LIMES

Citrus spp.

Rutaceae family

Southern US in zones 8–11

LIMES ARE THE MOST ACIDIC of the citruses, and their usefulness to us generally hinges on the presence of other ingredients. A little lime goes a long way, and when it’s missing, you know. What is a gin and tonic with no lime? A drink for desperate people, that’s what.

Limes are synonymous with preventing scurvy on long sea voyages. Scurvy occurs because of a lack of vitamin C in the diet, and any number of fruits and vegetables can provide it. Why limes, then? Light and heat break down vitamin C, but citrus has keeping quality, and those thick rinds protect the essential nutrient. In 1747 Scottish physician James Lind established through clinical experiments that citrus cures scurvy. Vitamin C itself was not yet isolated—that didn’t happen until 1932—so it took a long time for citrus to become a routine presence on ships. The Royal Navy didn’t require it on its ships in foreign service until 1799. The citruses used were not limes exclusively, but lemons or whatever was available. Nevertheless, the daily dose inspired those in former British colonies to dub British sailors or immigrants from England “limeys.”

Limes like it hot. Here is a good rule of thumb: If a location could be a logical setting for a Jimmy Buffett song, then limes will grow there. No Buffett, no limes. Though limes were introduced to Europe before they were to the New World, they didn’t take hold there as much as lemons and oranges. Once Spanish explorers brought limes to the Caribbean, they became naturalized (visitors observed them growing in Haiti in 1520) and eventually became an important ingredient in the region’s own cuisine.

Key limes (C. aurantiifolia), also called Mexican limes and West Indian limes, are as close to the original lime as we’re gonna get. Their size (small), complexion (blotchy), and color when ripe (yellow with green undertones) can confuse those accustomed to the so-called Persian limes that rule our produce aisles. Defenders of the Key lime say its flavor is both more aggressive and more complex, and that the iconic Key lime pie is not authentic without them. Detractors of the Key lime say it is an overrated pain in the ass. After grappling with a pound of firm, round little Key limes for far too long just to get a cup or so of juice, I can see their point, but Key limes are more perfumed, muskier, and generally more interesting than Persian limes. I grab Key limes up every time I run across them, which is unfortunately not directly from the trees. Mine come from well-stocked produce markets and are imported from Mexico.

It’s interesting that we call them Key limes, because of all the places they grow, they have been in the Keys the shortest time. Their precise date of introduction is not known, but they were a cottage export industry for a short time in the 1910s and ’20s, before they became the Keys’ fruit mascot. According to Fruits of Warm Climates, “The fruits were pickled in saltwater and shipped to Boston where they were a popular snack for school children.” I have a hard time visualizing this, but whatever. Key limes and the Keys suit each other. Both are offbeat, tiny, and not for everyone but very much for some people.

Key limes are true to seed and fun for doting types to grow indoors or out (given a Jimmy Buffett–appropriate climate or sunny and toasty corner indoors). There is barely a commercial crop in the United States, so the Key limes one sees will most likely be ornamental.

Persian, Tahitian, or Bearss limes (C. latifolia) are bigger, are oblong, and more readily give up their juice, though that’s more a merit of their size than of their moisture content. They are the limes we think of when we think of limes. Finding either will set you up well to tie together a recipe featuring any combination of cilantro, mint, chilies, garlic, ginger, seafood, pork, chicken, and stinky fermented fish sauce or shrimp paste.

Harvesting and Storage

Limes ripen only on the tree, and not all at once. Key limes will be mostly yellow, and possibly with some brown (but not rotten) spots. Persian limes will be bright, deep green.

Lime trees bear fruit all year long. Older texts mention barrels for storage—perhaps for those long journeys at sea!—but a sealed plastic bag in the refrigerator is the way to go if you’d like to keep your stash fresh for anywhere from 1 to 2 weeks or longer.

Culinary Possibilities

India is the homeland of pickled limes, or lime pickle, whichever you prefer to call it. Spiced, brined limes were fashionable among British homemakers (Eliza Acton shares a recipe in 1845’s Modern Cookery for Private Families). These bracing and salty concoctions are completely different from a finishing squirt of fresh lime juice, and rope in more of the flavor of the essential oils in the rind.

If you encounter many ripe limes at once, I recommend having a cocktail party. Crafters of fine mixed drinks love Key lime juice for its multidimensionality, but if you give a guest a drink with Persian lime juice they will knock it right back nonetheless, don’t you fret. If getting your social circle blotto is not in the cards, make a batch of old sour. It’s nothing but lime juice fermented with a few blazing-hot fresh chili peppers, and it slaps bland foods awake with just a few douses.

