Several years ago we ate our way through Italy, from top to tip, like normal people. Everything seemed larger than life, from the brick ovens that magically produced our made-to-order pizzas (I’m looking at you, Gusta Pizza), to a calzone that was bigger than my daughter’s head (I have photographic evidence), to the ginormous lemons growing in terraces on the cliffs of the Amalfi Coast. Our eyes, as well as our stomachs, feasted for weeks on-end. We came, we saw, we ate, on repeat.

One of our day trips was a thorough exploration of ancient Pompeii and I have multiple articles I could write on that day, but today’s discussion is not in fact on Pompeii. It’s about the lemons.

For days before we even got to Pompeii I had been looking at, noticing, and observing, all the lemons covering the countryside we were traveling. Agerola down to the Amalfi Coast is particularly stunning with its terraced orchards vertically dotting the mountainside. From the switchback road down the mountain, my view of the lemon orchards was distant, at best.

I was no stranger to lemon trees having spent three years living in southern California, where you can lean out your kitchen window and pick citrus from the tree in your own backyard. These Italian lemons were something else entirely, though. They were, it seemed from my remote vantage point, massive.

There we were, walking the ancient streets of Pompeii on such a hot June day, I kept glancing up at Mount Vesuvius to be sure she wasn’t putting out anything extra. She was quiet and I was parched. As soon as we exited the turnstiles leaving Pompeii behind us, the pizza and lemonade stands appeared before us like a mirage in the late afternoon heat.

Without hesitation, I ran straight to the lemons because

1. This was my first opportunity to witness them up close and with my own eyes confirm they are, in fact, ginormous, and

2. I could already taste the refreshment a cold glass of lemonade against the oppressive dust of Pompeii was about to give me.

I paid the woman for her largest lemonade and am not entirely sure I waited for the cup to transfer from her hands to mine before I started gulping it down. Not my proudest moment, of course. But even less impressive was when — mere moments later — I immediately spat back out all that I had just so quickly inhaled. This was not lemonade; it was lemon juice, freshly-squeezed, not chilled, not sweetened, not diluted, but straight up lemon juice. And my taste buds and stomach were not prepared for that citrusy onslaught.

My first thought: You just paid a lot of money for that and you will drink it.

My second thought: Over my dead body, which is what I will be if I keep drinking this.

My third thought: Remember that motivational speaker in high school who said, “You should always ask what you’re drinking before you put it in your mouth.”

These three thoughts tumbled on top of one another, kind of like my stomach felt with all that acid churning around in there, and the loudest new thought to rise above the clamor, was “I don’t think the Italian definition of lemonade is the same as mine.”

I have taken this experience to heart and often recall it when I need to remind myself (and perhaps you, too) to slow down and not jump into something feet first before asking all the questions and truly hearing all the answers. Whether it’s a job opportunity, an evolving relationship, or a new recipe, take a beat and identify your questions. Then get those questions answered. Then take a drink, and may all your gulps of lemonade be refreshing.