lellen, Sun, August 23rd, 2009
It was a homemade frozen lemonade popsicle of sorts. I couldn’t remember if it was really shaped like a little chick, as I often picture, or if that was my imagination. But the frozen lemon treat always remains as a constant memory of California in the 1950s.
Now in the 21st century, Friday nights I reserve for a visit to my parent’s home. We take a ride, maybe run some errands, almost always go to the P&C, have dinner, I do some chores around their pad, and then the fun begins. My father and I watch WCNY’s Ivory Tower Half Hour together at 8 p.m. If you’ve never dialed in, it is well worth a look see. It features professors from many of CNY finest educational institutions - they discuss current affairs both in CNY and beyond. And they are very interesting. The debate is almost always exciting and insightful. And best of all, no yelling like on The McLaughlin Group that follows. That can be quite hellish.
Last Friday, my father had gone to great lengths picking out neapolitan ice cream and not one but two ripe cantaloupes. When I sat down to watch our show with an Edy’s frozen fruit lemon bar, he eyed me suspiciously.
“What’s that,” he said.
“It’s lemon,” I said. “I thought you wanted ice cream?”
“I’d like to try one of those,” he countered; so up I went to fetch it before the program got rolling, thinking I was glad I put that second half gallon of neapolitan back in the P&C’s freezer.
Now on a bad day, my father, who is 88, has the ability to enjoy with complete and utter relish most of the food that is set before him. If you don’t believe me just ask Gitti at Rileys on Park Street or Lovey at Kelly’s on Valasko Road. But for some odd reason that lemon popsicle hit all the bells and whistles and perhaps his pipe organ, too.
“Isn’t this lovely,” he said.
I nodded.
“It’s lemon,” he commented and turned his face, which he lit up to show his admiration.
“Yes,” I said.
“It’s a culinary chorus,” he said the smile lingering.
“Delicious,” I said.
He looked at me again, and smiled with obvious pleasure moving his face to express bliss beyond smiling.
He never eats fast, each moment at the game is savored, each bite, each taste. It just occurred to me that it is similar to a frenchman tasting an old burgundy, only this is a pre-expiration date lemon ice on a stick.
“What a great use of lemon,” he noted.
“Yes,” I said, “so simple that it can really be savored, unlike that lemon pie I told you not to bother with at the P&C. Sometimes all the trappings of crust and crumbs on top and who the hell knows who, what, when and where it was made.”
When he finished, I asked if he’d like another. But he didn’t want to spoil the moment, instead he savored the experience continuing to comment and to turn to me and smile. We pretty much missed our show in the process.
“I can’t remember when I’ve had a more satisfying dessert,” he said. “You know it reminds me of New Jersey.”
“New Jersey?” I said thinking California in my mind.
“Yes, Lakewood,” he said.
The only two facts I can remember about Lakewood is that my mother lived there as a very small child and it was the site of the Hidenburg Tragedy. I know quite a bit about the history of both of these, and was running through it in my super-computer of a mind that needed a bit of defragging when he said, “Georgian Court.”
“I’ve heard that name,” I said, but couldn’t make a connection.
“It’s an all girls school,” he said.
“All girls?”
“Yes, and once a year they have a recital where everyone on stage is playing the harp,” he said, “heavenly.”
I closed my eyes and remembered my first frozen lemonade treat, but this time it was shaped like a regular popsicle, and I could hear harp music and little girl’s laughter and crickets and the ocean and birds singing.
Leahy is the editor of the City Eagle - she writes a column called Wondering about and also is the author of the worst name in food blogging - Leahy’s Food Blog at cnylink.com.
Note: “My lemon popsicle didn’t have anything to do with the movie of the same name - about sex starved teens in Israel. (or does it?).
