A horticultural miracle.

My mother made every effort to attend parties and weddings.  Without a darn good reason, not accepting an invitation was, well, rude.  If they like us enough to invite us, then we like them enough to go, she would say.  I didn’t really understand this as a child, especially because my mother’s most frazzled moments involved darting around the house in bare feet, makeup partially applied, simultaneously telling my dad which tie to wear, my brother that tennis shoes were not acceptable, and me to put down that book and get dressed, for crying out loud.  It’s a wonder we ever got out of the house.

The part about being rude didn’t sink in until middle school, when I started receiving event invitations of my own.  The first time I told Mom I wasn’t going to Little Johnny’s party because he [is mean] / [is weird] / [smells funny] / [insert juvenile excuse here], she quickly put me in my place.  How would it feel, she asked, if you had a party, and no one came?  Decorations up, invitations sent, special outfit on, and then no one showed? I admitted that it was a pretty rotten scenario, and after that, I became quite the party-goer.

But as strongly as she felt about parties, Mom went to even greater lengths to attend funerals.  She went to funerals for people she’d barely met, without knowing a single other person in attendance.  Why?  It’s not for the deceased, she would say, it’s for their family. I didn’t understand that either – wouldn’t the family be more occupied with their own sadness than keeping tabs on attendees?

What I didn’t realize is that the truly sad part for the immediate family begins after the funeral, when life goes on and abandons them in their grief.  Before that, there’s simply no time.  It’s a whirlwind of activity, very much like planning a wedding on about three days’ notice: food, flowers, lectors, pallbearers, officiants, details, details, details.  Don’t even get me started on figuring out what to wear.  How bone-deep awful would it be to do all that for a mostly empty church?  What would that say about the deceased?

That’s why I had such mixed feelings during my own mother’s funeral.  I was stressed about the arrangements, and I was worried about giving the eulogy.  Seeing my mother in her casket was completely surreal.  But the giant offset to all that was the throngs of people who were there, some from far-flung places, and their tremendous outpouring of love and support.  I’ve never been in a sadder, more anxious, happier place in my life.

Now, when people ask me what they can do to help a friend who’s lost a loved one, my immediate suggestion is to attend the funeral, if at all possible.  It matters more than you might think.  That being said, I also understand that there are myriad reasons why some people simply can’t attend a funeral.  That’s why I want to tell you about what Janet did.

About a week after the funeral, the doorbell rang.  It was my neighbor, Janet.  Next to her was a small tree in a container, with a pretty stained glass cross hanging from one of the branches.

I wanted to give you something to honor your mom, she said.  It’s a Meyer lemon tree.

What she didn’t know was that my mother adored homegrown lemons.  She used to give gifts of pre-measured lemon juice with a recipe attached for lemon pudding or some such, and instructions on how to freeze it if they couldn’t use it right away.

Carnage.

And of course, as a cook, I use lemons all the time – and Meyers are my favorite.  It was an incredibly thoughtful gesture, and I immediately started fighting back appreciative tears.

But there was just one problem: I’m a terrible gardener.  The worst, actually.  I have a gruesome trail of dead houseplants, vegetables, herbs, and yeast starters in my wake.  One of my irrational fears while pregnant was that I’d be tasked with keeping a real human baby alive.  (Seriously.)

Normally I would have delegated tree stewardship to Matt, who is almost as good at growing stuff as building stuff – but as a budding entrepreneur, we both knew our little citrus gem wouldn’t be top of mind for him, either.  His solution? An automatic watering device.  Or, as I like to call it, my plant nanny.

A year later, there were exactly thirteen lemons hanging on my mom’s tree.  I was astonished, and thrilled.

About the same time, I was browsing Mom’s ridiculously large cookbook library, researching mincemeat pie.  Mincemeat’s popularity is on a steep decline, but it was quite popular as recently as a couple of generations ago — so I made an educated guess that an older cookbook would have the depth of information I wanted.  Sure enough, I found a goldmine: Farm Journal’s Complete Pie Cookbook from 1965, with an entire chapter on mincemeat.  Bingo.

But that’s not even the best part.  When I took the book off the shelf, I immediately noticed a little flag sticking up, marking a page.  Ladies and gentlemen, would you like to guess which chapter it opened to?  Why, that would be “Beautiful Lemon Pies,” of course.  The first recipe of the chapter is “Best-Ever Lemon Meringue Pie,” with a note in my mother’s handwriting: Delicious!

"Delicious!"

And that, my friends, is why mincemeat research was postponed until next fall.  I went home and made Meyer lemon meringue pie instead.  In the process, I learned that people go absolutely bonkers for lemon meringue – bonkers, I say!  I can’t remember how many people said, “Ohhhhhh, lemon meringue is my FAVORITE.”  Who knew?  And haven’t these people ever eaten chocolate?!

How this information had eluded me before, I don’t know – it probably has something to do with the fact that I’m more of a cake baker than a pie maker.  What I do know is that Mom is still giving me recipes and nudging me in new directions.  If I’m lucky, it will take me the rest of my life to sift through all of her cookbooks and find her other notes – sort of like an Easter egg hunt for the ages.

What a wonderfully comforting thought.

All because of Janet and her very special tree.

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Best-Ever Lemon Meringue Pie
From Farm Journal’s Complete Pie Cookbook, 1965

“A Farm Journal 5-star special”

Baked 9-inch pie shell
1 ½ cups sugar
1 1/2 cups water
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup cornstarch
1/3 cup water
4 egg yolks, slightly beaten
1/2 cup lemon juice
3 tablespoons butter
1 teaspoon grated lemon peel

Meringue
4 egg whites
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup sugar

Combine 1 1/2 cups sugar, 1 1/2 cups water, and 1/2 teaspoon salt in saucepan; heat to boiling.

Mix cornstarch and 1/3 cup water to make a smooth paste; add to boiling mixture gradually, stirring constantly; cook until thick and clear.  Remove from heat.

Combine egg yolks and lemon juice; stir into thickened mixture.  Return to heat and cook, stirring constantly, until mixture bubbles again.  Remove from heat.  Stir in butter and lemon peel.  Cover and cool until lukewarm.

Preheat oven to 325°F.

For meringue, add salt to egg whites; beat until frothy.  Gradually add 1/2 cup sugar, beating until glossy peaks are formed.  Stir 2 rounded tablespoons of meringue into lukewarm filling.

Pour filling into cool pie shell.  Pile remaining meringue on top and spread lightly over filling, spreading evenly to edge of crust.

Bake at 325°F about 15 minutes, or until lightly browned.  Cool on rack at least 1 hour before cutting.