Shtick – Tyddyn Ystradfflyr

At Last, Perfection

Alienor and I have mostly been absent from the Society over the last couple of years due to obligations elsewhere, but I had to venture out this weekend to attend the investiture of the new viceregents of Østgarðr — and, perforce, the retirement of the previous ones.

This was, therefore, the logical point at which to close out the quest on which I had been set three years ago: to provide their excellencies with a perfect lemon. (For previous chapters of this saga, see 1, 2, 3, 4).

Not Exactly a Lemon

At Deck the Halls of Valhalla, I continued to fail at my long-running citrine quest (for previous installments, see 1, 2, 3).

Today’s presentation was a so-called “chocolate orange,” a variety of navel orange which remains bright green when ripe.

Her Excellency Angelica was gracious about it, but looked suitably skeptical, promising to take the offering home and submit it to “the test of the knife.” She later reported that it was “large, firm, citrus, green, but regrettably not even an imperfect lemon,” concluding “His quest continues.”

(His Highness of the East, who happened to be in attendance during court but had not been privy to the backstory of this quest, looked suitably baffled by the entire exchange.)

Lemon-Balm Oxymel

In my continuing quest to (not actually) deliver a perfect lemon to the vicereines of Østgarðr (see also, and also), I cast around for a reasonably-simple period-esque project and found the inspiration right at my doorstep, in the bounty of my sidewalk garden.

Lemon balm is a citrus-scented member of the mint family, which grows in profusion in the bevy of containers that are home to my tiny greenspace — in fact, it grows so aggressively that I need to cut it back frequently to keep it from crowding out the other showier plants, and it was while I was trimming it that I realized I could put it to a productive use.

A Pair of Plump Lemons

Following my presentation of lemon succade in court at Barleycorn, I knew I would have to find a different type of citrus for our next encounter.

A search online turned up a number of vendors with round pillows or seat cushions that were screen-printed to look like giant slices of fruit, and indeed several of the offerings included lemon designs.

Having procured two such cushions, I ferried them to Bear’s Inn this weekend inside a large sack, and stashed them out of the way until our provincial court was almost finished. When I removed the herald’s tabard and begged the vicereines’ indulgence for a moment of personal business, they quickly guessed what was up, and called for the baronesses of An Dubhaigeainn to join them in court as witnesses.

A Lemon for the Vicereines

After the amusement of The Great Yak Quest (2019–2022), nothing could have pleased me more than to be assigned a new quest just one year later — an opportunity for shtick which I look forward to milking for as long as possible.

As a result of a misunderstanding following some perfectly innocent asset-pricing research — asking representatives of a neighboring barony how much they would be willing to pay for one of the province’s fine cantons — I was called before their Excellencies of Østgarðr in their Pennsic Court and tasked with bringing them an exceptional citrus.

For presentation at Barleycorn, I figured I would offer them a succade, or candied lemon peel. This method of preserving the intense flavors of citrus fruit beyond its natural season appears to have developed in Asia, and was transmitted from the Middle East to the Mediterranean in the fifteenth century or so, reaching northern Europe by the sixteenth. As a result, this seemed to be an appropriate gift for the vicereines, who are Renaisance-era Florentines.

The End of a Quest

At Pennsic 49, as the Viceregents of Østgarðr approached the end of their term in office, we brought to a close a long-running bit of court schtick: the Quest for the Viceroy’s Yaks.

Here are the words I wrote for my presentation in provincial court.