You know all my kvetching about Californians? My musings on the 45 year old man being towed by his enormous dog down the middle of the street on his skateboard, drinking a beer? The bank teller that comments on the color of your aura? Food Psychics? Metaphysical Life Coaches? SUV drivers/phone addicts of epic rudeness? (And, yes, I have not forgotten that I AM A CALIFORNIAN.)
Well. I might just take it all back because each and every person in this state apparently owns their own lemon tree. And now every person is overwhelmed with a sense of largess. Huge barrels have appeared on street corners, overwhelming food banks, sold for a dime on street corners by Frank who is trying real hard to kick the crack habit. Workplaces vie for "Take Me" plates, with impatiently written post-it noting the sweeter, oranger Meyer varieties or the monstrous bright yellow mutants.
I sit here with a chipped blue bowl with six perfect pesticide-free shiny green plugged specimens. Heaven. A full-backhand of a citrus sour fresh punch, something to make the taste buds squeal with delight and the saliva glands ache. If it weren't for a need to not melt my dental enamel, I'd eat them like tangerines.