very rarely find myself saying, ‘that was a little too lemony for my tastes.”  Half a cup did the trick, cutting the sweetness nicely.

I burst into laughter for it was the same way I came to the conclusion that lemon caramel was it. Not quite wacky but ‘weird’ enough to appeal to the ‘creative’ in me.

With two tired lemons left of my treasure box, one was destined for caramel, while the other…still awaits its fate. A fate of lemon bars – I’m convinced!

The night I made it, I was tired….from work. I wanted no dinner, couldn’t eat a thing. Till the caramel was made…and then I hungered, for some sauce ladled over a slab of Meyer Lemon Ice-cream.

I couldn’t wait for the ice-cream to thaw, so I could make a nice ball of it. No sir, I uprooted the slab, stuck as it was in a shallow bowl. I ladled some of the Meyer Lemon Caramel sauce over it, finished with some flaked salt and settled down to watch TV.

Heaven attained.

Slab of Meyer Lemon Ice Cream, caramel and flaky salt

Meyer Lemon Caramel

adapted from Janet, adapted from Martha

• Martha’s version appears to use regular lemons, with a touch of lemon juice and Limoncello, with no lemon zest
• Janet’s version has more lemon juice, and lemon zest to amplify the floral, citrus flavours
• My version uses a whole blitzed up Meyer lemon, sans the seeds

Ingredients

I desired candied chunks of Meyer lemon so I was happy to go with what my old Braun processor gave. Chopped. Or did I understand that my old food processor could only give what it gave and so was happy with larger bits? Sigh. Chicken or Egg. One will never know. Either way, happy was I with my lemon flavour.

Directions

Stage 1: Cooking the Sugar Syrup

In a heavy saucepan, combine the sugar and water over medium heat.

Stir occasionally till the sugar is dissolved and the syrup is clear. Bring the mixture to a boil, about 4 minutes.

Stage 2: Cooking the Caramel

In the next stage it is important to stop stirring, otherwise the mixture will crystallise.

1: As the mixture takes on colour, notice  how large the bubbles are

Turn the heat down a bit and continue to cook, swirling the pan from time to time, until the mixture is a medium amber in colour. Another 8 minutes or so.

The recommendation is to wash down sides of pan with a wet pastry brush to prevent crystals from forming.

I didn’t do this and could see some crystals forming, thankfully they didn’t affect my sauce. Perhaps I was lucky….don’t take the chance, ok?

2: Note the transition to bubbles; small and large in clusters

The mixture starts off as a glassy light yellow. Not quite sunny. Not the colour of stained glass. More like the colour of translucent candied lemons. As the heating continued, the bubbles grew smaller, while some clustered in big masses (compare photo below, with that above)

3: more colour, smaller bubbles….caramel is almost ready!

Remove from the heat and dump in the blitzed lemon mixture and the butter.

Note, keep from putting your face over/into the pot as some spitting may occur.

Resume stirring, with a (slim) wooden spoon. Slim spoon for slim hands.

Return to the heat, stirring until the mixture is combined, the butter melted and the makings of a sauce begin.

Keep on a low boil for 2 -3 minutes and watch the colour change to amber brown. Right before your very eyes.

The mixture will thicken as it cools. Mine was the colour and the consistency of ‘honey’, at room temperature. I poured it into a clean jar, and proceeded to ‘taste’/test it by the spoonful. It was yummy. Barring the occasional ’bumping’  bit of pith.

On ice cream it was great, but scooped over a slice of apple cake, sprinkled with flaky salt and sharing space with a quenelle of crème fraiche, it was DIVINE.

As my daughter, J described it, ‘….it tastes like caramel marmalade’. I hope you get the picture.

And can imagine the taste.

Thank you Janet! Thank you Meyer Lemons.

The final word: the possibilities for use are endless. Pancakes, Waffles, Toast. My daughter swirled some into crème fraiche and proclaimed it tasted just like caramel and ‘plain & natural’ yogurt. I had to try it to verify.

Purely for experimental purposes, you know? Wink. Wink.

Long live the Meyer.

It took me 15 months to get my hands on Meyers but I did. Last June, I made Lazy Mary’s Tart, and we had it all before dinner. The only way I can describe how good it was, is that my very particular 2nd daughter, requested seconds. I guess that says it all.

I made 2 tarts in 2 days.

And that was the end of the Meyer lemons, I thought.

I had no idea one could extend the hope and per chance the life of a Meyer by keeping the seeds.

The first sprouts –  Meyer Lemon shoots

Enter Deepa of Paticheri. And her wonderfully, enlightening post on growing Meyers – part poetry, part prose and full tutorial.

