The Lemon Resurrection

Well, I did not end up cooking on Easter in the end. And it turned out, this was exactly what I needed. I had found myself craving company upon coming back from France. I had visions of a big lunch, like we hosted in Paris over the past two years. First with my in-laws visiting from California – a large, mostly vegetarian crowd with two veggie haters and an impromptu non-Muslim Ramadan follower. You can imagine what I was secretly thinking while planning the menu for that one. I don’t even remember what I made. My brain must be protecting me from the trauma. The following year we invited my friend C. and her children – a last-minute affair with an embarrassing failure of a lamb and overcooked oeufs cocotte. Stressful both times, and fun both times. This year, I had not really thought about Easter before we came back from Spring Break. -have I ever mentioned my seemingly genetic inability to think ahead, for many things but especially anything involving vacation and school breaks? So, our aunts, and uncles, and NYC cousins of all kinds, had other plans. And I was too shy to invite friends who might be in town – another silly trait of mine, that fear of being turned down.

So, there I was, with an itch to host a crowd and enjoy good conversation over eggs and lamb, with a healthy dose of red wine. But it was obvious, by Thursday night, that my Easter fantasies would not materialize. For a couple of days, I thought of getting out of town and whipped the entire family into a frenzy of sorts. Nagging my teenagers about their plans, getting upset when finding out that my daughter just HAD TO see her summer camp friend visiting from Texas on Saturday afternoon. Waiting to hear from my sixteen-year-old son and his school obligations for the following week. He told me he had none, but it turned out there was an SAT practice test scheduled Sunday morning. Of course he had no idea it was Easter morning. Like he had no idea his film project was due the day after he was supposed to come back from France over Spring Break. When I feel unable to plan and seriously calendar-challenged, I can look at my son for consolation. There are people worse than me, at least in the teenage pool of humanity. But this did not bring any consolation on the Easter front. Nor did it provide me with a plan.

By Friday night it was obvious that there would be no escape from the city this time, and that we would have to celebrate by ourselves. Which hasn’t stopped me in the past. There have been a couple of Easters when there was no family around and I made a nice lunch anyway, sometimes with the help of my children. I remember that one time when my daughter, then ten years old already and about to graduate from elementary school, agreed nonetheless to wear her pale blue dress with white polka dots and a bow in the back. That was a few months before she turned eleven and started acting like a blasé (and hysterical) teenager seemingly overnight. But that day she had decided to fully honor the Easter spirit, and she wore the dress. And made delicious lemon sundaes for us, from a website she found and swore by for a few months. I have no recollection of what I made for lunch. Lamb for sure, but how, I don’t know. I do seem to remember losing it at some point and saying that I never got any help in this house, lemon sundaes notwithstanding. For a long time, it was hard for me to host anything or cook anything elaborate for a holiday without losing it and finding myself yelling in the kitchen for whatever random reason. Cooking for people can be stressful. At least it is for me. Which is why, maybe, after the initial disappointment of realizing that we would indeed be home with nothing to do on Easter, came the wonderful and unexpected relief of realizing that I did not, in fact, have to cook. And that there would be many perfectly lovely brunch spots with a table for us in the city. The most popular places were booked, of course – we’re talking about a last-minute syndrome over here. But I did not need the most popular place. Just something acceptable and vaguely pleasant. The Milling Room fit that bill and had a late lunch table. With its big skylight on a perfectly sunny day, it sounded promising.

Because, the thing was, we had a perfect April day, however unexpected it was. And maybe precisely because it was unexpected. After the egg hunt in the morning – and, yes, the plastic eggs, AND the sinful chocolate egg in its shell, - I felt this strange urge to go to church. Which is something we never do. I mentioned that my husband is Jewish, and that I didn’t grow up in a religious household, despite my parents’ mildly catholic upbringing. Come to think of it, my dad’s catholic upbringing was so mild as to be non-existent. At least he never mentioned it, while my mom did talk about her communion and confirmation a few times. Anyhow. Dragging my husband to church is even harder to conceive than him going to a synagogue. Which is why I had failed in my mission to take us all to the Christmas Eve service, and the Christmas day service this past December. But this time for some reason, he agreed, and the hardest person to convince was my daughter. My oldest son, you will be reminded, was doing an SAT practice test, which was probably for the best. After the ritual screaming and complaining that she had SO MUCH homework, however, my daughter relented and we all hopped on the M5 bus down to the Church of St Paul’s and St Andrew’s, on West 86thstreet.

