I’ve been hand-juicing limes for cocktails since about March 2020 (for obvious reasons).
The process of juicing has become a bit of a punitive ritual for me. I feel guilty about drinking, so my penance is to get every single drop out of those sons-of-bitches. Then of course I have to use all of it, and as a result, my cocktails are too sour, or I’m too drunk. And of course, I don’t juice all of them at once, no. Once or twice a week, I cut a few limes one by one, juicing one half, then the other, then both juiced halves together, squeezing with both hands so hard that the yellow enamel of the little old juicer I use has cracked.
I require about an ounce from each lime, and if it’s short a few drops, I’ll wring them until my hands ache - all the while telling myself: it’s good hand strengthening for piano. I can make a couple cocktails at once, but it’s mostly just for me and Ken. I don’t usually have the energy, time, or desire for arthritis to make cocktails for a group. In the end, I sip my drink pleasantly ashamed of my work, usually alone, and my stomach curdles thinking about how I’ve managed to sour something I enjoy.
I’m writing about this because through writing, I’ve noticed that I punish myself for things I enjoy. Even writing itself is a painful pleasure where I cut myself open to dissect some meaning. Sometimes, I find some curious satisfying bits, other times not, and then I’ll wrestle with myself about sharing it, after which I may receive a punch to the gut, a big loving hug, or worst of all the searing pain of silence.
Even when it doesn’t hurt, I find ways to make myself pay for joy, but I’ve been paying a price I can’t afford: a splash of bitters in a cocktail is delicious but I love a Trinidad sour, bitters with a splash of cocktail - that costs about $17 to make. When it comes to juicing and life in general, I’m pretty spent by the time I get to the fun part. I’ve been learning how to enjoy the creative outlets of writing, podcasting, and even playing the piano - JUST FOR FUN. I end up having so much fun that I’ll do the fun thing until it hurts: staying up until midnight editing, busting my knee going too far in a dance class, skating until my toenails fall off, watching the sun set on the deer in the meadow until the temperature drops to an intolerable level, watching movies with my daughter until our bones ache from sitting all day.
I love sour shit, but this is ridiculous. I think I’m ready to deal with this, and I suppose a good place to start would be to understand why I think I deserve to be punished for something I enjoy.
The explanation is pretty simple: I never quite felt good enough the way I was. When I shared myself at an early age, I’d get sour faces in return. “Natasha, be sweet, be softer.” Even the way I played was criticized and at times, punished. The color and texture of my skin, eyes, and hair reflected how I felt inside: Dark, coarse, and wrong. And so, I shriveled up.
I don’t want to blame anyone. We’re all just trying to figure it out, but I have to honor and validate my own feelings now because I didn’t feel loved and validated then. It’s a simple fact of my life, sour and true.
As an adult, I figured out my needs and started fulfilling them for my damn self, but it’s not been easy, and I’ve taken up a habit of punishing myself along the way. I always wanted to be heavily tattooed, so I took a leap and tattooed my very visible collar bones when I was 23. Then, for years, perhaps as punishment for doing the thing I wanted, I covered up the beautiful gallery with double-sided tape, long sleeves, and pants. Now, I quit that job to express myself, I’ve got to stop berating myself for baring it all. I can’t keep wandering and cursing myself every time I get lost.
I think I’m learning to acquire a taste for myself. To be fully enjoyed, limes are best served balanced and contextualized BECAUSE their ability to hold their own is what makes them a staple. I say shit people are not ready to hear, and I say this shit no matter where I am. All dishes need acid, and my tattooed limbs poking out of black shorts and shirts balance the tennis skirts and Louis Vuitton bags at my daughter’s school. I like who I am. I’m a fucking delicious lime. A good, juicy one. Ripe, too!
So, goddammit, I finally bought myself my dream professional juicer - one won’t cost me life and limb to use. Juicing the limes is still a process that requires time, care, and a ritual. But, I think it’s time that I enjoy the process and product. I deserve it, and so do you. I’m getting the tools that will help me share the best I have to offer with you. Sharing myself has drawn in an incredible bunch of people willing to help me cut limes and squeeze the juice.
Emily showed me how to juice a lime properly in the first place!
Mehdi convinced me to start time blocking.
Pranjal shows me how to be still.
Rylla reminds me to be here now.
I think of Rich before I meditate.
Brett reminds me that I’m worth talking to.
Dawn has offered to help edit my podcasts.
Paula pushes me to dig deeper.
Jessie inspired me to grow my own limes.
Joel gave me a reason to publish this essay.
And the support each of you gives toward my endeavors tells me not to worry about the faces that stay puckered.
Cheers.
My favorite line, “I think I’m learning to acquire a taste for myself.” Congratulations.
Well said and absolutely worth saying.
But also - if you can get your hands on some umeshu, basically sour plum infused shochu, add one part lime juice, one part brandy, and two parts umeshu to a shaker full of ice. Whip it like DEVO was your true lord and master, and then pour over ice. Top up the glass with soda water and garnish with a maraschino cherry. It's light, refreshing, and will topple you slowly over.