meyer lemon–lime bars

I find the fact that so many vibrant citrus fruits are at their peak in the dark, dead of winter quite counterintuitive, and their January market appearance nearly always seems jarring; it takes me by surprise. By February, I start to understand. It just seems so odd to grasp those colorful orbs with black-gloved, tact-less hands. Even if it’s cold and cloud-covered outside, when I make my way home with a bag full of these treasures, I swear they radiate a subtle heat. Granted, it’s just my excitement that keeps me warm; I’m not naïve. Nonetheless, their addition to the fruit bowl is always welcomed. Their almost neon hues turn the whole kitchen a-glow.

With all of this beauty, it’s hard to believe that, when I was young, I actually had a severe aversion to that dimply skin and pulpy flesh. It wasn’t the taste that bothered me, it was the texture, the sticky juice. The intricate segment structure and powerful floral aroma was too complex for me to fathom, and I was put off. Don’t get me wrong, this wasn’t like an episode of a strange TLC show. They didn’t send me hiding under couches or screaming indoors, but I did try to avoid physical contact with them when possible.

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