Lemon Lime Champagne Granita

My mother’s sister was always the life of the party — in that way that only the family’s youngest could ever get away with. Her vibrant personality and adventurous spirit made her a favorite for both the neighborhood gossips and the family story tellers.  By the time I was a teenager she had already been married several times, each husband with more idiosyncrasies than the last. No two were ever much alike, and this current husband of hers was no exception. I recall Uncle Drew as a quiet man, always ready to indulge Caroline’s whims, which is probably why she chose him in the first place — Aunt Caroline had a lot of whims, and indulging them must have been a full-time job even for a man without any visible whims of his own.

One fateful evening, amidst a dinner party at her opulent, cluttered home, Caroline’s unpredictable antics took an even more unexpected turn. My parents and I, among her eclectic circle of friends and guests, were enjoying cocktails, eagerly anticipating the feast at Caroline’s lavishly decorated table. As Caroline held court in the kitchen orchestrating her culinary symphony, the air was thick with the aroma of roasted chicken, tangy lemon salad dressing, and her famous lemon pie. Even the evening’s cocktails boasted lemon twists, all as much a testament to Caroline’s zest for life as her love of lemons.

Suddenly, Caroline realized she was fresh out of said lemons, a crucial ingredient for nearly every dish and drink she was serving that evening. The food was ready, but serving without the requisite citrus garnish was simply out of the question. Without skipping a beat, she turned to Drew, who was quietly enjoying the festivities, and asked him to make a late-night grocery run. With a resigned smile, Drew grabbed his coat and ventured out into the night, a lemon-seeking hero in our midst.

Initially the party continued without much thought about Drew’s absence.  Frankly, Uncle Drew was himself something of a garnish: he could subtly enhance the scene, but would never take away from its main focus. We chatted, laughed, and eventually sat down to enjoy her meal, occasionally squeezing the last drops of lemon juice from the few remaining fruits. As the evening wore on, concern began to creep in. It was unusual for a trip to the local market to take so long. Caroline, never one to show worry openly, tried to keep the atmosphere light. Yet, I could see the flicker of unease in her eyes each time she glanced at the door.

The clock eventually struck midnight, and for the guests who had remained past dinner the mood shifted from jovial to tense. Caroline’s façade of calmness was starting to crack. My mother, always practical, suggested calling the police, but Caroline brushed off that idea. She had a history of husbands leaving so perhaps part of her had expected this.  Drew’s disappearance, however, was baffling to the rest of us.

Days turned into weeks, and Drew never returned. I was told there were no leads, no clues — just an empty space in the driveway where Drew’s car used to sit. Eventually my parents stopped talking about it and Caroline, in her peculiar way, seemed to accept this as another twist in her tumultuous life. Not one to wallow in self-pity she hosted another dinner party barely two months later, with a new man by her side.