Preserved Lemons, A Work In Progress
I don’t have a recipe to share, just the beginnings of a process. While I’m mostly there in muscle work, the wait has just begun.
The story starts with ten Meyer lemons, four of which are present in the shots below. They were gifts from my sister, who gave them to me, freshly purchased from the farmer’s market, right before Chris and I left for the airport. The precious bundle became part of my check-in baggage, wedged carefully under the seat ahead of me much to the amusement of the passenger to my left. Clearly he didn’t realize they weren’t ordinary lemons.
For days, I contemplated what I would make, all the endless possibilities, but my mind had already made itself up. It was going to be preserved lemons. I’d been thinking about making my own for awhile, but my hangup has always been the fact that the jar would be sitting on the counter at room temperature for days. Doesn’t botulism develop under such conditions?
But how exactly does botulism develop in a jarful of acid and salt? Reason conquered dramatics. Plus, I sterilized my jar.
So, without further ado, a free form how-to on making preserved lemons, gleaned from multiple sources (but I like the pictures here the best.)
You start with a sterilized jar (I’m not sure how necessary this step is, but do it just to be safe) and however many of these babies you think will fit in it snugly. (I ended up misjudging, thinking I could fit four lemons in a 12-oz. mason jar when it only fit three. But my lemons were huge.) Make sure to scrub them very very well, because the peel is what you’ll be eating.
Chop off the tops, then slice each lemon into four segments…
… stopping a little short of the end so that they’re still attached.
Then, using non-iodized salt (iodized imparts an unpleasant taste), stuff each lemon with about 1 Tbsp of salt. Rub the salt all over (but watch those tiny paper cuts and hangnails as they will sting!), jam it in.
Cover the bottom of the jar with a layer of salt, and then squelch a lemon in. Push it in hard, so that the juices squirt out.
Between lemons, add more salt, and spices if you decide to use them (some choices include whole black peppercorns, cinnamon sticks, dried bay leaves, cloves, coriander seeds). I would spice sparingly.
In the end, I managed to fit three lemons in the jar very snugly. (I considered preparing a second jar, since I’d already prepared a fourth lemon, but in case the jarring doesn’t go well, I’d like to have lemons left over to make other delicious things with.) And they were very juicy, so I was able to cover the lemons with the juice. If the wedges are not covered, squeeze in more juice until it covers the wedges. Make sure there’s some air space left behind (I’m afraid my jar is too full, but let’s see, shall we?).
Screw on the lid, and you’re done!
Now, The Wait. Leave the jar on the counter for the next few days, giving it a shake every now and then to distribute the salt and juices. Transfer the jar to the fridge and let it sit another month or so. Give it a shake every now and then.
Alright, in true journalistic fashion (this is very serious reportage here), I’ll report on the progress of my preserved lemons every week or so and give you guys an update. (This is kind of like a reality show, isn’t it?) And when they’re finally ready… well, those tantalizing thoughts are best buried in the back of the mind, but I’ll be featuring recipes here, that’s for sure!
Tomato Soup
Yesterday, I was working at Starbucks (Freelancers Central) when a lady standing by the doors tipped over into a drug-induced trance.
The baristas immediately called 9-1-1, but the woman sitting next to me, the one who’d seen the whole incident go down because she’d been standing outside making a phone call when it happened, just shook her head and informed me that the lady was ‘as high as a kite.’
Now that’s a feeling I can relate to. That world-weariness. After all, I had gone to school in the most psychedelic college town in the country (Berkeley), and lived in what is probably the most homeless-friendly big city in the WORLD (San Francisco). I’ve seen it all—so what if I’m only 26?—all the different variations of drug-induced catatonia and rants and everything in between.
This old man with white hair, he’s a regular who just hangs out in the cafe all day chatting with other regulars (except me, because I avoid eye contact with strangers, much in the style of Amelie Poulain), leapt up from his seat and raced outside, wanting to take charge of the situation. He reminded me of one of those alert guard dogs, the kind that’s been bred to inspect signs of disorder, and cleared aside the small crowd that had gathered around the woman to get a closer look.
He re-entered the cafe a few minutes later. “She’s on drugs,” he said disgustedly.
A few minutes later, the lady dizzily pushed herself up and teetered away. “She’s only on drugs,” Mr. Regular repeated, shaking his head.
This was when the firemen rushed onto the scene. They pulled up in their shiny truck with their sirens blaring, and parked gracefully into the empty space in front of the building that just happened to be big enough for one regular-sized fire truck.
“Did they need to bring so many men?” the woman beside me asked. Sure enough, five firemen stepped out, clad in their heavy protective gear. Men who meant business. Men who looked like they were ready to put out a fire.
“She doesn’t need firemen,” said Regular Man. “She needs to be slapped in the face and drenched with tomato soup!”
Tomato soup, now that’s an idea.
Did he mean what he said sadistically? Was he implying that the lady should be burned with a hot, acidic liquid as a sort of punishment? Or maybe he thought it would revivify her, the equivalent of pushing her into a molten pool. Or maybe he just wanted tomato soup for dinner and had made a Freudian slip.
Whatever the case, guessing does not change the fact: these are the kinds of moments that can inspire meals. I’m very easily persuaded, and I happen to really like tomato soup.
This recipe is one I’ve been making since my student days, so you can be sure that it’s low-maintenance. And it came in handy during my time in San Francisco, a city whose 365-days-per-year fog and gloom is enough to drive a person mad. You see, you need a soup as heartening as this to keep your spirits up, lest you succumb to drastic measures. Like quitting your job and chasing summer in the Southern Hemisphere. Well, that latter part was unintentional.
I don’t remember how I came upon this recipe anymore. I copied it long ago into a little pocket notebook that I have on me at all times—we all have one of these, I suspect—and have been faithfully following the same set of directions for a long time. I’m sure its source is not as obscure as I make it seem, but I prefer to keep it a mystery, for the sake of having a “family recipe” that I can pass down for generations. Or not. I don’t think that far ahead. (But it would be cool nonetheless.)
TOMATO SOUP
Serves 4
Ingredients:
- 1 28-ounce can of chopped tomatoes
- 1/4 cup olive oil
- salt & ground pepper to taste
- 2 stalks celery, diced
- 2 small carrots, diced
- 1 large yellow onion, diced
- 4 cloves garlic, minced
- 2 cups chicken broth
- 2 bay leaves
- 1/2 cup chopped basil
- 1/4 cup cream or milk, optional
Directions:
Preheat oven to 450 degrees F. Strain tomatoes, reserving the juices, and spread onto baking sheet. Season with salt and pepper, and drizzle with about 1 Tbsp olive oil. Roast until caramelized, about 15 minutes.
In a saucepan, heat the rest of the oil on medium-low heat. Add celery, carrots, onion, and garlic. Cook until softened, about 10 minutes. Add the roasted tomatoes, reserved juices, chicken broth, and bay leaves. Simmer until vegetables are tender, 15 to 20 minutes. Add basil and cream if using. Puree with an immersion blender.