Lemon Childhood

I don’t remember my first encounter with my grandmother's lemon pie. I can't pinpoint the starting point, the specific day, or the circumstances. I just know that I was little when I first tried it. That lemon pie walked with me through my childhood as a matter of course. It seems it gave rise to my love for all things lemon—a sour, bright, slightly pungent taste that lingers in your mouth longer than others.

The lemon pie was originally my grandmother's recipe. She was the only one who could make it. Mom tried to replicate the pie many times, but each time it was something different. Similar, yes, but not the same. And it wasn't about effort or experience. It’s just that Grandma's pie was more than the sum of its ingredients.

Most often, she baked it in the summer. We were usually at the "cottage," although technically we didn’t own one. Grandma was a meteorology teacher at the university and went to a field station every summer. She was given a whole house, which served as both a dwelling and a laboratory, filled with instruments and equipment for her students. The station was far from any settlement, and our house sat in the deepest part of the forest. But none of that mattered. The main thing was that my grandmother had this house where the whole family gathered for the summer.

Every season, many students and teachers gathered there, and naturally, there were always celebrations: Ivan Kupala Day, birthdays, and spontaneous evenings. And on the birthdays of her close colleagues, Grandma almost always baked the lemon pie.

I always knew in advance that there would be pie. Grandma started baking in the morning. I remember the process vaguely; as a child, it wasn't that interesting to me. But one moment stuck in my memory forever: the opportunity to lick the spoon used to mix the filling. It was a mix of lemon pulp and sugar—a sweet and sour taste, slightly sharp. Even now, I can recall it perfectly.

The lemon pie itself wasn't a complicated or tricky dish. In fact, it was just a pie with lemon filling. Yet, I have never met its equal in my entire life. Pies with apples, cherries, apricots, and pears are found everywhere. But for some reason, never lemon. Perhaps because of the difficulty. Grandma really did work long and hard on it.

But the result always lived up to expectations. A thin pie with crumbly pastry and a rich lemon filling. It wasn't tall or fluffy, but it had more flavor than the puffiest pastries. It was always the star of the table.

Grandma cut the lemon pie into squares. Because of this, there were three types of pieces: the center, the sides, and the corners. The center pieces were the favorites—more filling, more flavor. The side pieces were in second place. And only then, the corners—though I liked those too, because I've always had a sweet tooth.

Sometimes Grandma baked the lemon pie in the city, but rarely. And when we stopped going to the field station, it disappeared from our lives. I can't even remember the moment I realized it was gone. It just quietly faded away. My parents sometimes mentioned it, and my grandmother said she would like to bake it, but every year it seemed to become less of a priority.

I realize that if I don't preserve the history of this recipe myself, it may vanish completely.

Of course, every time it was mentioned, I wanted to taste it again. But I knew it was difficult to make. And that it doesn't even make sense to start without the original recipe. Sometimes I thought about trying, but something always got in the way. Sometimes I forgot to ask, sometimes I didn't have time, sometimes I put it off. The difficulty was a little intimidating, but generally, I understood that any skill can be honed.

At the same time, I realize that even if I bake it perfectly, it still won't be the same. The taste of memory exists only in my head. It is connected not only to the recipe but also to the place, the time, and the people. To the summer, the forest, childhood, old friends—that period of life that cannot be brought back.

Taste has its own memory. It is able to transport us into the past without warning. I notice that I still love everything lemon. Perhaps this is the trace of that pie.

You can't turn back time. But you can feel it. It lives in us—in our smells, tastes, and sounds. It changes us, leaving traces. For me, lemon pie will always remain the taste of childhood. And maybe one day I'll try to master this recipe, so that it doesn't disappear completely, but passes on to the next generation.