Lemon

 

The presence of the lemon in home gardens dates from early settlement. It harks back to the self-sufficient orchard divided from the fabulous bush by a wire fence. The lemon knew its place and came to stay. Its contribution to the still life is under-appreciated. Sun-absorbed orbs orbiting around the trunk were lain to rest in an earthen bowl. Applications of indications of yellow on canvas or masonite touched upon minor unspoken bitter memories. Their sunlight concealed the astringent realities beneath appearances. Deep space ovoid planets, foregrounded by golden ellipsoidal void fillers plucked fresh from the tree branches, spoke of home in a strange land. In as much as objects speak, though don’t all objects speak? They were as the sun rising upon the semi-circular plane. Soothing is the sight of lemons, calming, as they speak of somewhere in Asia where they originated, long long before their presence was felt in Australia. Mandatory inclusion of a prize specimen in a sunny spot is a thread running through settler memory to the present day. Boxloads are placed free at front gates. Laundry baskets make their way to car boot sales. Planter buckets at farmers’ markets. The omnipresence of the lemon makes a joke of the overpriced vacuum-sealed day-glow objects in supermarkets. Laid down quietly on the kitchen bench, we notice them when they’re not there. Always good to have a couple spare, to meet the recipe, to elude the melancholy mood of absence. The distance between Peter, Paul, and Mary’s ‘Lemon Tree’ and U2’s ‘Lemon’ is the touch of a radio dial. The theme itself never changes. Their juice is invisible ink. Songs written go unread. Many odes to their virtues have been writ in their juice, held up to the sun as a form of childlike testament. Some of the greatest tributes to their secrets have gone unseen. Tributes to their rind, rich and rare, the sharpest element grated into curls for a soufflé or a jubilee trifle. Tributes to the pip, spooned out of the juice extractor, pinched into action between thumb and index finger, bouncing across the kitchen tiles. Because the presence of the lemon is a meeting of opposites, swept across fish flesh to enliven the flavour, squeezed onto sugared pancakes before the present events of Lent, dropped in any place to give a lift. Because sweet white flowers and greening fruit, enlivened every season by sunshine, by gardener’s urine in private contributions, by the certain rain of the Southern Ocean, are present again in unseen back gardens writ large with invisible ink.