Thank You, Jane Siberry

There are no borders here. That’s a line from a Jane Siberry song called, appropriately, No Borders and, as such, should have quotation marks surrounding it but, as it is also the story of my current life, I own it … no punctuation required.


I know it’s clichéd to talk about boundaries, my god, you can’t throw a cat without hitting someone talking about boundaries. Perhaps that’s because they're so important. Abraham Maslow talked about a hierarchy of needs, from food and water to self-actualization, but he missed a bet on boundaries, because friends, at this moment, the need for boundaries, borders, whatever, is at least as important to me as the need for sustenance. Come to think of it, I’m hungry, but am I preparing food? No, I’m writing about boundaries.

One of my cats just came to try to sit with me on what is, no doubt, the best seat in the house. It’s a loveseat from Room & Board, well built and upholstered, and positioned to see out the best window in the house. Even my cat, notoriously known for ignoring boundaries, took one whiff of my mood and knew to make his exit. He’s now across the room from me, perfectly content grooming his paw on the second best seat in the house. That’s how strong the need for a boundary can be; even a cat “gets it”. So why don’t people?

“Boundaries” come up in recovery programs on a fairly regular basis (i.e., every four seconds, to be exact), second only to “serenity”. A serene person has, knows, respects, owns, values, protects and embraces boundaries. That’s why I love people in recovery. But what about the world full of sickoes (not sure how to pluralize sick-o) who think a boundary is just something to separate Irant from Irate (also known as Iran and Iraq) and who look at you quizzically when you say that you’re “having issues with the lack of boundaries in your living environment”. I mean, it so clear what that means.

In my case, I need a home where my stuff (and here I mean my actual, in the George Carlin sense, of stuff, and not the recovery program sense of stuff) is respected as mine. Mine as in “leave it alone, stay out of it, it’s mine”.   As in, "don’t look in my closet, don’t wear my clothes, and most of all don’t look better in them than I do."  Mine as in “oh darn, am I going to have to put a lock on my closet door?” Mine as in “oh my, you are so clueless about boundaries that you  now I have to wonder whether you also raided my computer, my financial statements, and my stash of old love letters, if I had any?” Wow.

It took me quite a while to learn boundaries, both my own and other people’s. It’s so much easier now. This is mine. This is yours. It’s OK. I can have something that’s mine, and it’s not about you. And vice versa. It can be a sweater. It can be an idea. It can be a feeling. Whew. Mine and yours. Not mine and not yours. I wish someone had taught me about boundaries a long time ago, but that is the beauty of recovery. It is never too late to learn what you need to know.

Thank you Jane Siberry.

All that, and a martini too. Happy Thanksgiving.

Where was I??

Helloo…,


It's been so long that I forgot how to access my own blog!  Jeez!!  I think one reason I haven’t been writing is that my new computer has a fluke, dammit. The cursor bounces all over the page at random, and it’s really annoying to write even a line or two. I no longer sit down to write calmly – it’s a chore. I have to circle the computer a few times before I actually sit down. How spoiled I’ve become – what if I had to use a quill and an inkwell? I’d not write so much as a liquor store list.

The other reason is that we’ve been shopping madly for a house, and it’s been very time consuming. Our place is supposed to close on Monday, and then we’re scheduled to close on a new place on Tuesday. I may or may not give a forwarding address. Today I packed and stacked about 30 boxes. I’m determined not to pack anything that we don’t actually want, and I refuse to pack dirt, so everything is being sorted, dusted, scrubbed, or in the case of hard-water-stained glasses, soaked in vinegar and then scrubbed. I’m a pain in the ass in that I like a very clean and orderly home -- it’s the closest I get to godliness. Still, I look at those stacks of boxes and wonder, do we really want all that stuff? I’m so full of shit. I can’t recall who said that one’s home should hold only those things known to be useful or believed to be beautiful, but I’d like to choke him right now. Maybe it was Ben Franklin. Or Frank Lloyd Wright. A bullshit artist, I’m thinking. He probably hauled around all his junk from third grade for his whole life just like the rest of us.

