Beyond the double-glazed sash windows of our apartment, it is frigid February, but the air indoors smells like a citrus orchard in springtime. After my previous Meyer lemon tree succumbed to a fungal pathogen, brought on by overwatering, I was sure I would never grow this particular citrus again. I loved that tree, most of all when it was in sumptuous bloom, its scent a constant presence. But its slow and relentless decline after an overwatering episode, and my decision to hasten its demise with several swift chops of a pair of Felcos left me feeling ashamed. I had failed the tree, even as others—bergamot, yuzu, Thai limes—thrived.
A couple of years passed. As they do. Then, in September 2024, my citrus-growing friend Rachel Prince mentioned that she had a Meyer lemon up for adoption. It was a beautiful tree with a quirky swoop to its trunk.
How could I say no?
The adopted Meyer lemon spends late spring through fall on our Brooklyn terrace along with the rest of the citrus trees, before coming indoors for winter. In December I picked its beautiful lemons and wrote about making limoncello.
Then, with the lemons harvested, I was very careful not to overwater the tree, which no longer needed to nourish all those fat fruit. It had been at this, post-harvest point that I had managed to swamp the previous Meyer lemon, watering it (thoughtlessly) as much as I had when it was heavy-laden. Citrus trees hate soggy roots.
Shortly after harvest, still in December, the tree looked a little different. I was worried that I had done it again. The leaves either hung limp, or curled. Not curled downwards, but inwards, which typically means they are drought-stressed. But the moisture meter I use read damp, even wet. So I ignored what I know, and trusted the meter.
After a week of this I decided to look at the roots, certain I would find a fungus at work, the telltale threads of roots exposed as the root sheaths slough off, fatally. On butcher paper on the bedroom floor I pulled out the tree and its rootball from the pot and discovered…not damp but drought. The potting medium was bone dry. Some roots had turned to dust. After worrying about overwatering, which is the most common cause of citrus decline, I had underwatered the lemon tree.
I also found very compact areas in the potting medium, and this might be what caused the moisture meter to be off; the meters measure electrical conductivity and the soil mix can affect that. This single experience has made me reassess my reliance on a meter when in doubt.
You make mistakes. You learn. Repeat.
To repot the tree, I mixed orchid bark, potting soil, and a cactus potting mix that is very gritty. This is a blend that drains well, and quickly—my recipe keeps evolving. The tree was tucked back into its pot and given a good drink (three quarts, if you are curious; a quart more than usual). To remove the excess water that runs into the saucer, I use the usual, designated turkey baster.
No one said that citrus trees are low-maintenance. At least, no one should.
After a week later I noticed the first pinpricks of flower buds. And here we are, six weeks later.
The tree is in peak bloom. Flowers have been opening for 14 days (you begin to count, because each days seems like a miracle). Mature petals are dropping, and sometimes whole flowers fall off, intact; that’s okay, in moderation—the tree could never support hundreds of fruit. But I am being very vigilant.
Sometimes, in the morning or evening, I lie in bed (our bedroom is where the sun lives) and look at the branches, festooned with blossoms. I look, and breathe, in, and out. And think about nothing—try to think about nothing—but what I am seeing. Petals, rich green leaves, on a tree within reach.
