On behalf of the Northern Hemisphere, I would just like to take this time to say, Welcome back, Sun. It has been a loooooong time since we have seen you much at all. Oh sure, you've been around a little. For months you have shown up sometime late morning (ok a bit of an exaggeration, but it feels like late morning) and been gone by the time school is out. Each time you arrived it seemed like it was out of habit, an obligatory presence, if you will, arriving late and hovering just above the horizon until the earliest possible moment you could make a graceful exit. Like you were just there because you had to be, not to actually shine. It's like stopping by a friend's house but not getting out of the car. You stayed so far away we couldn't even derive any vitamin D from you, even on the rare days you actually poked your head out of the clouds.
I don't mean to sound ungrateful, Sun. I really am glad you're back. I am looking forward to the steadily longer days you will give us until Summer Solstice, when you gradually, subtly start to distance yourself again. The orchestra of Spring that you conduct, flowers blooming, trees donning their full complement of leaves, life everywhere beginning anew, is anxiously awaiting your cues to begin it's vernal masterpiece. And I will be front and center, feeling gratitude for every hour you grace us with your presence.
I know we are not the only hemisphere in the world. I know Earth does not revolve around us Northerners (in fact, it revolves around you, Sun. You make it happen. You make the world turn. And we love you for that). I know there is an entire southern portion of the globe that is equally deserving of your time. It's just hard to remember that at 3:30 pm in December, as I make my way to my mailbox with my flashlight.
And I know that, for now at least, your return is a token effort, an act of symbolism. You won't actually start to shine regularly on us for several months more, preferring instead to lurk behind your comfy blanket of clouds. But we know you are there, hovering behind those clouds. And we know you will begin to pop out more and more as Spring goes on. I'm not trying to rush you, and I won't lose my dignity by trying to chase you, or replace you with a tanning bed or some other synthesis of your glorious rays. I will wait patiently here for you, and when you are ready I will be ready, with my flip-flops and my sunglasses, my sundresses that have been lovingly and somberly packed away. But I will be thinking of you, waiting to truly welcome you back, not just ceremoniously, not like in November when I try to forget you ever existed.
I was thinking of you the other night, Sun, when I glanced at my Meyer lemons on the table. I am lured into buying them because of their rich, saturated color, as if they actually have the means of storing your beautiful light in their smooth, buttery-soft skin. I like just having a bowlful on the table, probably because they remind me so much of you. Of course, Meyer lemons are amazing in a cooking capacity, also. Any dish that is enhanced by lemon is made magical by Meyer lemons, an elusive fruit whose origins are not entirely known, though the accepted story is that they are a cross between Mandarin oranges and lemons. Until recently Meyer lemons were quite elusive, the supply being so small that they rarely made it far from the tree they were grown on before being whisked away by lemon-lovers in close proximity. Nowadays they are grown in large enough amounts to be shipped far and wide. But, just like you, Sun, they are not around for long. One must enjoy them while they last and then graciously let them go until next year.
Meyer lemons are all but gone from the grocery stores around here these days, but I happened upon a small pile of them at the store the other day, I admired them for a few days, letting them get even more fragrant, more vibrant. When they began to show those first signs of an aging citrus, I made vinaigrette, and last night made a simple salad with not many ingredients so as not to detract from the glory of the Meyer lemon.
Meyer Lemon Vinaigrette
Juice of two very ripe Meyer lemons (about 1/4 cup juice)3/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil1/2 tsp sea salt1/4 tsp fresh ground pepper1/4 tsp dijon mustard
The salad I made was arugula with some grated Romano cheese, sunflower seeds, and dried cranberries. The nuttiness of the arugula was shown off nicely against the fruity sweetness of the vinaigrette, but this dressing would be great with anything.
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