It starts with an evening back in April when Kimberly and I were asked to make a pitcher of lemonade to drink alongside some fresh filets. Squeezing a few lemons and stirring in some simple syrup in exchange for juicy, medium-rare steak (something that becomes commodified the moment you buy a college meal plan)? We were happy to lend our services.
And then things went terribly wrong.
Opinions differ as to how, exactly, this happened, but somehow, the simple syrup ended up being… not so simple. Something went awry, and much, much more sugar ended up in there than anybody could have intended. To make matters worse, the two-pound sack of lemons yielded a lot less juice than we anticipated. Turns out, very little lemon juice mixed into very much sugar water does not a good lemonade make. Reactions ranged from polite to outraged, and I nursed embarrassment over messing up the easiest thing in the book (right?). The irony? I prefer my lemonade bracing and almost too tart, a break from the overly sugared Barq’s and Icees I’ll imbibe elsewhere. This was all-around catastrophic.
But then – then! – I had an opportunity to redeem myself, sort of. Found with a heaping five-pound box of blueberries, I was scrambling to find various uses when it hit me: blueberry lemonade. Away from Brown, I couldn’t yet gain forgiveness from all those people whose palates I’d offended, but at the very least, I’d bolster my own confidence – and narrow in on the perfect juice/syrup ratio so that, come fall, I will be equipped to make pitcher upon pitcher of special citrusy ambrosia. How courteous, no?
I knew I would need privacy and ample time to accomplish my goal, having been traumatized by my legendary flub, so I stole away into the kitchen with my arsenal and set to work. I puréed the blueberries, juiced a whole lot (four pounds) of lemons, made some simple syrup (or a variation on it), and kept some regular water on hand in case the syrup tried to overshadow the actual fruit. With a notebook (no, really) to track my every move, I ladled each component into a tall pitcher and tasted until it seemed right.
Oh my god, did it seem right. I was in love. I got attached. I wanted to spend every waking minute with it, to pick its brain, to whisper sweet nothings to it. That first pitcher is long since gone, but I’ve been experimenting with other flavors. Most recently, I’ve landed on a mean glass of blackberry-mint lemonade, whose recipe (“recipe”) is also below.
A trite adage coaches us to learn from other people’s mistakes, because we won’t have enough time in our lives to make all those mistakes ourselves. I realize lemonade leaves little room for error, but as with many other simple dishes – mashed potatoes, grilled cheese, hamburgers, scrambled eggs – it’s also hard to get perfect. So while you may not be making mistakes (unless you’re just not making lemonade, in which case, c’mon, it’s July! WHAT IS THIS?), all I’m saying is that maybe, just maybe, there’s a little room for improvement.
This is a recipe for people who like their lemonade zingy and fresh. Don’t say I didn’t warn you about the zing, because it’s very, very prominent. The nice thing is that, with the addition of the berries, there are two different sweeteners, so there’s also a lot of wiggle room should you feel the urge to tweak to your liking. Blueberry juice in particular is more rounded and delicately sweet, whereas the simple syrup is (as I have learned) pointed and powerful.
Blueberry juice is purple and blackberry juice is crimson. I'm here to help you work through the confusion.
INGREDIENTS FOR TART BLUEBERRY LEMONADE:
4 pounds of lemons (two 2-pound bags will give you around 24 lemons total)
1 cup of sugar
4 cups of water
1 dry pint of blueberries
- Combine the sugar and water in a saucepan over low heat so that the sugar can start melting as you prep everything else.
- Purée the blueberries in a blender until they’re totally liquefied.
- Pour this through a fine-mesh sieve to get rid of teeny pieces of skin and seeds. I did this twice; the first run-through didn’t quite get everything, and I wanted it to be smooth.
- Juice all the lemons to end up with ~32 ounces (a lot) of lemon juice. Please see if you can procure a juicer for this step; it’ll make you happy you’re alive, and your hands will thank you.
- In a large pitcher, combine the lemon juice and simple syrup. Stir in blueberry juice to taste; I think I used about 2/3 cup.
- If this is too tart for you, add plain water or make a bit more simple syrup. Because lemons are actually pretty high in sugar, I used regular water; there’s so much lemon juice that it really doesn’t feel like “watering down.
- Pour over ice and relish the sound of the ice crackling as the liquid hits it. Drink in a sunny room, on your front porch, over breakfast, late at night after you blow out a tire in a stupid pothole… the possibilities are endless.
BLACKBERRY-MINT LEMONADE
With the addition of mint leaves, I fooled around with this before I got it right. I knew I’d have to muddle the mint. On my first go-round, I tried muddling blackberries, too, figuring that it couldn’t hurt to see if there was a suitable shortcut. This was a big fail, but it’s kind of pretty. I got shy when I added the berries, which you can see were hardly touched and only contributed a tiny bit of flavor. The two on the rim were a kitschy touch, though, and I did enjoy the lemony burst of the blackberries from the cup.
I ended up taking the same route as I did with the blueberry lemonade, puréeing and double-straining the blackberries so they made a nice, workable juice that could easily be stirred in with the lemonade. This still left some flecks, but nothing that felt weird or pulpy. Pouring it over a few spearmint leaves (still, muddle those) is super-simple… and lemonade, no matter what flavor, is always best enjoyed in a polka-dotted glass.
If you’ve got any ideas or suggestions for twists on lemonade (rosemary? spiked?), leave ‘em in the comments. Let’s explore together!
