Okay, I can get a bit pedantic about plants, like upsetting the rest of the audience in the movie theatre by yelling: "But they hadn't imported tomatoes from South America yet!" when the crowd threw rotten ones at Mel Gibson in Braveheart. My husband threatened to stop watching historical movies with me when I loudly objected to the hybrid tea roses in a movie production of Pride and Prejudice (those hybrid teas hadn't been bred in the days of bonnets and Mr Darcy).
On the other hand, I accept that pelargoniums can be called geraniums even if the aren't, because that's the name most people use. But sometimes it's important to get plant names correct.
A major supermarket whose name shall not be mentioned sold marigolds (Tagetes spp) in their salad mix until it was tactfully pointed out to them that they might be poisoning their customers. The mix-up came about because the British call calendulas "marigolds" and calendulas are edible. Not tasty, mind you, but you don't need to start considering your headstone after eating them.
I have just discovered why it's important to know that the Meyer "lemon" is not a lemon at all, but a cross between a citron and another hybrid, a mandarin/pomelo.
Citrons are exquisitely fragrant but thick skinned and with almost no flesh or juice. Pomelos have pith thick enough to use as a yoga mat, and taste like grapefruits, but are extremely heat hardy for arid lands where other citrus won't grow. Mandarins are the things you find in school lunchboxes, thin skinned and sweet, unless they have accidentally been left all school holidays in a school bag, in which case they will be greeny-grey and fuzzy.
Just like all the males in our family have inherited their ancestors' hair, or lack of it, by the time they turn 25, Meyer "not lemons" seem to have inherited more from mandarins than their other progenitors. Meyers have thin skins, lots of seeds, and while they do have a lemonish scent from their pomelo and grapefruit genes, they are decidedly mandarin sweet, as I discovered last night when I tried them in one of my lemon chicken risoni, except in this case it was "lemon juvenile rooster".
It was then that I discovered that lemon chicken - or rooster - does not taste at all the same when made with Meyer "so-called lemons". The resulting sauce was far too sweet, with no acidic bite, and no lemon flavour either. I had to mooch out in the dark with a torch so I didn't trip over unexpected wombats, and pick some Eureka lemons before the dish had the required balance.
Meyer "not lemons" were sold for decades in Australia as "the most cold tolerant citrus". Many a Canberra gardener longing for home-grown citrus gave up after their Meyer tree died. If even the Meyer karked it, they thought, what chance did they have for oranges, grapefruit or Tahitian limes?
The answer is "quite a lot" because contrary to the oft-repeated claims, Meyer "not lemon" is the least hardy of all the citrus I've tried in this climate, except for blood oranges and Ruby Grapefruit. The "cold tolerant Meyers" myth came about because of European aristocracy's "orangeries" - glass hothouses warmed by braziers filled with burning coal or coke, which kept the potted Meyers growing all winter.
Meyer "not lemons" grow extremely well in pots. Their leaves are naturally deeper green than most citrus, and show off beautifully the white blooms with just a hint of mauve. The fruit is shinier and smoother skinned than other citrus, an almost glowing gold.
In other words, I am not anti-Meyer, as long as no one seriously considers it a lemon. The fruit has almost no pith, but masses of seeds - both of which help to make the Meyer turn into quivering, glistening marmalade - put the seeds in a twist of cloth during soaking and cooking to help release pectin, then remove the seeds and cloth before you bottle the marmalade. Try the slightly orange-coloured Meyer juice in a "not lemon" tart, which will be less tart than if it was made with real lemons, but sweeter and more fragrant. A Meyer tart is not necessarily better - I am a sucker for a lemon tart - but different, and delicious.
Meyers are even better substituted for oranges in cooking - make Meyer chicken, for example, instead of orange chicken, or Meyer cake, instead of orange cake.
Meyers are in their true glory just now. If you want to brighten up the daggy end of winter, bung one tree in a large pot or half barrel, or two on either side of your front or back door.
The fruit will glow like small oval suns in a green sky, and the scent will be bright and fresh too, exactly what you need when there's freshly cut grass to perfume the air. Your Meyers will be beautiful all through winter and into spring - or until you strip the entire tree for Meyer tarts and marmalade. Just never call them "lemon".
This week I am loving:
- Great globulous camellias in their many shades of pink and red and white, so fat they're weighing down the branches and dropping on the grass.
- Watching a baby wombat being taught the art of nudging fallen camellias out of the way to get to the grass between them.
- The staunch hydrangea that was rescued from under the golden sage and has now bravely put out a pink flower umbrella despite the cold.
- The first really sweet navel oranges of the season.
- The scent of the anise hyssop I've just bought to replace the one lost in the last drought. I don't like black jellybeans, but somehow the powerful scent of anise hyssop almost makes me swoon.
- Laughing at the honeyeaters poking their beaks into the great clumps of winter-blooming red hot pokers. Summer-blooming red hot pokers are entirely too gaudy, except perhaps the miniature pale gold ones, but in winter they are exactly what the birds and the garden need.
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