I was thankful for her post but full of lament.

September, 2012

Oh Deepa, I am weeping. Because I carried 3 Meyer lemons in my bag home in June. I made the most amazing Lemon tarts with them, and cakes and I moaned the fact that I couldn’t plant the seeds. Ask me why I thought that was not possible? My daughter suggested we keep them and I said…’na, they won’t grow’. I thought. This is strange coming from me who has a herb garden where cilantro plants, 3 types of basil, savoury, radishes, asparagus, tomatoes and other beloved plants (grown from seed) share company.

I planted the seeds even when everyone questioned me, saying ‘Will they grow?’, and me responding ‘ I won’t know till I’ve planted them now, will I?’.

Why then did I not treasure the Meyer seeds? Why didn’t you write this earlier (I’m sorry, this is no blame deflection)! What I do know is that I keep this post in my heart, and the words in my head….because Meyer lemons are a GEM that I can’t live without.

And your drawing and writing are soooooooooooooooo inspired. Glad I met you!

It was belated. I had no lemons, no seeds…..so nothing to sprout, to grow, and future encounters with Meyers were then, unknown, unplanned.

Till New York in the winter and Baby David, till Deepa sent me, all the way from Pondicherry a thick envelope with Meyer seeds in them. Which made their way gingerly home with me, to Nigeria. Already sprouted.

A gift of sprouted seeds, roots dug deep into the tissue

The seeds finally made their way into terracotta pots, which I diligently watered and then we went away for a  week and I came back to find empty pots, tiny plants withered to dust.

But there’s no panic, I have seeds waiting patiently, already sprouted and ready for potting.

And a whole lot more from seeds I’ve collected myself.

Freshly removed Meyer seeds

Some things you should know before you embark on this journey

•  It takes a ‘long’ time for Meyer Lemon trees to grow and fruit, anywhere from 6 years and above
• This is a journey you want to embark on if, and only if you are a dedicated follower of Meyers for hope is a big thing!
• Some people thing Meyer Lemons never grow from seed but I am willing to plant….and hope. And otherwise, buy a tree (don’t know when or how, but that’s my back up plan). Though I read in a Tropical Garden Forum that they can grow successfully

I planted a lemon seed that I sucked up from my iced tea in 2004!

That tree is NOW almost as tall as my second story house and has about 24 lemons on it! Last year, 2010, was the first year I got any fruit, and there were only TWO lemons!

This year I got a lot more and right now the tree is blossoming and there are literally HUNDREDS of blossoms and buds! I just picked my first lemon today and the taste is AMAZING! I’m actually brewing some iced tea as I type! As long as the three is fruiting… I may NEVER have to buy a lemon AGAIN! The post earlier about the thorns is correct… they are NASTY buggers! VERY sharp and I even get an allergic reaction to them if they scratch my skin! Even if my tree NEVER produced fruit, I’d still be glad I tried! It’s so cool to see it grow! I live in FL and the citrus population is abundant here, so I don’t know if that has anything to do with the success of my tree, but where ever you may life, it’s worth the try!; Gemofa Teacher

You will need

• To sprout the seeds: Bounty Kitchen Tissue and a Zippy bag 
• To pot/grow the seeds: Potting soil, small pots, about with drainage holes, warmth/light

How to grow a Meyer Lemon, from seed

Pre Step-1: Read Deepa’s wonderful tale of growing Meyer Lemons

Step 1: Lay your hands on Meyer Lemons. Explore their delightful ways in the pre-requisite to getting the seeds: Bake, Stew, Candy and Curd the flesh and the juice, being careful to reserve the seeds.

Step 2: Prepare a host of material which will house your seeds – Bounty kitchen Tissue (for its strength), and a zippy (ziploc) bag.

Wet the kitchen tissue, wringing out all the excess water, leaving it damp. Lay it out flat. Set aside

Step 3: Peel the seeds. You will have to do this seed-by-seed. Take a seed: note each one has a pointy end, and a smoother, rounder one.The seeds start out sticky, covered with a protective gel. You will need to strip them down, to get to the heart cotyledons of the matter.

Lick the protective gel off the seed and carefully with a sharp finger nail from the pointed end, peel off the tough wrinkled top layer to reveal a layer of brown skin beneath.

The seed sheathed in brown resembles a black-eyed pea. Bean.

It hides smooth cotyledons underneath. I gently peel away the thin skin to reveal the seeds within.

L to R: Fully cloaked to naked seed, ready for sprouting

See the halves? I was loathe to split them but some did.

