Contest Alert ⚠️ 1 Picture 1 Story Week #92

So the four green-yellow peeled citruses served on a plain plate always remind me about the kitchen of my grandmother 👵 where magic and mischievousness could easily be intermingled. Not only could you smell fresh lemons in the air but it was a faint smell of stories spun.

It was a very hot summer afternoon and I was about seven years old when grandmother, Nana Rose, decided that a Lemonade Laughter Potion was needed. With all the seriousness in the world she said so, and her eyes sparkled so brightly, I forgot even how hot it was. There was the very stage at which her brewing had started in the picture--beautifully peeled lemons, the outermost part of their skins scraped off in the most cunning manner: leaving the inner white part ready to be juiced.

These, she said, and pointing to one of the smooth, round fruits, "are the cups of pure sunshine." But before we can get their laughs out of them we have to get them out of their green armour." She gave me a blunt butter knife and with delicate effort I attempted to copy her exacting modus operandi of peeling. My crude attempts left the edges jagged, as well as pieces of green on the white pith that was not so smooth as the one in the photo was. Nana Rose said nothing of that sort, however; nay, she complimented my rustic charm, and made me feel like a great cook.

The actual test was to follow. Nana told me that every lemon was not juice, it was also a little imp of sourness. In order to make it laughable we needed to tickle the lemons. This was by rolling them hard on the countertop with some downward pressure. Feel their stiffness?" and she would say in a confidential tone of voice, she would say. That is the imp fighting! But, my dear, perseverance brings in the victory.

I can recall sweating and straining in the effort, and grunting, and my little hands not bearing enough weight, and feeling that I was playing with an invisible opponent at the very least, at worst that I was fighting a devil. The photograph, where no bruise is on the lemons and its cut is just perfect symbolize this ideal, not my own not so beautiful and smooth start!

After being tickled and softened enough we cut them open. The smooth, wet looking bites which are ready to be squeezed contrast greatly with the rather dry and fibrous appearance of the entire, un-cut lemons in the picture. Nana Rose possessed a beautiful, fancy glass juicer, and when the sour juice flowed over the pitcher her little song was recited, to which she applied the title of the Lemon Laughter Liberator.

Mint-sweet, into lemonade made of little home-honey, sweet as witchwork, was her garden-minted water. Every drink was followed by giggle, some silly tale, or utter outburst of pleasure. It was not only the sugar but the ritual, the belief and common labor. Seeing these peeled lemons I do not only see fruit, I see the laughter to be, the voice of Nana Rose in my head, and the timelessness of a simple sun-drenched memory. It reminds of the fact that the most trite ingredients also can form something really magnificent when united by love and a pinch of fantasy.

Thanks for reading my post I'm inviting @josepha, @goodybest and @bela90 to participate.