Page 24

“You might have noticed that, uh, these trees are still flowering, and these lemons here are small, too tiny to harvest yet. I know what you may be thinking, these are not strong Avello lemons, and you’re right. They’re”—he talks with his hands, motioning—“growers, not showers, ah?”

“Girl,” Benny says, snapping his fingers.

Ma, Zia Gab, and Zia Rosa cackle so loudly Niccolò jumps.

Tyler jests, “I don’t know what he means,” which makes Monroe laugh heartily.

Niccolò reaches around his back to a pouch-like bag that looks like it’s made of plant fibers slung around his shoulders and pulls out a normal-sized lemon, one that looks similar to what we have in America. “This is probably the size lemon you are used to.” He turns to Nonna. “Cosa vorresti dire?”

“Sì, è guisto,” she says.

“Va bene,” Niccolò says. “But what about—” He goes back into his pouch and pulls out a bulbous lemon the size of my entire damn head!

No joke. This is not hyperbole, people! It’s basically a pumpkin or a cantaloupe.

But a lemon! It’s so large he palms it like a basketball.

“This is the signature Amalfi lemon, which we grow here, and all across the Amalfi region. The typical product of this land is the Sfusato Amalfitano. It’s longer in shape, bigger.

Our lemon is different because of the rind, the peel.

We”—he refers to the lemon as part of himself—“have a lot of essential oils. Very aromatic. If you want to make a fantastic limoncello or lemon cake or pastry, many master chefs prefer to use our lemons because of the essential oils.”

“How does it get so big?” Ma asks.

“I’m resisting the urge to joke so hard right now,” Matty says.

Zia Rosa smacks him upside the head.

“Ah, I’m glad you asked,” Niccolò continues, and passes the massive lemon around the group, giving each person the opportunity to palm it and marvel at its gargantuan size.

“Here, in Amalfi, we exist in what’s called a microclimate nestled between the sea and the Monti Lattari—you may know, or not, but the soil here in Amalfi is rich in volcanic minerals.

Potassium and magnesium. From two active volcanoes.

Maybe you’ll go or have been to Monte Vesuvio.

Pompeii in Napoli? We plant the trees on vertical soils.

The terraces you see here are fortified by stone walls built by hand by my great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather—that’s six generations of Avello!

Over two hundred years—anyway, the way the terraces are built controls the flow of rain to help retain water for the groves.

Cool breezes from the sea get trapped in the valley there, and with the coastal sunlight, it all creates an ideal ecosystem for our lemons, which you cannot get anywhere but Amalfi,” he explains proudly.

“My family have been pioneers of farming these lemons, and protecting them.”

“Is that why we’ve never seen them in the States?” Zia Gab asks.

“And you never will. Not organically. Import, not really. The cost is—” Niccolò’s eyes widen, and he makes an explosive gesture.

“These lemons can only be grown here due to the region, soil, and climate,” he says.

“Even if you brought back seeds from the mother tree”—he walks over to one particular tree whose thin trunk’s sprouted arms reach up and over our heads, threading into the wooden trellises over us like a vine—“like this one, which is about two hundred years old, most trees go through a juvenile growth period that could last ten years! At least, without any fruit.”

When Ricky passes the lemon to me, his hand lingers on its skin and my fingers graze his, and an electric shock shoots between us. He looks up. His cheeks are red.

The shape of the lemon is wild! Knobby and strange, its soft yellow skin pebbly, and either end comes to what looks suspiciously like a nipple, especially given its swollen nature.

Touching the rough-yet-smooth skin releases a lemony fragrance I’ve never smelled before—it’s familiar, like slicing open lemons on a wooden cutting board at home with Nonna, but it’s stronger, not pungent, almost .

. . sweet. I want nothing more than to taste it, but that’s just me.

I’ve always had a palate for sour anything, but Ma used to yell at me for sucking the pulp out of fresh lemons, or segmenting them like oranges and eating each one with a strawberry half and a little sprinkle of coconut sugar.

“It doesn’t even look real,” Ricky says, barely loud enough for me to hear.

Niccolò doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh, it’s real!” He reaches into the breast pocket of his bright orange Hawaiian shirt and pulls out a knife as I hand back the lemon. “Grazie!”

Cupping the fruit in one hand he takes the knife, and, in one swift motion, slices it methodically through until it rests in two halves.

He presents the inside. The fruit in the center is familiar, though the segments are semi-separated, and the pulp is a paler yellow and larger than anything I’m used to.

