Surviving a Midwestern winter is a little like being on one of those sailing ships of old. We all have cabin fever and need our vitamin C. But blimey, when it comes to citrus, we have a lot more ways to avoid scurvy than those limeys did in the Royal Navy.

Even limes have become more interesting. Suddenly key limes are available (and cheap—20 for $1.69!) in many supermarkets, especially Latin American ones. These smaller fruits are also called Mexican limes. They have more flavor and juice than Persian limes (the regulation gin-and-tonic kind). Of course, to even things out they also have a lot more seeds, but don’t think “pie” and pass them by.  Key limes work just fine anyplace you’d use ordinary limes and add a bigger, fuller acidic punch.

The Mutt and Jeff of eccentric citrus fruits are the pomelo and the kumquat. The giant pomelo looks like a grapefruit on steroids—in fact, it is the grapefruit’s ancestor. It immediately brings to mind the old admonition not to eat anything bigger than your head. The thick spongy peel hides a mild, sweet pulp that is a bit dryer than a grapefruit’s. Pomelo (also spelled pummelo and sometimes also called Chinese grapefruit or Shaddock) makes a delightful marmalade and a big one will fill 6 half-pints with a tangy, pleasantly bitter spread. It’s usually easier to peel and section than grapefruit and more fragrant, too. Definitely a citrus to befriend.

Kumquats are the pomelo’s diminutive cousins and among the prettiest of fruits. Like pomegranates, they are often relegated to the role of decoration when they can actually play some tasty supporting parts. The shiny bright orange skin is what’s sweet. The pulp inside is dry and bitter. Candied kumquats are easy to make (see the recipe below), and easy to love—like candied orange peel only more delicate. (Besides, don’t you just love the way “candied kumquat” trips off the tongue?) Kumquats also make a dandy relish when chopped and cooked with ginger, cinnamon and some sugar.

Oranges are the ubiquitous citrus and although there are 73 named varieties of sweet orange, we only cultivate a measly six in this country. There is also the sour or bitter orange. Seville, which is used for marmalade, is the best known variety. Sour oranges aren’t grown in the US, either, which is too bad, because the juice is an excellent ingredient in sauces and marinades. In season you can pick up imported, not-very-orange, sour oranges in produce markets that cater to an international clientele. And by the way, orange color means nothing in terms of ripeness or flavor. In fact, it is a function of climate. Green, but perfectly ripe fruit, turns orange when exposed to cold. (Or when artificially manipulated as oranges frequently are—ethylene gas to remove the green, orange die to improve the color, and wax to prevent moisture loss in storage.)

In the bowels of a gray winter, citrus fruit provides the color we crave as well as the Vitamin C we need. No wonder blood oranges with their gaudy flesh became the darling of the foodie faction several years ago, A good thing, too, since their popularity led to their cultivation in California and they are much more readily available these days. They make a stunning granita, and their tangy flesh, perfumed with raspberry, also makes them perfect in one of the oldest and easiest desserts on the planet—sliced oranges sprinkled with cinnamon.

Since citrus grows only in semi-tropical climes, we do miss out on some of the fun. Chances are the only citron you’ve ever tasted was in the form of the dreaded fruitcake. (Although some of what passes for citron in commercially prepared candied fruit mixes is lemon or lime peel with food coloring and not citron at all.) A real citron is larger and bumpier than a lemon and is grown for its fragrant, flavorful peel. There’s a very cool-looking form called Buddha’s hand citron. I’ve never seen one in the flesh, but in photos it looks like creepy, bloated, yellow fingers.

Winter has lasted quite long enough. 
I’m ready for a yuzu-yu. And you?

The trick to using oranges in your cooking is to learn how to peel them—not with your fingers this time. Use a sharp knife. Peel around and around like you would an apple. Cut deep enough to remove all the white pith on the outside. You will be wasting orange it’s true, so peel over a bowl to catch the juices. When you have achieved a gloriously naked orange, you can slice it into rounds or continue to cut out individual sections, leaving the membrane between them behind. (The sections prepared this way are called “supremes” in fancy cook talk.) Slices of peeled orange make a gaudy and delicious salad arranged between slices of cooked beets. They are almost as pretty and also work well interspersed with avocado. Orange sections can be added to almost any green salad (OK, not Caesar).

A Pithy Observation