Lemon-Orange Iced Tea

Fourth of July. Crawfish boil at the house. Twenty-five pounds. The neighborhood smelled like cayenne for a day.

Anatomy lab three days this week. The cadaver work is what they say it is — not gross, not romantic, just human. I went home after Friday lab and made gumbo because the only thing that quiets the body after a day in the lab is the slow stir of a roux.

Tanya brought a casserole over Wednesday. The Tanya casserole. Half went into the freezer. The other half fed me Wednesday and Thursday. Mama's casseroles are the silent backup of my entire adult life.

Crawfish boil at a friend's place Saturday. Twenty-five pounds. The shells filled three trash bags. Standard Louisiana spring. We sat at the picnic table for four hours. The corn was the best of the boil. The corn always is.

MawMaw Shirley's recipe cards in the wooden box on the kitchen counter. I copied another one Saturday morning at her kitchen table. The collection is growing. She watched me copy. She corrected my Cs. She has always corrected my Cs.

Sunday service at Bethany. The choir sang. The pastor preached on Hannah and Samuel. I sat with Tanya and Marcus. The hymn at the end was the one Mama used to hum. I cried into the bulletin. Standard.

Tanya's tomatoes were in this week. She brought a sack. I made a sandwich for lunch every day for four days. Heirloom tomato, white bread, mayo, salt. The summer lunch. The simplest pleasure of summer.

Driving past the Scotlandville house Sunday afternoon, the one Daddy rebuilt after the flood. The house is solid. The house is the house. I see the watermark from the flood every time I look at the foundation. We do not paint over it. We let it tell the story.

Daddy called Sunday afternoon. He is sixty-something and his knees are still bad and he still has not gotten the second one replaced. I am working on him. He is working on me to stop working on him. We are at an impasse. The impasse is the love.

The apartment kitchen is small but it cooks. Two burners. One pot. A cutting board balanced on the counter because the counter is too small for both the cutting board and the toaster.

I texted Kayla about her latest design portfolio Tuesday. She is good. She has Tanya's directness and Daddy's eye for proportion. The design field will know her name eventually.

Daddy sent me an Amazon receipt accidentally Sunday. He bought a power tool I do not understand. Standard. He texted twenty minutes later, "wrong thread, sorry baby." I told him don't worry about it. He said thank you. The exchange was the exchange.

I drove past the gas station where DeAndre died. I do not stop. I do not avoid it either. The drive past is the drive past. He is twenty-eight in my head. He stays twenty-eight.

Reading something light at night. A novel by a Louisiana writer. The voice was familiar. The voice was home. The book ended on a small kindness. I appreciated that.

I sat on the porch Saturday afternoon with iced tea. The neighbor's kids were playing kickball. The Louisiana evening is its own kind of Sabbath. The cicadas were starting up. The light was the gold-going-blue light of the southern dusk.

Friday night Darius and I watched a movie I have already forgotten. We fell asleep on the couch by ten. The dog (we got a dog last year, did I mention) slept between us. Standard.

DeAndre's birthday came around again. I made his favorite — andouille and chicken in brown gravy. I ate two bowls. I called Aunt Renee. We did not say much. We did not need to. The food was the saying.

That Saturday on the porch — iced tea in hand, neighbor kids playing kickball, cicadas starting up, light going gold-then-blue — that hour was the whole week’s exhale. After the anatomy lab, the crawfish shells, DeAndre’s birthday, and two bowls of brown gravy eaten in his memory, I needed something that asked nothing of me except to sit still and drink it. This lemon-orange iced tea is what I make when the Sabbath comes in through the screen door whether or not you planned on it — simple, bright, cold, and exactly right for the kind of evening that reminds you the living part is still going.

Prep Time: 10 min | Cook Time: 10 min | Total Time: 20 min (plus chilling) | Servings: 8

Ingredients

8 cups water, divided
6 black tea bags
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup fresh lemon juice (about 4 lemons)
1/2 cup fresh orange juice (about 2 medium oranges)
1 lemon, thinly sliced, for garnish
1 orange, thinly sliced, for garnish
Ice, for serving
Fresh mint sprigs, optional

Instructions

Brew the tea. Bring 4 cups of water to a boil in a medium saucepan. Remove from heat, add the tea bags, and steep for 5 minutes. Remove tea bags without squeezing — squeezing releases bitterness. Let the brewed tea cool for 10 minutes.
Make simple syrup. While the tea steeps, combine the remaining 4 cups of water with the sugar in a small saucepan over medium heat. Stir until the sugar fully dissolves, about 3–4 minutes. Remove from heat and let cool slightly.
Combine. Pour the brewed tea and simple syrup into a large pitcher. Add the fresh lemon juice and orange juice. Stir well to combine.
Chill. Refrigerate the pitcher for at least 1 hour, or until fully cold. The flavor deepens as it sits.
Serve. Fill glasses with ice. Pour the tea over the ice and garnish with lemon and orange slices and a sprig of mint if you have it. Drink on a porch if at all possible.

Nutrition (per serving)

Lemon-Orange Iced Tea — The Porch, the Cicadas, and the Gold-Going-Blue Light