The vapid exhortation "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade" has seldom provided me with either comfort or solace. I can't stand the taste of the disgusting cloudy, over-sugared, off-white beverage. I would much prefer, in my time of trouble, to keep the lemons as lemons. After all, a large lemon makes an nice, weighty, hand-grenade sized object to throw at someone's head. I suppose you could fill a water pistol with lemonade, but squirting juice at people is not nearly as satisfying as hitting them full in the face with a whole fruit.
So far, I've been lucky. Life has mostly given me a basket of pomegranates, many apples, several tangerines, and the odd guava or two. Much tropical punch has been made, obviously, which, although a trifle sweet, has sustained me admirably throughout the years. And so as I grow older, I find myself researching various recipes for sangria. I'm just waiting for life to give me the many crates of wine I require and surely deserve.
Meanwhile, yesterday, as I crawled to work in skull melting conditions of excessive heat and humidity, I came across this unedifying spectacle in the street. A case of "When life gives you lemons, squeeze them into the sewer and discard the crushed husks beside the curb." At least the local rats might cure themselves of scurvy, I suppose, should they drink from the limoncello flavored effluent currently irrigating their rodent habitat.