Anyway, we looked at a lot, repeat lot, of houses and finally found one that’s pretty darned good. It could not be more different from where we live now, and since I like change (in fact, require change), that’s a good thing. Bill is a good sport with my need for change (he’d gladly live here forever), but I just remind him that at least I’m not changing husbands. It is walking distance from my favorite museum (not just in San Antonio, but of all the museums I’ve seen ever), The McNay (worth a google, really), and very close to the best food market in the city. It’s called Central Market, and they have a loan officer at the checkout line. Their bananas are categorized according to when they should be eaten – yesterday, today, two to three days from now, etc. I never have to think about bananas again. Whew.

And now, here’s my confession. In the interest of packing light, I combined our partial bottles of Crème de Cassis, Razzleberry, and Blackberry Liqueur into ONE bottle! Such a clever girl, but you knew that …
Until soon ... dahlings

Thank You

It's a long story, but a good one.  Soon I'll write it, but not today.  It ends with "thank you" ... in fact, that's also how it begins ... Until I write it, I'll just say that I'm going to get a custom t-shirt that says "someone reads my blog" ... now, where's my lemon drop?

Intrepid

Most of us had to actually learn to drink.   I like to think I was a quick study, but even the most intrepid of us (whew, got it right) usually have to practice to be able to drink without gagging and choking.  After decades of practice I can now do tequila shots (mini ones) relatively gracefully; my trick is take all of that energy jolt and direct it down through my arm so that I can slam, slam my hand down on the bar, and maybe give the most feminine of yelps.  After all these years I still get confused sometimes and forget the sequence -- lime, tequila, salt?  salt, lime, tequila?  Sometimes I have to do several before I get it right:  salt, tequila, lime (I think).  Anyway, it ends up just perfect. 

That said, for the non-drinkers out there, I'm sorry, it's too late.  Don't even try.  You'll just look silly, and there are so many better ways to look silly.  Trust me on this, as I recently took up hula hooping and know whereof I speak.  And, if you're wondering how to spell it, hula or hoola, to those in the inner circle (get it??), it's just hooping. 

Many years ago I worked as a breakfast cook in a Friendly's (a mid-Atlantic chain that probably doesn't exist any longer (note to self:  Google this)).  I was a college student as were most of my co-workers, but the woman who worked with me from 6:00 to 10:00 a.m. was what we called a townie, older than me by about a decade, tough as nails, and not too fond of us spoiled college brats.  She knew how to cook breakfast and work a counter, and didn't give out advice easily.  I felt honored one morning when she suggested I try Shout on my apron stains, and I knew I'd won her over (I worked hard) when she sidled up to me one morning at the grill as I was about to mangle some eggs (again), took the spatula out of my hand, slid it under the over-easies, flipped them, and said "don't be afraid of your yolks".  Intrepid.  That was some of the best advice I ever got, and I'm telling you this now because just this morning it hit me:  don't be afraid of the hoop. 

As for the limoncello, baby, that stuff scares me!  I open the freezer door, stare it down, and close the door.  Once I brought it out of the freezer and it got as far as a bar stool that lives in the middle of the kitchen, and I just circled it ... slowly ... put it back. 

See how it seems to loom large? 

and larger????

Now, whooooo's hooping??

You Know Who You Are

Okay, is no one reading?  Or are you too scared (or polite, hah!) to tell me that I used the word 'intrepid' incorrectly in a previous post?  I've been wondering what's been keeping me up at night, tossing and turning, knowing that something was just not right with the universe.  Thanks, all.  Thanks a lot.  A toast to you with my fire and ice limoncello. 

Cheers!

The Amalfi Dream

Looked better than it tasted ... but it does look nice with cranes skating on the surface ...

Chilling ...

the limoncello, that is, in the freezer right between the non-vegan rib eyes from a local ranch and non-vegan half gallons of Texas ice cream (intense chocolate and natural vanilla bean).  They say that limoncello should be served icy cold; having tasted it at room temperature and finding it vile I am hoping that some time in the freezer makes all the difference.  Last evening I tried it in a simple little cocktail called the Amalfi Dream, with vodka and triple sec, shaken with ice and served over cubes with a twist and it was, sorry to say, disappointing.  I should have known better than to use triple sec, jeez what was I thinking, and with Cointreau right there in the cabinet?  I've heard tell that there's a distillery in Portland that makes a decent triple sec -- another reason to move, perhaps? 

