I love lemons. Nowadays I don’t go a day without them – as sure as the coming of morning light. The classic lemon-quarter squeezed into a mug of boiled water has become a necessity for me. It’s warm, bright, clarifying and energizing, as if sunlight in diluted, drinkable form.
When in Bangladesh, I was delighted to find young lemon trees lining the perimeter of the new allotment in my grandfather’s garden. When rubbed, like magic the leaves release such a radiant, sparkling scent. Predictably, the aroma is like lemon, but in leaf form it’s more perfume-y than edibly juicy. If the life-giving sun wore a perfume, then lemon-leaf would doubtless be a key note.
I find it wonderful how leaves are like little hands, holding out to take in the sun-rays to ‘feed’ the plant for photosynthesis. But it seems that with the lemon tree, the sun doesn’t just scatter its ‘hands’ with the gift of her rays, but kisses the palms with a particular love and choseness that instils in the tree a piece of her heart.