I set the other, still-together naked seeds on a sheet of dampened Bounty.

Wrapped it up, slipped it gently into a zippy bag and set it in a warm pot, in my garage to rest.

After a few days,  some seeds split into two halves, and others begin to sprout.

After a couple of weeks, the seeds are sprouted, their roots have began to dig  into the tissue.

I like them to stay sprouting, till they are at least 8 centimetres long, and I can clearly differentiate the beige, less green roots from the greener, cotyledons and shoots. This certainly makes it easier to plant, the right way down.

But of ALL the things I love about learning to grow a Meyer, I absolutely adore Deepa’s infographic which is beauty, talent and instruction in one.

Courtesy of Deepa, Paticheri.com

Now some doubt that you can grow Meyers from seeds but I’m willing to take the chance…..in the hope that perhaps someday….

Thanks Deepa - I encourage everyone to read her post.

I suspect the same method could be applied to other citrus seeds, but I haven’t tried.

Have you ever grown citruses from seed?

Because that’s essentially what it is, a cinnamon roll that wears its fragrant sugar crystals on it sleeve, and chest. Not hidden, not tucked into a pinwheel to be seen in hints, but no, a roll that is bold. Courageous, one that sends cinnamon well before it, not just golden dough.

My quest with lemons is always a toss between dough and cream.

I wonder which one lets citrus flavours shine through? And so the tests begin.

One takes a regular batch of dough, excited to try yet another variation on the cinnamon roll. One has tested the regular version, and the pull apart. Its time for the Russian Rose.

The Russian Rose begins with the filling. In my case sugar, cinnamon and Meyer lemon zest.

That filling goes into dough rolled into a rectangle. Then it is rolled.

And with a pair of scissors, cut along the entire length to reveal ‘leaves, or sheets of lemon, cinnamon and sugar.

Sparkling dough, crusted and glittering with sugar crystals

The next step is great work for small hands – a simple two-strand twist. Nowhere as terrifying as the three-strand braid.

Many hands make light work of twisting dough

Its interesting to look at, easy to twist and voila, its done.

Ready to be coiled into a round, greased pan. Left to prove till gaps are filled and time is past.

Baked to perfection in no time.

And great flavours, with lemony goodness wrapped into a tender loaf.

Winner, again, The re-invented, turned inside-out, Cinnamon roll.

Recipe: I used my standard Cinnamon roll recipe, same as for my pull-apart loaf, and baked it in a 9-inch round tin.

I wish I’d saved a slice to photograph…….alas, I did not.

You’ll enjoy it still, right?

Right.

Mwah

The path looks deceptively gentle, but as we climb, knees bent, hands free and backs laden with rucksacks, the ground before us rises steeply….

Slices of Meyer Lemon Focaccia

This is Utah. The hills of Utah. I’m out seeing Geology but taking in scents. Scents of the valleys, scents of the hills.

My nose is assailed with the scent of wild rosemary, growing in thick, midget bushes which flank both sides of the path.

I stretch out my right hand to pluck at some leaves which I crush with my fingers. I let the bruised needles fall to the ground and bring my fingers up to my nose.

Walking in the valley

I inhale the fresh herbaceousness and I know what’s missing – garlic, lamb chops and potatoes. If only could have a full roast dinner, perched on the mountain top.

Tuck in, tuck out. Pack up the remains in a brown paper bag and walk easily down a mountain.

Funny enough, I’ve always been mixed about my love or not for Rosemary.

Its been a one-herb wonder for me. Great with lamb…..and not much else. Enter Meyer lemon focaccia. Enter deensiebat and food52.com.

This recipe came to my fore on a night when I had bread dough in my fridge and Meyers on hand.

Breakfast the next morning was easy.

Wet dough spread out with floured fingers on parchment paper. Thinly sliced Meyer lemon, carefully spaced. Dried Rosemary pines carelessly strewn.

Oven baked till bread base turns golden. Then fired under the grill/broiler, about 6 inches down for a few minutes on medium till bronzed on top too.

Sweet with some slight pucker.

Bitter, sweet, savoury, floral, chewy and fragrant with the piney herbaceouness of Rosemary. No fresh Rosemary on hand – dry worked beautifully with no ill effects. I believe. I loved the  way the slices of lemons remain juicy, bitter, sweet and a tad salty.

My children hankered for more.

Twice it has been made and twice have we proclaimed sounds of greatness and love.

If you get a chance, and you love lemons, give it a go: Meyer Lemon Focaccia.

Have a restful weekend.