I Leave You With Lemon Curd

Lemons. My roommate brought home a fresh bag full of them the other day. This was good, since we were down to our final two or three. I wasn't rationing them, more wondering what I'd do when they weren't around to grab.

In addition to lemon juice in fresh vinaigrette and lemon juice squeezed into mint tea and topped with lots of honey to ease an aching throat, I've been making (and eating) a lot of lemon curd.

Lemon curd wasn't something I made or thought much about. A few summers ago I made a batch to slide across round yellow cakes that were topped with blueberries and served at a friend's bridal shower. It was easy, and good, and I always thought I'd make it again.

But I didn't. Maybe because unlike the Brits, I don't love lemon curd on toast or scones. I think its pretty perfect eaten alone, spoonful by guilty spoonful, or in a pie, or tart, or cake, or something equally decadent. Perhaps spooned over a pile of berries, if I was feeling more pious? But I am hardly ever feeling that pious, so I hardly ever made lemon curd.

Until this spring. The availability of lemons and the ease of making it lead to an intoxicating combination. I could easily sneak into the kitchen, and a few minutes later have a jar of bright yellow curd cooling in the fridge. It never lasted more than a day or two, maybe three if I was distracted by something different.

I found David Lebovitz's recipe amazingly easy. There are all sorts of lemon curd recipes that call for double boilers and the like. David's doesn't. I love it for this simplicity, and because it works, producing tart-sweet, curstardy curd perfect for eating on sunny San Francisco afternoons, when getting outdoors just isn't an option.

Lemon curd, my perfect book writing escape.