Bembomade

Last weekend, life handed me lemons.

Literally. We were watching the neighbor's garden, and his lemon tree started producing. We picked the ripe ones and put them in a basket on the counter. I flipped through several recipe books trying to decide what to do with them ... and they remained on the counter.

As my dear husband worked his tail off in the backyard on Sunday, I was struck by inspiration.

Lemonade! Or, as my stepson called it at age 4, "bembomade."

Matt was deftly pruning trees, cutting back plants, raking leaves and mowing the grass, so I heated 2.5 cups of water and 1.5 cups of sugar on the stove and squeezed 1.25 cups of juice from a handful of lemons and one lime (they were not particularly juicy lemons). When the sugar dissolved, I took the mixture off the stove, let it cool and poured in the juice through a strainer, then put the whole shebang in the fridge until my hubby came into the house.

All that was missing was my Donna Reed skirt and pearls as I poured the fresh-squeezed lemonade into an cup filled to the brim with ice.

"Wow," he said, his face contorting. "That's ... that's sure homemade, babe."

He drank the whole glass, but hasn't taken another one. I, on the other hand, love it. The tang makes my cheeks tingle, while the sugar-water covers up the tart nicely.

I love bembomade!