Zest before you juice, then freeze it in cubes

Zest them, then juice them, then freeze both — in that order, because the people here got the order wrong often enough to correct it four times. One correction backed by four accounts says you must zest before you juice: a squeezed lemon is soft and the zest comes off badly, and a prevalence note says juicing first is a common mistake. Four separate conversations juice the lemons into an ice-cube tray, freeze, and store the cubes for drinks and cooking; two cautions say to move the cubes from the open tray into a freezer bag, because juice left in a tray takes freezer burn and off-flavours. The zest freezes on its own in a small bag, or — single accounts — is stirred into a jar of sugar or a jar of salt to make lemon sugar and lemon salt for later, or dried and ground into a pepper blend; one caution says take the coloured zest only, because the white pith underneath is bitter. What about freezing the lemon whole? One exchange, one account to two, has the one saying whole lemons turn to mush and take freezer burn, and two corrections answer: a frozen whole lemon is fine if what you want from it is juice — one account with a lemon tree cooks with them daily — and one account says a thawed lemon is easier to juice than a fresh one, and another that freezing first yields more juice; two cautions agree the flesh goes squishy, so a frozen lemon is for juice and zest, not for a slice in a glass. One account freezes juice inside the hollowed half-peels as their own containers; one freezes slices to lay on fish. One exchange, two accounts to one, prefers freezing the juice and zest at once to keeping whole lemons in the fridge, and the decider is whether you want ready juice or a lemon to zest later. For what to make with the ones you cannot freeze, the last question.

Oil for most, a plain bag for some, and the people here argue whether olive oil should ever see a freezer. Four separate conversations chop fresh herbs and freeze them in an ice-cube tray topped with olive oil or melted butter, so each cube is a portion for a pan; one account makes pesto and freezes it in cubes for soups and stews, with a caution to leave the cheese out, which goes woody frozen. One exchange, one account to two, is oil against water: the two say water freezes into hard crystals that rupture the leaves and ruin the texture, while oil stays soft and buttery in the freezer and protects them; another exchange, one each way, says parsley and dill freeze perfectly well in a plain bag or tub without oil at all, and one caution says a bag lets air oxidise the herbs and change the flavour, which the oil prevents. The argument about olive oil itself runs four accounts across four conversations to one: four say freezing herbs in it is an ordinary, effective way to keep a season’s herbs; the one says good olive oil should never go below cool-cellar temperature because it solidifies, clouds and loses aroma when it comes back. One correction settles the clouding: oil that goes cloudy or solid when cold has simply solidified — a natural physical change — and is fine for cooking — which is what these cubes are for. Two conversations freeze ginger and garlic whole or peeled, because they grate more easily frozen and need no thawing. Two cautions for particular herbs: basil hates cold even in the fridge, so freeze it in oil or make it into pesto rather than storing it chilled; and an argument about which herbs dry well — cilantro and parsley do not, and the accounts disagree about basil — is left as they left it, with freezing as the safer route for the soft-leaved ones. The garlic caution from the safety line belongs here too: chopped garlic in oil goes straight to the freezer or the fridge for a few days, never the cupboard.

Freeze it in tablespoons, and the people here have three ways to do it. Four separate conversations portion the rest of an opened can into tablespoon-sized heaps and freeze them — three accounts in a prevalence note say they had thrown away unused paste before they thought of it, and one says half the can went to waste. The ways, one account each: heaps on a sheet of baking or wax paper on a tray, frozen flat, then broken apart into a single bag; silicone muffin cups or an ice-cube tray, one spoon per cup, then bagged; or freeze the whole opened can, open both ends, push out the frozen cylinder and cut off a slice as you need it, wrapping the rest. One correction explains why a can is the wrong size in the first place: an account thought recipes used a whole can and was corrected — paste is concentrated, and a recipe wants a tablespoon or two, which is exactly why the rest sits in the fridge until it grows a skin. One caution says frozen paste may separate a little on thawing and stirs back together, and one account says the flavour and texture do not suffer. The contraindication, three accounts strong: do not store the open can or the paste against aluminium foil, because the acid corrodes the foil, eats holes in it and leaves a metallic taste — baking paper, a bag or a lidded box. How long frozen paste keeps is a question the accounts raise and do not answer, and this page names it as a gap rather than guessing. One account uses the rest in other dishes instead — into pizza sauce, a curry, scrambled eggs — which is the other honest answer.

Maybe, and the people here argue it evenly, so here are both sides and the decider. One exchange, three accounts to three, says tubes cost three or four times as much per weight as cans, against tubes being cheaper for an occasional user because nothing is thrown away; another, two to two, says the same; a third, one to two, prefers cans for price and recycling against tubes and jars for the reseal; and across four conversations, three accounts to four, the argument is whether freezing the can’s leftovers is the fix or whether buying a tube removes the problem altogether. The accounts’ own decider is how often you use paste and what the two cost where you shop — one account notes that tubes are standard in some countries and a premium item in others, so there is no general answer. This page’s reading: if you use paste weekly, a tube in the fridge door ends the question; if you use it a few times a year, the can is cheaper and the freezer tray costs nothing. Either way the foil contraindication stands, and so does the correction that a recipe wants a spoonful, not a can.

Fruit on a tray first, and lemons into whatever you will actually make. Six separate conversations — the widest agreement in these conversations — cut fruit that is about to turn, spread it on a tray so the pieces freeze separately rather than as a block, then bag it, and use it in smoothies in place of the ice that would water them down; they say it costs less than a bag of frozen fruit from the shop. The rest of the lemon strand in these conversations is recipes, and this page names the routes without the recipes: three conversations make a lemon liqueur from the zest — an argument about which spirit to use is left as they left it — two make lemonade in several styles, two soak the spent rinds in vinegar for a kitchen cleaner, and single accounts make lemon curd, which one caution says costs eggs, lemon bars, and salt-preserved lemons for stews, with cautions that halves are harder to use than quarters and that they stay salty; one account sells the surplus to neighbours on an honour box. If none of that appeals, the cubes from the first question are the answer that keeps: juice for the pan and the glass, zest for the bake. Two sibling pages on this site carry the rest of the fridge: the dry paper towel in the salad bag, and the case for frozen fruit picked ripe.