Roman’s Lemon Pucker Weekend
Every August, just as the sun began to dip a little lower over Ottawa’s slate rooftops and the cicadas started sounding like they’d had one too many cold drinks, Roman prepared for what she called Kissing Cousins Weekend—a sacred, syrupy ritual stitched into the very fabric of her life like the embroidered lemon graphic tee she only wore once a year.
Roman—named for her great-grandmother who apparently had a flair for dramatic naming and ironing tea towels—was the keeper of tradition, tales, and tart desserts. She lived in a wee walk-up in Centretown with creaky floors, breezy curtains, and a kitchen no wider than a canoe. Still, she made it work. With her lemon bowl taking pride of place on her countertop island (really just a vintage cabinet she wheeled into position), Roman had everything she needed: citrus, stories, and strong opinions on cake texture.
The cousins—four of them, all girls, all loud in their own way—would arrive with overnight bags, scented body sprays, tangled hair, and at least one tale of heartache or nearly-getting-a-tattoo. “Kissing Cousins” wasn’t meant literally, though Roman once had to clarify that after a bewildered coworker raised an eyebrow. It was more about both-cheek-kisses and cousin closeness, the kind only girls raised by loud aunties and braided childhoods could understand.
Every year, Roman cooked something cozy: one-pot pasta, garlicky bread torn by hand, a salad no one ate because they were saving room. But the crown jewel was always her Lemon Pucker Cake—a thin, glossy sheet pan creation with a puckered top and a bright, tongue-tingling glaze.
“You better brace yourselves,” Roman would say, slicing it into wobbly squares. “This one bites back.”
And it did. Tart and soft with a sugar crust that crackled just enough, it was a cake that demanded attention and made your eyes squint with pleasure.
They ate it barefoot on the balcony, ankles tucked up under them, coffee glasses sweating in the late summer heat. Roman always brewed it strong and iced it in jam jars with sweetened milk, the way their mothers had on long road trips through the Valley.
They talked about exes and lipsticks and whether anyone still wore low-rise jeans on purpose. They cried once, always once, and laughed so hard it hurt, every year without fail.
One cousin, Frankie, swore the cake was cursed.
“Why cursed?” Roman asked, grinning.
“Because after I eat it, everything tastes boring for three weeks. Including my love life.”
Roman just sipped her iced coffee, satisfied. That was the point. Life should pucker sometimes.
By Sunday morning, the lemon bowl would be empty, the sheet pan soaking in the sink, and the apartment full of the kind of sweetness that doesn't come from sugar.
And as the girls left, Roman would stand in the doorway in her yellow shorts, arms crossed, hair wild, and shout,
“Same time next year! Don’t forget—bring your stories, not your boyfriends!”
Because in Roman’s little corner of the city, lemon was law, love was messy, and cousins were forever.
ORDER a fine art print of ‘Lemon Pucker Cake’ here.
.jpg)
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