BTW, what makes the chocolate ice cream "intense" is the addition of fudge swirls and semi-sweet chocolate chunks, delicious on it's own but even better cut with a little natural vanilla bean served along side in the same dish.  Especially good while watching The Colbert Report. 

a thing of beauty

is a joy while it lasts!!!!!

(notice the hammock in the background -- perfect for sipping icy limoncello in the moonlight?)

Limoncello, so near and yet ...

It's time to bottle the Limoncello, hell, it's time to drink the Limoncello, and here I am still without the proper equipment for filtering and bottling.  Just last week I had the opportunity to score some cheesecloth and blew it.  I was at a birthday party and because I had a slightly greater ability to guess people's sexual fantasies than anyone else during a party game (it was much tamer than it sounds) I got to choose among several party favors presented on a lovely silver platter:  bows, a Billie Holiday CD, earrings, a soy candle, cheesecloth ... and I chose the candle.  The cheesecloth stands alone.

Today it's off to Hobby Lobby for cheesecloth, World Market for bottles, and wherever one goes to find a funnel, and tonight there will be Limoncello.  Honestly, I'm a little intrepid, never having had the stuff and having no standard by which to judge it's strength, flavor, sweetness, acidity, blah blah blah.  Plus when I added the simple syrup to the zesty alcohol infusion 53 days ago (but who's counting?), which involved actually inhaling the alcohol fumes, I woke up the next morning with a migraine the likes of which I've experienced only a handful of times in my life.  I'm quite sure it was from the cheap tequila the Spectrum Health Club (yes, you read that correctly) had used for margaritas served at their Mother's Day dance party earlier that same evening, which I drank because any time I do a dance demo in front of a couple of hundred people I like to have a good belt of tequila first (about one shot per 100 people is about right).  From now it will be a belt of good tequila rather than a good belt of tequila, or in the best of all possible worlds ... both.

Holy Batshit Robin!

I can't believe, dear fill-in-the-blank, how long it's been.  I got side-tracked making hula hoops, and you have to take a moment to imagine, I mean it, how it looks and feels to take a stack of hoops with you to your cancer survivor Nia class in your Mini Cooper, and still manage to buckle your seat belt.  They will not, repeat not, fit into the "trunk"  (hah!), so the only way to transport them is to actually wear them while driving -- it helps to listen to something, anything really, from Motown (I suggest "Signed, Sealed, Delivered ... I'm Yours).

So, signed, sealed, delivered, I'm back!!  I have missed you 'till it hurts ... don't let me disappear for so long again ... please, s'il vous plait, por favor ...

tomorrow, tomorrow, I love you, tomorrow

Tomorrow it will have been forty days since I began the Limoncello, and have thus reached the halfway point.  It will be celebrated by mixing a simple syrup and adding it the infusion, and beginning the search for proper limoncello glasses in which to serve it and bottles in which to preserve it (hah!  it will be gone so fast my head will spin (or so I hope)), but still I plan to decant it into proper bottles.   Tomorrow, tomorrow ...

Meanwhile, today I sip a Hendricks martini, with a twist, which was waiting for me when I got home today from having my hair cut.  Hair stylists always want to blow my hair dry into a silly poodle-do, and then I have to come home and make it simpler, and I make a bee line for the bathroom like an embarassed, newly sheared dog hoping that no one sees me along the way.  My husband was smart enough, that is, he took direction well enough, to have my martini poured and his eyes closed when I got home -- what a man. 

ROTFL

Oh man, I needed that.  It's been about 12 hours since I first read it, and it still makes me laugh so hard that my tummy muscles ache.  It's the New York Times Magazine this morning, with its' recipe for Hisbiscus Punch -- good enough ingredients (basically it's Red Zinger, but who's counting?) -- but the part about vodka being optional?? There I go again ... whew ... it hurts so good to laugh this hard ...

KIcking and Screaming

and Crawling and Gasping.  There are times when that's what it takes to stay out of the rabbit hole, and no amount of Bartender's Guide guidance will help;  in fact, no amount of Guidance is exactly the right amount. Ahhh, as they say, the wisdom to know the difference.  All is well -- wishing you the same.  Love. 

It's Official

It's official -- I'm a snob.  Last night at a local snobby restaurant I actually heard myself order, and I quote myself, "a Hendricks martini with a twist, unless you don't have Hendricks, in which case the liquor store is right across the street." 

