Limoncello Rating: 98
I’m ten years old, sitting in my Grandfather’s home in Capistrano, California. The afternoon sun is sneaking through the wooden shutters. The small kitchen is mixed with natural and man-made light, giving the lemons that my grandfather is carefully peeling by hand and collecting in a ceramic bowl, a luminous yellow glow. I watch him, mesmerized, as he moves the peeler delicately around the fruit. “You must never go deeper than the white flesh. Just the skin,” he says to me, not looking up from his impeccable work. “Remember to handle the peel as little as possible,” he says, giving me a side glance and a little wink. I want to learn, and he wants me, to want to learn.