By Libbie Summers

Photography by Chia Chong

Disclaimer: The healing power of the Mandarin oranges noted in this article are not substantiated by any medical authority aside from a surly retired oral surgeon and a novice yacht chef.

I could hear his laughter as he came down the dock so I was a little less anxious. This was one of my first professional jobs as a yacht chef and I was eager to make this boat owner happy. I had heard stories about him –a retired oral surgeon, nearly 80 years old who snow-skied, played tennis and yacht raced better than men half his age. Dr. “K” had the reputation of being aloof, thrifty and more than a little hard on the crew. I was confident I could win him over. Back then, what I lacked in brains, I made up in false confidence.

As he stepped on the boat, I chuckled to myself, “I got this.” He looked like Bjorn Borg (circa 1977) was his wardrobe stylist. Cream colored tennis shorts (that were just that much too short for a man of dangling participle age) and a white tennis shirt topped with a tattered FILA sweater vest. I couldn’t help notice that his Aspen Mountain backpack weighed more than he. What was so scary about this toothpick of a man? This was going to be a piece of cake. I’d wine and dine this old bastard and have him eating out of the palm of my racket hand…boy was I ever wrong. In the week we spent on the boat he never said a word to me. Actually going out of his way to not look me in the eyes and a couple of times even pushed me out of his way. On our last day offshore and just when I thought my ego couldn’t take any more punishment, the seas around us started getting rough and I was feeling queasy. I came up on deck and walked past the rest of the crew to the aft of the boat and promptly threw up over the side. As my spinning head hung over the life lines, I got a gentle tap on the shoulder. Dr “K” was standing there with a concerned look on his face and a Mandarin orange in his hand. “Here, eat this Libbie and keep your eye on the horizon.” I can’t say if it was the orange, horizon or just knowing that the good doctor knew my name, but somehow I was cured.

By Libbie Summers
Photography by Chia Chong
Production Assistant: Candace Brower 

One of the many good things about living south of the Mason Dixon line is the ability to be a citrus farmer…if only in your backyard. My current home in Savannah is no exception. On this modest piece of ground overlooking the Forrest River, there grows one yellow grapefruit tree, 2 orange trees, and one clementine tree. About this time every year all of the trees are heavy with fruit. 

For the first month after the fruit ripened, my husband and I made ourselves drunk with vitamin C consumption. Each day, our diet consisted of a large glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and half a grapefruit for breakfast. Lunch included a just picked clementine or two acting as a dessert. And, cocktail hour always involved a twist.

Between the two of us, we had eaten more citrus than a rally full of frenzied Anita Bryant supporters hopped up on self-righteous morals and misinformation.  Yet still, we had made no dent in our citrus spoils.

On day 32, I started giving the fruit to anyone who would take it. Baskets full were left at the food bank, my yoga studio and dentist’s office. I handed out citrus like advice. And, like my advice, no one wanted it.

Last week my neighbor had a large construction crew at her home working on a new seawall and I saw and opportunity. 

“Hey boys, can I give you some fruit from my citrus trees to take home?” I asked. While they were shaking their heads “no”, I was putting bags stuffed with the candy colored fruit in the back of each pick-up truck. I told myself it was for their own good…scurvy still being a thing and all.

Now some 40 plus days after the first juice was squeezed, I can finally see an end to our citrus bounty. A ladder is needed to reach the last plump orbs and for some reason the fruit just doesn’t taste as sweet.

It saddens me to think I won’t see the spectacular colors dotting the view from my windows or smell the citrus perfume that fills the air for another year. If I’m smart, I’ll use this time from now until that first fruit ripens to devise a plan on how to dispose of them.

By Libbie Summers
Photography by Chia Chong

Polka Dots. I love them. Always have –it’s probably why I love winter time in the South. In the days from January to March, the fruit trees around my beautiful city are painted with polka dots. Bright oranges, yellows and greens. Oranges, lemons and limes are ripe for the picking, pickling, jamming and using to make a citrus smiley mouth. Join me as I celebrate the polka dots of nature in all their beauty on and off the tree.

By Libbie Summers
Assisted by David Dempsey

Since she was a little girl, Barbie dreamed of being the Cabbage Queen in her town’s yearly parade celebrating their most valued commodity. Then, in 1952, apart from the smell wafting from the float that August afternoon, everything was right in the world.

Barbie shares her favorite turnip greens recipe HERE!!

By Libbie Summers
Assisted by David Dempsey

Just a few of the many things I’m crushing on this birthday week. I asked for them all (because why not) and hoped that I’d get one…and I did. Follow my instagram stories and see which one!