A Clean Peel

The taut skin of the lemon on the butcher-block island offered just the right resistance for a quiet morning experiment. I stepped across the oiled maple surface, sizing up the curve. Rather than hacking into the pulp, I set my boots wide for leverage and pressed the fine edge of my gold-tipped claw into the rind at a steady forty-five-degree angle. With a slow, continuous turn of my wrist, I drew a razor-thin spiral along the hemisphere. A burst of fragrant citrus mist flared into the air, sharp and bright. The yellow ribbon coiled back on itself like a miniature golden spring, rolling off the peel and coming to rest against a ceramic ramekin. A flawless cut.