Summertime Lime

We've waited years to grow a Mexican lime. Smaller than the Persian lime, the Mexican lime (aka "key lime") is used in margaritas, in a number of Mexican and Thai dishes, and in Key Lime Pie. Many seasons ago, we planted such a tree on our property. I don't remember what exactly led us to this flight of fancy. Perhaps others in the neighborhood had lime trees, and we wanted one, too. But keeping up with the neighbors can sometimes be easier than it looks.

In our impulsive quest for limes, mistakes were most definitely made. Our first misstep was in placement. We not only planted our lime tree on the North side of our property, we placed it within the shadow of the house. I can only think that we were young and foolhardy at the time to do such a thing. Quite healthy on arrival, the tree gradually turned pale and sickly from too much shade. Trying to correct our location mistake, we dug up the ailing citrus, transplanted it in a warmer, more westerly location, and crossed our fingers.

We watched and waited -- years, in fact -- to see if our transplant took. The tree didn't seem to notice that it had been relocated. It stood much the same, neither improving nor getting worse, simply in a state of equipoise. One day Dennis reached his limit. He wrapped his fingers around the thin trunk and gave an upward yank. The lime tree easily uprooted. Clearly, we had waited too long for this damaged tree to recuperate. It was beyond done.

Undeterred, a few months later, we purchased a second Mexican Lime tree. This time we placed it where it would get plenty of sun. While it flowered, and formed tiny limes, they simply dropped to ground before maturing. But this tree looked healthy and was growing taller, so we waited some more. Meanwhile, several neighbors in the immediate vicinity reported good success with their Mexican limes -- even neighbors transplanted from the Midwest, who weren't exactly sure what a Mexican lime even was. Hmmm.

But, as the proverb says, good things come to those who wait. Finally, last winter, our tree produced actual limes, little dark green orbs loaded with powerful juice. Best of all, our tree is still giving us limes six months later. We've been adding slices of lime to our water, squeezing drops of lime on our tacos, and making the occasional quart of limeade. Now that summer is here, it may be time for a pitcher of margaritas and a few friends to partake.

Of course, if we do that, another proverb may be more apt: What soberness conceals, drunkenness reveals. Okay, so we'll go easy on the tequila.... Cheers!

LIMEADE
8 tablespoons sugar
4 cups water
6 tablespoons fresh-squeezed lime juice
Make a syrup by combining the water and sugar in a saucepan. Boil for about a minute and then let cool. Poor the syrup into a pitcher and stir in the lime juice. Serve with ice and mint leaves. Makes one quart.

Slug Fest

As you may have expected from the previews, our tomatoes are standing tall. More than 5 ft. tall, actually. One of the red cherry varieties has already produced a tomato or two for tasting, and if the early returns are any indication of the crop to follow, we're in for a very good season.

But the basil plants are a problem, and I can't have a massive crop of tomatoes without a massive crop of basil to accompany it. That's akin to salsa without any jalapeno or sushi without any wasabi. Basil adds the accent. The difficulty lies in the fact that the humans at my house are not the only ones who enjoy a nice bite of basil leaf. My plants are so popular with the insect crowd, their leaves are being shredded before they can get properly established.

I was complaining to my neighbor, an avid gardener, about this conundrum, when she oft-handedly mentioned the beer trick. I'd heard of this remedy before but always discounted it as an old farmer's tale, a sort of urban gardener's myth not to be believed. The idea is to put saucers of beer around the plants at dusk in the hope that, on the way to dinner, the pests will slip into the pub for a quick beer bath and thus, succumb to a maltly demise, well before they can belly up to the day's main course. This approach just sounded so fanciful, it was hard to take seriously, a notion conceived by a gardening Andy Capp.

But these were desperate times. June was upon me, the tomatoes were ripening fast, and my basil was nowhere near ready. So I went to the market and purchased a six-pack of inexpensive beer. Last night, before the sun finally set, I strategically placed a couple of saucers of the amber fluid around the basil plants, and hoped for the best.

This morning, like any eager trapper, I went out before 7 a.m. to check the results. Dead body count: Nine slugs afloat in the two little pools of beer I had set out. This plan was a smashing success. I had achieved slugs corpses without any need for me to do the actual killing. Tonight, I plan to repeat the process. Perhaps some slug cousins will come looking for their missing relations, or maybe they'll just be hankering for a dinner of basil salad. And like the nine souls who predeceased them, let's hope these slugs also get waylaid by the allure of a before-dinner drink.