Limes and reasons

I love trying new recipes. Especially those that call for unusual ingredients or combinations of ingredients. And so I buy limes because they have exactly that –a hint of otherness. They seem somehow loftier than their relatives- oranges and lemons being so ordinary. Not limes. Their subtle taste and fragrance satisfies my yearning for the unusual, the exceptional. I find it exhilarating that there exists such a thing as a lime.

     I put them in a pretty bowl and pass by them day by day thinking that I must use them for something special. Simply juicing it like some common orange and drinking the fresh juice just won’t do. And so a week passes, and then two. And the limes in my bowl become withered and dry while the apples and bananas come and go in quick succession to nourish me at breakfast time.

     Why do I do this? I seem to have a tendency to treat anything special this way. Fresh cherries, strawberries or gooseberries. Tender asparagus spears at the end of winter. I cherish them and save them for a special occasion, the perfect recipe. Only to have to throw out the rotten lot later with a feeling of guilt and loss.

     I do this in other areas of my life as well. With things like my best porcelain and perfume.

     How about the precious commodity of time? I tend to view the mundane and the ordinary things in life as a nuisance, not worth my undivided attention or even worse, my enjoyment. I seem to always be saving myself up for something grander. Something worth an entry in my journal, or worth taking a picture of.

In doing so, the simple things in life come about with minimal awareness, and get to be served up again freshly prepared the next and every day, while what I deem to be worthwhile is written into scripts in my head that never make it to the stage.

     Even my writing isn’t safe. I write sparingly, requiring my words to be those of someone accomplished at writing. If they don’t deliver, and I’m  my own worst nightmare as a critic, I’d rather they stay unwritten. And so I save up words, phrases, ideas for the day that they can be put on display.

      Often, I have missed an image or idea’s special moment in the sun because of this. 

      So now I’m thinking: those sorry looking limes might still have some life in them. I’m going to use the juice on roast chicken tonight, and the zest in a recipe that I have been dying to try for ages—biscotti with poppy seed and lime zest. Now doesn’t that sound exotic?!

      And as far as time and words go: I’m going to enjoy them as if the supply is unlimited.

Trying not to make a distinction between the ordinary and the extra-ordinary, I am going to remind myself that everything, even the exceptional, can only really be appreciated when it gets to be consciously experienced.

     It is only by picking up that lime, weighing it in my hand, smelling it, peeling, juicing, tasting it, that it can truly give of itself to it’s full potential. Thereby enriching me. In that sense, it becomes more, not less.

     Maybe it boils down to simply living with awareness. Allowing myself to become an ingredient in the unique recipe of the present moment. I have a feeling I will not be spent any time soon.

     And God doesn't run out of recipes.

Matilda