what's worth preserving (recipe: cultured lemons)

Going back to school has been far more difficult than I anticipated. I can't quite figure it out. The classes are easy and pleasant, my schedule isn't terribly interfering, the college is close by, but I'm exhausted much of the time right now. I spent the first two weeks of school feeling worn down, irritable, and depressed, constantly doubting that I'd made the right choice. (I feel better now, but I still have doubts.)

What seems clear is that my life needs a reshaping. With less free time and more pressure to perform I'm having to carefully consider whatever seems non-essential. I haven't picked up my banjo in two weeks, despite how badly I want to learn; I haven't attended Quaker Meeting in close to a month; I'm much less inclined to party on the weekends. I've missed committee meetings at my kids' school and failed to meet up with friends because I needed to study or, just as importantly, needed a nap!

Because of my new pressures, and in light of our impending move, I've been meditating on this question: what's worth preserving? What will we take with us into our new space, which is a fraction as big as our current house? What can I let go so I can do everything else better?

I love my ceramic baking dishes, my ultra-sharp chef's knife, and my handmade coffee mugs. I love my books and my photographs and my pretty jars of loose tea. I live with things that I like to use or look at or smell or touch, that are probably not essential to my life or even my well-being. So I don't wish to sound like an ascetic here. But for me, owning more things than I can appreciate individually makes it difficult to be mentally healthy. I spend far too much time cleaning my things, arranging my things, organizing my things, finding space for my things, replacing my things, working to financially support my things, and otherwise designing my life in deference to my things. And that focus distracts me from my family, my community, and this beautiful place.

After moving out of my parents' house after high school, I lost almost everything I owned, and after that I moved from a friend's house to my grandparents' house to a rental, casting off things as I went because I didn't want to haul them around. When I moved to Utah to be with Jeremy, I brought two boxes with me out of Arizona. That was all I owned in the world, and that was the last time I felt comfortable with what I had to carry.

I settled in Utah, got married while living in a tiny one-bedroom, and slowly began that upwardly-mobile crawl. Since that 1-bedroom house in 2004, every place we've lived has been bigger than we've needed, but our stuff has reliably expanded to fill that space. I've never been so miserable as I was in that 4-bedroom, 2500-square-foot behemoth in Salt Lake City, but I'm not terribly comfortable with our current situation either. Even though I love this house, it's bigger than we need, and the pressure and temptation to fill this space is ever-present.

Maybe I wouldn't feel this way if I'd never had the experience of living with almost nothing -- just what I could fit in the backpack occupying the seat next to me on a Greyhound. There is a sense of freedom from having just your relationships and your own true self to comfort and carry you through the world. That's a feeling I've been chasing ever since.

What's worth preserving? This question could be rephrased as, What (and maybe who) deserves to occupy space in our lives? How much time do we spend away from our families, our communities, the most authentic aspects of our lives so we can financially support our houses, our cars, our vacations, our medical bills, our toys? How much of our energy is devoted to our daily consumption of distractions: the television, the Internet (hi there!), our electronic tethers, the bullshitting we must do to augment our professions? And why do we need so much distraction in the first place?

What's worth preserving in my life is my family, my community, and my landbase. What's worth preserving in my home is the very few objects I require to sleep and eat and excrete and be clean. Beyond that I can consider the greater handful of items I need to expand my skills and provide for growth and pleasure -- reference books, a banjo, a yoga mat, a camera, tools for growing food, raising animals, and building things, and a place to contain my thoughts and images. And I like to see pretty things in my home: photos of inspiring places and people, my kids' artwork, vases full of lavender, my favorite coffee cup. These are worth preserving, too.

Everything else is... well, not necessarily enslaving, but certainly not liberating. And each thing that falls into this category should be carefully considered in relation to its necessity, because it takes up space, not only in a physical sense but psychically, and emotionally. We cannot afford to make room for things that don't serve us, that don't give us opportunities for growth, communication, creative expression, love, knowledge, or skill. Even if we live in an impossibly enormous house, we don't have room for those things. Not within, or between ourselves and others, where it counts.

Life is flux. We are constantly in the middle of an opportunity to cast off what is not important, by defining what is. What do you work for? Who do you work for? What makes you feel useful, and known and loved by others, authentically? How can that knowledge expand to fill the space currently occupied by cycles of consumption and retention? What would you carry with you if you had to walk away from everything you have?

Of course I carry these questions with me into the kitchen, where I do my best meditation. One of the things I expected to fall by the wayside as my time and energy have diminished is food preservation. But this hasn't been true at all. In fact, it only takes a few minutes to store most of the important things we eat, and in many cases I can take on these projects while conversing with Jeremy or listening to the kids play at my feet, so they can be integrated into the flow of our family life. Preservation projects are, by and large, terrific fun for little kids, too.

I've wanted to make preserved lemons for a long time. I tried them them in a Moroccan dish many years ago and have never been able to get that taste out of my mind. They're best made with Meyer lemons, the thin-skinned, bright yellow-orange fruit with a slightly floral scent that is quite different from regular lemons. I have some strong feelings about Meyer lemons. During their winter season I hoard them like a crazy person, and what better way to do so than by culturing them so I can enjoy them all year long?

Upon finishing a batch of preserved lemons you might wonder how you can possibly use them up, since most recipes use less than one fruit. Try them minced up in marinades and salad dressing, mixed with beans and Brussels sprouts and couscous and quinoa and lentils, as a substitute for lemon zest in gremolata, in a bean dip, stuffed inside a roasted chicken or with fish, or in a traditional tagine. You can even try them in ice cream. Or you can just admire them in the jar.

Preserved Lemons
10 Meyer lemons (or regular lemons)
1/2 c. unrefined salt
extra lemon juice, if needed

Quarter the lemons down to the stem end, without separating into pieces, like this:

One by one, smash the lemons into a sterilized quart-size jar, topping each with a tablespoon of salt. I use the handle of a wooden spatula for this job. If you are really violent with the lemons you shouldn't need to add any juice. But if you reach the end of the lemons and find that they are not completely covered by juice, go ahead and squeeze some on top.

Tighten the lid and let the jar sit for three weeks. You can break the seal every few days to let off any accumulated gas and also flip the jar to redistribute the salt. After three weeks the lemons should be slightly translucent and ready to use. Refrigerated, the lemons should last about a year. In most cases you will rinse the lemon, discard the flesh, and mince the peel for recipes. Explore and enjoy!