Lemon Curd

Nicole Schembeck
Jun 18
4 min read

Why Chefs and Guests Love Lemon Curd

There are some things in the kitchen that exist solely to bring joy. Lemon curd is one of them. It's the preserve that never quite behaves like a preserve—too luscious to spread with a knife, too cheeky to call itself dessert. It sits somewhere between a sauce and a custard, and frankly, I wouldn’t trust anyone who doesn’t love it.

Let’s talk about why chefs obsess over it, why guests always ask for seconds, and why I once caught myself eating it straight from the jar with the fridge door still open.

What Is Lemon Curd?

The Silky Lovechild of Citrus and Custard

Lemon curd is a simple yet luxurious concoction made of lemons, sugar, butter, and eggs. That’s it. No fuss, no faffing about with pectin or jam thermometers.

It’s what happens when sunshine, cream, and citrus sit down for tea and decide to get a little indulgent.

Properly made, it’s silky on the tongue, zesty enough to wake the soul, and just sweet enough to stop your lips from puckering like you’ve bitten into an unripened plum. It spreads like velvet and tastes like late spring: warm breezes, blossom trees, and just a hint of mischief.

Why Guests Always Ask for More

It's Nostalgic, Surprising, and Downright Addictive

There’s something utterly disarming about lemon curd. It reminds people of childhood—but posh childhood. The kind with cream teas, bunting, and grandmothers who wore pearls to make sponge cake.

Guests don’t just eat it—they remember it. They say things like, “Oh, my nan used to make something like this,” or “I haven’t had this since Devon, 1982.” Then they go quiet and ask, casually, if there’s any more.

There’s always someone who tries to “just have a small spoonful” and ends up leaning into the fridge like a raccoon at midnight. Happens all the time.

Lemon Curd Cooking Tips

How to Get It Glossy, Golden, and Glorious

Use fresh, unwaxed lemons. Bottled lemon juice will not do. You want the zingy perfume of real zest and the fresh acidity of just-squeezed juice.
Avoid the pith. When zesting, keep your touch light. The white part is bitter and will make your curd sulk.
Stir constantly. This isn’t a time to check Instagram. Stay close, stir slowly, and don’t let it boil. It thickens just below a simmer.
Strain it, if needed. For the silkiest finish, pass it through a sieve. It’s optional but does remove any scrambled egg gatecrashers.
Add a whisper of vanilla. Not traditional, but I find it gives the curd a rounder, more comforting finish—like lemon in a cashmere jumper.

A Brief History of Lemon Curd

From 19th Century England to Your Toast This Morning

Lemon curd dates back to Victorian England, where it began as a peculiar method involving lemon juice and cream separating via acid (hence the name "curd"). Thankfully, it evolved.

By the early 20th century, the modern version—made with eggs and butter—had become a staple in teatime spreads. It was considered something of a luxury preserve, often homemade and served in porcelain dishes with silver teaspoons. Very “Downton Abbey,” if you will.

And yet, it remains beautifully democratic. Whether you’re serving it at The Ritz or scooping it from a jar in your dressing gown, it feels just as special.

Fun Lemon Curd Facts

Because You’re Already This Far, and They’re Delightful

In Britain, it’s technically not classified as a preserve because it contains eggs—but no one’s complaining.
You can freeze it. It keeps beautifully in the freezer, should you ever have leftovers (unlikely).
It’s not just for toast. Swirl it into yogurt, bake it into muffins, or use it to fill crêpes. Or, eat it with a spoon. I won’t judge.
Lemon curd is addictive. In a good way. In a hide-the-jar-behind-the-leftover-lasagne sort of way.

Final Thoughts: Why I’ll Always Have a Jar of Lemon Curd in the Fridge

Some foods are clever. Some are complex. And some—like lemon curd—just make you smile.

It’s sunshine in a jar. It’s memory and mischief and breakfast all in one. Whether you make it from scratch on a rainy Saturday or buy it from a little farm shop tucked away in the countryside, it always feels like a treat.

So yes, I’ll always keep a jar in the fridge. Usually behind the butter. Occasionally hidden from guests.

Just in case.

Ingredients:

6 unwaxed lemons

3 cups caster sugar

½ pound (225g) unsalted butter, at room temperature

9 large eggs

1 cup (240ml) freshly squeezed lemon juice (from about 3 to 4 lemons)

2 teaspoons good vanilla extract

A pinch of kosher salt

INSTRUCTIONS:

Grate the zest from 3 of the lemons using a fine rasp. Be gentle—avoid the bitter white pith lurking beneath the skin. Tip the zest into a food processor with the sugar and pulse until the zest is finely minced and the sugar is fragrant with citrus.

Cream the butter until soft and light, then beat in the lemon-sugar until smooth. Crack in the eggs, one at a time, taking a moment to scrape down the sides as you go. Stir in the lemon juice, vanilla, and salt. The mixture may look a little curious at this point—slightly curdled, perhaps—but trust it. It will come together.

Pour everything into a heavy-bottomed saucepan and set it over a low flame. Stir gently and continuously with a wooden spoon or rubber spatula. This is not a time for haste. Allow the mixture to thicken slowly—it will do so just before it comes to a simmer, at around 170°F (77°C). This takes about 10 minutes, maybe a little more. When it coats the back of a spoon and leaves a clean line when you draw your finger through, it’s ready.

Remove from the heat and let it cool a little before spooning into clean jars. The curd will thicken further as it chills, becoming smooth and spoonable.