I chose the place wisely, knowing that it used to turn into a synagogue on Friday nights when I first moved into the city. And that they remain well-known in the neighborhood for their open, non-denominational family-friendly services. I had bribed my younger sons with the egg hunt that was scheduled to happen aftewards. And it turned out that it was indeed the perfect family mass we all needed. There was a cute puppet show involving a children’s novelist whose books my daughter had loved in her late elementary school years. Which probably partly explains why she vowed she would be back every Sunday and could barely hold back tears when I reminded her that she has normally has hip hop class at that time. Teenagers, I tell you. That girl who couldn’t be dragged out of her room two hours earlier, had decided to wear her Sunday’s best – not the polka dress, sure, but no jeans, and a nice shirt I thought she didn’t need when she wanted to buy it. And she was now a Mary Magdalen of sorts, converted by a sermon about the promises of an empty tomb, and committed to a weekly religious practice.

Sometimes you expect the worst, and you do get the worst. But there are days when you get surprised with the best, and those days should be fully enjoyed. Indeed, after this unexpected but inspiring service, we had almost two hours to kill before our late lunch reservation (last minute things, I tell you). So, we took a stroll through Central Park, which we hadn’t yet done as a family this year, now that we live too far. But the cherry blossoms were there for us, and so were the purple trees, whatever they are. I am not a flower and tree person, but New York this Spring might make me become one. There were also turtles, and Belvedere castle, and a few red Cardinals lost in the woodsy Ramble. Then there was lunch at the Milling Room, which was nothing spectacular, but did its Easter brunch job. And a stop at Strand Books next door, where my daughter pleaded for a cute pink Jelly Cat bunny with flowery ears. I wonder what it was that rekindled her little girl spirit that day. Maybe just the Easter miracle. I don’t really need to know, and was happy just to receive this unlikely gift, among many others that day.

Thinking back about that day, had I cooked at home, I would definitely have made the glorious lemon blueberry pudding I mentioned in passing last time. Lemon seems to be the taste of prolonged girlhood for my daughter, the taste of the polka dot dress and her last sparkles of childhood joy. I have found myself so melancholic lately, when I think of my older son leaving the house in a little over a year, and his siblings growing up at an alarming rate. A nice resurrection service, blooming purple trees, and a teenage girl’s enthusiasms were more gifts than I would have hoped for this Easter. So, enjoy Spring as much as you can while it lasts, and while the world rages all around us. It could be as simple as a taste of lemon.

Lemon pudding with blueberry jam.        

By Melissa Clark       

Needless to say, you could substitute fresh blueberries now that they will come in season. But I have to say the basic Bonne Maman wild blueberry jam did the trick for me and added a welcome extra kick of tanginess and sweetness.

INGREDIENTS

For 6 servings

• 2 tablespoons/28 grams unsalted butter, softened

• 1 cup/200 grams granulated sugar

• 2 large lemons, zested and juiced (about 2 tablespoons zest and ½ cup juice)

• ½ teaspoon fine sea salt

• 3 large eggs, yolks and whites separated

• ¼ cup/31 grams all-purpose flour

• 1 cup/236 milliliters whole milk

• ⅓ cup/about 120 grams blueberry jam

• Powdered sugar, for serving

PREPARATION

1. Step 1

Heat oven to 350 degrees with a rack in the center.

2. Step 2

In a large bowl, combine butter, sugar, lemon zest and salt, using a wooden spoon to mash together. Mix in egg yolks, then whisk in flour. Whisk in lemon juice and milk.

3. Step 3

In a small bowl, stir blueberry jam to loosen.

4. Step 4

Using a whisk, electric mixer or electric beaters, beat egg whites to stiff peaks. Fold into batter.

5. Step 5

Pour batter into a glass pie dish or shallow gratin dish and use a spoon to top with small dollops of jam. Bake until golden brown on top and just set (a wiggle in the center is fine), about 30 to 35 minutes. Cool for 10 minutes, then use a spoon to serve warm or room temperature with a dusting of powdered sugar.