I'm insufferable, without even being vegan!  The other night I came t-h-i-s close to a vegan meal I tell you, a quinoa pilaf that was absolutely perfect and vegan and at the last moment I decided that some asiago cheese would take it over the top, and I was right (again).  Rone' tells me that I'll never become vegan because I can't grow dreadlocks, and I think she's right (again).  It's so good to be us! 

!!!News Flash!!!

News Flash!  You heard it here first!  I have it on good authority that the Gin Mellow should not, I repeat, not be made with Gordon's Gin (the one in the plastic bottle); neither should cherry brandy be substituted for the apricot brandy.  Repeat:  no Gordon's, no cherry brandy.  Unless, one is hanging out with certain folks whose company requires quick administration of a cocktail, regardless of what rot gut is immediately available.  In said case, anything goes.  Cheers. 

P.S.  Think flask

The Exploding Sidecar, or Too Blotto to Blog

Indeed.  I tried one last night, and it was good.  I tried another this evening, and saw himself.  Whoever that is.  First I wrote god, which didn't look right, so I tried it with a dash in front of the od, in honor of my Jewish friends.  That didn't look like something I'd write because, well, it isn't.  Then I wrote the G in front of the od, and it looked, um, odd, under the circumstances.  So I went with something less descript.  Himself. 

The Exploding Sidecar was named in honor of, because we don't have enough else to do, the movie The Hurt Locker, as one of several cocktails designed in celebration of movies nominated for Academy Awards in 2009.  The movie is explosive because of what it does to your mind; likewise the drink.  Actually, it's called that because it involves a flaming orange, not to be confused with the hetero variety.   I'm not at all sure that I've mastered the flaming orange trick, because the online video that demonstrates how to flame an orange (again, because we don't have enough else to do) makes it look far more dramatic than what I was able to achieve, which was a chunk of charred orange peel.   I dropped it into the drink anyway, because here in Texas we like just about anything charred -- rattlesnake, cactus, you name it. 

The Exploding Sidedar involves an ounce of brandy, three quarters ounces each Cointreau and lemon juice, served over ice and garnished with a flaming orange.  I used the last of my Meyer's lemons from Rone''s tree, which I think she'd approve of (Rone'?  are you reading this?  are you okay with it?)  Oh man, I'm going to miss those lemons.  But wait!!  I still have them to look forward to when the Limoncello is ready!  Yes, yes, something to live for!  Back to the Exploding Sidecar. 

To make a Sidecar, The Guide advises, and I use that term advisedly, Triple Sec rather than Cointreau, and half the amount of lemon juice.  Triple Sec does not deserve to live in your liquor cabinet (although it resides happily in mine), but the lemon juice could definitely be decreased, yes, even by half.   My face is just now beginning to relax, and there's probably not enough botox in the world to keep one's face from scrunching in from the lemon juice.  The good news is that I don't feel a single flu or cold symptom.  In fact, I hardly feel anything -- perhaps I'm too blotto to blog.  G'night.

The Last of the Hendricks

Alas, and hark, and nay, and it will not do!  I am closing in on the last of the Hendricks gin, whilst I do read, in solidarity with mine daughter, The Last of the Mohicans !  Why do they skip a space before the exclamation point, and why can't people just say things instead of exclaiming them?  Where was Elmore Leonard with his list of rules for writing fiction when Cooper was writing, hmmm?  And why dids't I agree to do this, anyway? I, we, she needs to have the first ten (X) chapters read by tomorrow at nine o'clock, which is actually eleven for me -- no sweat, unless I spend a bunch of time blogging, or drinking, or both. 

The book is to my right, the martini to my left, the laptop is, well, on my lap -- get the picture? 

I know that when I read Anne Tyler, I talk like Anne Tyler for awhile, and so on with a lot of writers I like -- but I really, really don't want to start talking like James Fenimore Cooper.  So if anyone catches me at it, please kick me in the pants, or put a drink in my mouth.  Hendricks. 

A Rose By Any Other Name

For every harsh Old Fashioned, with its' boozy outset and sugary finish, there is a drink much softer, more subtle.  Such a drink was born several days ago, and I've been at a loss to write about it because it's yet to be named.  Perhaps it's like one of T.S. Eliot's cats who knows its' name and loves to contemplate it quietly while the rest of us go about calling it Boots or Whiskers or something equally silly and insulting.    K. had enjoyed a variation of it in the past and remembered it fondly; we tweaked it together, not a lot, but enough.  Enough.  How I love that word. 

