Yuzu syrup, sort of

Every winter I make yuzu syrup. The question is, Every winter since...when? I'm struggling to identify a year. Our yuzu tree arrived in 2020. But had I only made yuzu kosho before that - the intense condiment made from unripe yuzu and green chiles? Did I make yuzu syrup from the ripe fruit later that year? I need to dive into the archives.

The fruit in the photo above came from Flavors by Bhumi, a grower in New Jersey that also sources fruit from California. The trees, Citrus junos, are relatively cold hardy but still require some protection here, in USDA growing zone 7b (-ish). Container-grown trees should still come indoors for winter.

And these are not yuzu, but bergamot. Yes, the same bergamot that is in Earl Grey tea. The same bergamot that inflects many perfumes, including the cologne my father wore, Penhaligon's Blenheim Bouquet. I have a tiny bottle of it, that I took from his bathroom cabinet after he died, in 2018 (the same year my second book was published, which was in the same month we lost our previous lease, and the same year my one brother, Francois, accused me of stealing a fortune's worth - apparently - of Kruger Rands from my father, who had dementia and lost track of things, and who was convinced that he had lost them (he had not, they had been stolen). The same year my other brother, Anton, stormed into my mom's room hours after my father had died, and literally pulled me out, demanding to know the whereabouts of said Kruger Rands. 

After my mom's death last year, Anton realized, at last, that I had not, in fact, taken them. Francois slipped up. He doesn't often, but when he does it's revealing. Anton got in touch with me the day my mom died. He hadn't got in touch to tell me my mother was gravely ill, weeks before. No one did. A carer called me, and too damn late. But soon after she died, I got that brotherly call, not to commiserate but to demand the whereabouts of the gold. The morning she died I was told, Anton says he's coming today and he's staying in your room with his dog. So I left to an AirBnB. I hadn't slept in three days. It was the last time I saw No. 9.

An aside: Francois and his wife had arranged for an undertaker to fetch my mom's body about a week before she passed away. Then they went on vacation. 

I guess I needed to get that off my chest. 

The slip up? Some years ago Francois messaged me and sent a picture, showing me a pile of Kruger Rands. He had arranged them on the cover my first book, which I thought was interesting. Look what I found! he said. I asked where, and when he said in the safe, that everyone had searched many times, I knew. Huh. Curiously, he never told Anton they had been found. That was the slip up. He had counted on me never speaking to Anton again (death threats will do that to you). They disappeared again.

There's a tiny amount of liquid left in the Penhaligon's spray bottle. A quick spritz into the air and it summons, immediately, my father, as though exiting our Brooklyn bathroom (where he never set foot in), close-shaved, sillage in the hallway, a crisp collared shirt, cufflinks, suit, shining, leather-soled shoes. Tie pin.

You can make this fermented syrup with any citrus. The sugar and fruit sit together in a jar, the granular sugar dissolving rather quickly into a translucent, aromatic syrup. Left longer, the sweetness evolves and becomes more complex. The fruit slices become gradually crystalline and soft, and very edible. 

The recipe for yuzu syrup (or any-other-citrus-syrup) is up on Gardenista.

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Winter Walks and Picnics