grief lemons

a recipe for my brother on his 30th birthday

There are lemons everywhere. I’m dripping in their juices. Their acid seeps into all the open wounds on my hands. It slashes the paper cut I got from my new tv show scripts, one that spans my palm anew as I try to gut them. I don’t care; it’s penance. A reminder of life, as my high school physics teacher would say.

I’ve got to do something tactile, something to keep my body moving so I know it’s all real.

Preheat the oven to 350°F, line an 8x8 pan with parchment, and bring out your standing mixer.

I have a lemon press, and I wonder if I’m using it wrong. I watched Meghan Markle’s show, how the lemon was inverse, how it made so much more sense. I’ve been agonizing for two years on the proper way to squeeze a lemon. Many lemons.

Because I’m watching Meghan, I’ve been integrating small joys. I knew this day was coming, and wanted to be ready. A ceramic lemon press that clacks too loudly when my daughter plays with it. A new $12 zester to replace the warped one I bought at a Dollarama in Winnipeg ten years ago. I’m not sure why I put such a small expense off for so long. All this pomp and circumstance to create a dessert for you, and you can’t even eat it.

Beat butter, sugar, flour, and salt together, until crumbly. Press this shortbread into the pan.

You should be here, you should be turning 30. I should be here, 33, and making these lemon bars for you. It is your birthday, and all I want is to be awash with lemons. Not to make lemonade out of the souring—you would have hated that euphemism. Like the time you interviewed at DQ only for them to ask you what you would be, if you could be any vegetable. How you paused, and they prompted, “would you say you’re as cool as a cucumber?”

I clutch that email and laugh each time.

Poke a few holes in the shortbread with a fork, and blind bake for 20 minutes.

On New Year’s, the Irish have superstitious traditions, what with the thin space between worlds and all. Leave a plate out for those that left us, leave the window open a crack to let their soul out and back. Let them sit with us, let them have this pretend meal.

You loved lemons, sour skittles, the tartness of it all. Biting into citrus rinds as a toddler. Catching the low-hanging lemons by the hot tub-talkers in Largo. Watching dad hide all the Floridian oranges and grapefruit we collected in his overhead van storage.

You spent what felt like forever agonizing over which treat to pick out at the convenience store after church each Sunday. I spent all of church deciding on mine to avoid that fate. Wound up delayed regardless, because of your indecision. Yet every week, you chose sour candy over chocolate.

Crack eggs, juice lemons, and add zest to a bowl. Sift in flour and sugar to reduce lumps, and blend for a thin mixture.

I’m squeezing lemons I have no business squeezing. I burnt dinner last night, skewered the proportions of white bean to bread crumb, of vegetables stock to cream cheese. Both dinner items called for lemons, and I worried there wouldn’t be enough for you. But that’s stupid, because you won’t taste it.

I cried leaving Staples because there was a man, high as a kite, who had pushed several computer monitors together to dance in front of them while their respective screen savers floated in harmony. You would have fucking loved it, and it was your birthday. These are the pieces of a day I want to tell you about. These are the moments where I lose myself entirely. Why did you have to be so fucking funny? Why did you leave me that cruel gift of crying at something you would have found hilarious? Of laughing in the thick of my saddest moments, because a stupid jingle comes on the radio?

You should be here, so I’m filling all my splinters with lemons. I’m mad, and I love you. I’m pouring my whole self into a lemon bar each birthday. I don’t want you to be forgotten, and I want to make you a million citrus cakes. I want you to be back, so you can see how they get better with time. Or they don’t.

Maybe one day I’ll have specialized in solely baking citrus, just for the sake of holding you with me. You’d say that’s too dramatic.

Pour the lemon layer into the shortbread crust, baking at a slightly lower temperature of 325°F for 20 minutes, or until the centre stops jiggling.

I hate magical thinking. I hate it, yet I look for you in the weird and bizarre moments. How I opened a door to leave Old Navy yesterday after getting hit on by an employee, only for the giant metal door bar to fall off its hinge entirely, and no one noticed. How a monarch flitted by me and reminded me of you, only to have my dog chomp on it and kill it. How dad said he’s taking everyone’s dessert orders, only without a hint of irony. How I burnt the dinner in the Duignan-rage way, only to have black treacle show up on my doorstop like an apology.

Allow the bars to cool completely before moving to the fridge to let them set.

You never got to meet my son, but he reminds me of you. The little fluff of hair sticking up, like the one that dad tried to lick down on your tiny head each morning. The way he chews on his sleeve when he’s focused. The way he, too, has started eyeing citrus for its bouncy ball potential. How do I explain to him why I am crying over lemon tarts on April Fool’s Day each year? His uncle was a professional clown, born on the day made for clowns, and so here I am, crying and laughing for him. And you. And me.

I hit my limit with lemon in my cracked hands, scorch them with hot water and soap. Raw hands, raw eyes, baked lemon. Bright and tart, just like you.

Serve cold, with a dusting of powdered sugar.

I miss you, and you should be here.

Liam & Lemons

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Two notes:

1. The structure for this was heavily inspired by that within Jill Damatac’s upcoming memoir, Dirty Kitchen: A Memoir of Food and Family, which is out on May 6, 2025

2. This recipe is taken from Sarah Fennel’s lemon bar shortbread recipe from Broma Bakery

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