Lemon meringue pie: a bright pudding for dark days

I often find myself turning to lemon-filled recipes in January. I think it’s something my baking subconscious realises before I do – that cold, dark days require the antithesis, something bright and bold, something cheering. You know what they say: when life gives you lemons, make lemon meringue pie. 

Unlike its austere, pared back French cousin, the tarte au citron, the lemon meringue pie is never going to be a subtle pudding: a lurid, chartreuse centre hidden by big billows of toasted meringue, piled ludicrously, disproportionately, toweringly tall. It quivers and wobbles on the plate, crisp and firm on the outer edge, giving way to a marshmallowy interior. But that’s the point isn’t it? It isn’t sophisticated or chic or cool. It’s fun, and God, couldn’t we all do with a bit of fun right now? 

The filling isn’t quite a curd, although it looks like one. Instead, a slurry is made with the lemon juice, water, sugar and cornflour, and brought to the boil to cook out the cornflour and thicken the mixture. This is then used to temper the egg yolks, like you would if you were making a custard with milk. Its result is a really brightly flavoured lemon gel that sits neatly in the pastry case, and tastes thrillingly, zippily, mouth-puckeringly sweet-sour. There’s a certain logic to the dish, which I rather like. The lemon filling requires four egg yolks to enrich it into something luscious and smooth, while the meringue is made of four egg whites whisked to stiff peaks until glossy and thick – it’s a symbiotic pudding, nothing wasted. Italian or Swiss meringue, in which the egg whites are cooked during the meringue making process, have no place here. The meringue on an LMP (the lemon meringue pie is so far from formal, I feel comfortable abbreviating it) should be crisp when cooked, and a pale golden brown; it needs a period in the oven, not a blast from a blow torch.