Beyond that, there’s about an inch of thick white flesh beneath the surface of the skin.

My lips recoil with a sensory memory of eating too much white flesh off a lemon back home and the icky bitterness that filled my mouth.

In another swift cut, Niccolò slices through the bumpy skin, thick flesh, and fruit and says, “Here, when we eat, we eat the whole thing .” AND POPS EVERYTHING INTO HIS MOUTH LIKE IT’S THE MOST DELICIOUS THING HE’S EVER HAD.

No flinching. No sour pucker.

Pure bliss!

Ma and Zia Rosa both gasp and clasp on to each other. “No,” they say in unison.

Niccolò laughs. “Try it.” He cuts another slice.

But nobody steps forward.

“The lucky guy.” Niccolò gestures toward Topher. “Marriage is scarier than this.”

Sienna side-eyes him. “You haven’t seen me in the morning.”

“Lies, you’re breathtaking at all times!” Topher says. “I gotta get my main man Fielder over here to try this with me. He’s the foodie of the fam.”

Niccolò immediately cuts another piece and beckons me over.

“Field-er! Field-er!” Topher chants, and Tyler and Trav follow suit until every single person in our group is chanting my name.

Ricky leans in. “You’ve eaten worse.” He places a hand on the small of my back. “I believe in you, Fielder Lemon.”

“We don’t eat the skin,” Zia Rosa chimes in. “It’s nasty.”

“Rosa!” Zia Gab says.

“Is okay, is okay,” Niccolò says, sensing the tension in the Coven.

“Is organic. We don’t waste any part; it is part of who we are.

Here in Amalfi, we do not use fertilizers or pesticides like in the States.

And absolutely no waxing.” He scrunches his face in disgust, and I suddenly feel the shame of being American in my bones. “Everything organic!”

“Well, in that case, give me a piece!” Zia Gab steps forward.

“Molto bene!” Niccolò shouts. He hands perfect triangular slices to me, Topher, and Zia Gab.

“Salute!” Zia Gab exclaims and tosses it back like it’s a shot glass. She scrunches her face in anticipation, but it immediately softens, and her eyes widen. “No, this is phenomenal; you have to try it right now! Hurry up, boys, before I snatch yours!”

Topher and I cheer.

It’s soft and pillowy, and the flesh isn’t bitter at all—it’s sweet, paired with a slight acidity from the rind and a dash of sour from the pulp; it tastes like the best piece of candy I’ve ever eaten.

“It’s perfectly balanced, holy balls!” I say.

“Fielder, mouth!” Ma yells.

“Sorry, but Ma, you gotta try this. Seriously, everyone has to try this! I want to eat this like a freaking hand fruit!”

“You can just bite right into it, like an apple.” Niccolò grabs another lemon and chows down like it’s his last meal.

“I need fifty of these!” I shout.

He hands me another slice and cuts pieces for everyone else.

“Candy.” Monroe snaps her fingers like she’s at a slam poetry event.

Matty spins on his tiptoes. “Insane.”

Ricky smiles sheepishly and offers me more lemon, and everything melts away.

“You don’t like it?”

“I love it,” he says. “But you love it more. Have mine.”

A breathlessness overtakes me, and though we’re not alone, I feel like we are. Like this entire lemon grove is our sanctuary, it belongs only to us.

“Come,” Niccolò commands. “We’ve barely gotten started! Now that we’ve all gotten a little of nature’s zucchero.”

Nonna gets up and starts to do a little two-step, and Niccolò follows suit, taking the lead, and together they waltz the group along the stone terraces and down the narrowing dirt path up the mountain. I grab my phone from its perch and follow.

Breathtaking views of green-and-black-netted crops quilted into the fabric of the surrounding forests enrapture me.

We stumble upon wooden wagons carrying handwoven baskets, and Niccolò tells us about the hard work of the harvest, how most of it is done by hand, and how his father, who is now too old to climb the wooden terraces to harvest, taught him the backbreaking work it takes to run the grove at a young age.

“It is harder and harder to find local work. Every year, we produce less and less because of the instability of the climate. A few years ago, a nearby crop was destroyed entirely by an uncontrollable fire. If it is a harsh, hot year with no rain, everything dries up, and all it takes is one spark.” He explains how everything he uses is natural—there are no plastic ties for the branches of the lemon trees because they hand-split willow branches to tie them to the arms of the wooden arbors, the structures that allow the trees to grow and spread.

The only manmade mechanism he uses is a pulley system that looks like a miniature gondola to help move crates of fruit from the peak down the mountain.