INDIAN LIME PICKLE

Makes about 3 cups (720 ml)

This is a burly condiment, not something you’d eat straight from a spoon. The first time I ever tried lime pickle I was at a fancy Indian restaurant, and I unwittingly spooned a giant blob of it onto my plate, thinking it was some kind of East Asian analog to salsa. It’s not—it’s bracing, bitter, and salty as hell. I spat it into my napkin then, but I love it now. The idea is to stir dabs of it into relatively rich or bland foods (a spoonful of lime pickle makes steamed basmati rice and a basic dal sing). I like mine just a little saucy, so I add tomato paste, but you can omit it for lime pickle that’ll really put hair on your chest.

1 pound (455 g) limes (Key or Persian)

1½ tablespoons vegetable oil, divided

2 tablespoons kosher salt

1 tablespoon brown or yellow mustard seeds

1 (2-inch/5 cm) piece fresh gingerroot, peeled and chopped

2 teaspoons cayenne pepper

1 teaspoon asafetida, optional

¼ cup (55 g) brown sugar

1 (6-ounce/170 g) can tomato paste

2 tablespoons apple cider vinegar

2 tablespoons water

Remove the pips (the nodules at the stem ends) from the limes. Heat ¾ tablespoon of vegetable oil in a medium skillet over medium heat. Add the whole limes, and cook, shaking the pan from time to time, until the limes are brown in spots, about 5 minutes. Set aside to cool, then carefully cut the limes into 8 pieces per Key lime, or 16 pieces per Persian lime (be careful—the greasy limes can be slippery). Put the salt and lime pieces in a quart jar, screw on the lid, and shake to combine.

Screw the lid on fingertip tight, and let the jar sit in a sunny spot to cure for 1 to 4 weeks, shaking the jar every few days to redistribute the salt. Eventually a slightly gooey brine will form, and possibly not all of the salt will dissolve. Don’t sweat it. Check on the jar after 1 week; it should develop a powerful but not off-putting smell somewhere between lemon furniture polish and lime candies. If it still smells fairly fresh, let it cure longer.

When you decide the limes are ready, finish the pickle. Put a medium nonreactive saucepan over medium heat. Add the remaining oil and mustard seeds, and cook, stirring constantly, until the seeds sizzle in the oil, about 2 minutes. Add the ginger, and cook, stirring, until aromatic, 1 to 2 minutes more. Add the remaining spices plus the sugar (it helps to have the fan on), and cook until the sugar is dissolved and the whole mess bubbles, about 1 minute. Add the limes and their juice plus any residue from the jar, tomato paste, vinegar, and water. Cook, stirring, until the flesh of the limes breaks down somewhat, about 3 minutes.

Pack into a jar or jars. Insert a table knife along the sides of the jars to release big air pockets. Screw on the lids, then let the jars sit out for a day before refrigerating for up to months and months. The pickle is best after its flavor has developed for at least 1 week.

NOTE: Asafetida is a dry powder made from the gum of a rhizome that’s mainly cultivated in India. It’s kinda stinky, but its musk lends bland ingredients like potatoes or dal a little more dimension.

OLD SOUR

Makes about 1½ cups (360 ml)

Make a brine from the juice of the sourest of citrus, combine it with some of the spiciest hot peppers, and ferment it? Sign me up! This condiment is a classic of the Florida Keys, and it does not mess around. A little goes a long way, and it’s an ideal match for the seafood dishes common in Florida and the Caribbean. I also like it on anything I squirt fresh lime juice over, but with salt and heat, too.

1½ cups (360 ml) fresh Key lime juice (from about 1½ pounds/680 g Key limes)

1½ teaspoons kosher salt

6 whole small hot red peppers or 2–3 habanero peppers, halved lengthwise

In a glass measuring cup, combine the lime juice and salt. Stir to dissolve.

Poke the peppers a few times with the tip of a paring knife, and slip them into one or two sterilized glass bottles. (I like to use old hot sauce bottles.)

Pour the lime juice into the bottles. Seal and ferment at room temperature for 3 to 4 weeks.

This is where it gets fun. Sprinkle a few dashes of Old Sour on some food, and give it a spin. If you’d like it to be a little spicier, drop another hot pepper in the bottle and let it ferment a few weeks longer. Old Sour keeps for ages, though its flavor will start to fade somewhat after 6 months.

ALSO TRY WITH: Persian limes, though the funky edge of Key limes is preferable.