It's a simple cocktail, equal parts gin and apricot brandy, shaken with fresh lime juice and served over ice.  People call it La Havana.  Our twist was to use Hendrick's gin, and its' infusion of rose petals was, I believe, what turned the drink from merely sexy to downright seductive.  La Havana is just the wrong name for it; for the moment we are calling it the Gin Mellow, but it remains possible that its' real name has yet to be revealed.  I am open. 

The marketeers for Hendrick's call it an iconoclastic gin, preferred by 1 in 1000, and the bottle comes with a charming little tag that explains in some detail what a special person you are for choosing it.  Marketing mumbo jumbo aside, it is delicious.  Just when you're ready to call yourself a cool blue Bombay Sapphire gal, Hendrick's comes along and gives you a bouquet of roses!

Too Close to Home, or The Old Fashioned

Last evening I decided to brave the Old Fashioned at the Roaring Fork, which is right next to WildFish, not to be confused with the Roaring Fish or WildFork.   Having just watched a three hour gangster movie with my buddy (she knows who she is) that took place largely in a French prison, I thought I had the stuff for it.  Maybe not. 

The trouble with the Old Fashioned is that, right from the first whiff, the scent of bourbon brought me dangerously close to my childhood, in which the madeleine/Manhattan ratio was way out of whack.  Out, out, damned Proust!   I know I'll be forgiven if I skip the Manhattan altogether and forever, and I hope that is as redundant as I want it to be. 

On the Roaring Fork menu the Old Fashioned is listed under "Rustic Drinks", and in fact there are only two drinks in that section, it and the Manhattan. They are rustic in their way, certainly their scents are redolent of an old cabin in the Maine woods, complete with pipe tobacco, pine, and old Pendleton blankets. My friend and I decided that they probably meant rustic in the sense of worn, even worn out, which led us to a discussion of how our faces were beginning to look like marionettes, or nutcrackers, which cracked us up (get it?) and then at least we looked like happy marionette nutcrackers, which is a little scary in itself, reminiscent of that old Anthony Hopkins/Ann Margaret movie where the ventriloquist loses it, whose title I can't recall, which is a little scary in itself, and oh my, it's time to sign out.

Waxing Eloquent About Cucumbers

Thank you (you know who you are) for the nice compliment -- that I can wax eloquent about cucumbers.  I am here to tell you, though, that the best cucumber gimlet is made with an unwaxed cucumber, so my prose about tonight's cucumber gimlet may be lacking. 

The gimlet, however, is perfect -- refreshing, perfectly proportioned, and a beauty to behold.  I photographed it on my cell phone, and one of these days I'll learn how to up/down/over/underload it for all to see.  In searching for the recipe I came across the nicest blog, and one of these days I'll learn how to set up a link for all to enjoy.  One of these days I'm going to do a lot of things, but right now I'm deep into my cucumber gimlet. 

My husband just told me that the time has come, the time is now for dinner, so there.  Tilapia filets and spinach salad.  Vegan?  Why no.  Love, love, love. 

Patience, thy name is Janet; or Limoncello for Everyone, on June 9

Ta da!! I'm doing the happy dance, having just zested 17 Meyers lemons and dumped the zest into 1500 ml of Everclear, good old grain alcohol or, as I like to call it, the good stuff.  Limoncello, on the way!!  Not only that, the lemons have been juiced and poured into ice cube trays, and I'm feeling more like the bee-atch who wrote Under The Tuscan Sun every minute.  You know, the one who planted an olive grove one evening, nurtured the trees overnight, and pressed the olives into award-winning oil  before sunrise?

Trouble is, I now have to wait FORTY DAYS before doing anything at all, and even then all I get to do is add simple syrup, and then have to wait another FORTY DAYS, before I get to pour it into bottles, and maybe then, DRINK!!  Maybe 80 days from now my fingers won't smell like lemons, because at this moment lemon oil seems to be part of my very fiber.  I suggested to Bill that with all this lemon oil on my hands I should polish all the wood in the house, and he thought that was a very, very good idea, and that I should start right away.  I've smelled worse than lemon oil in my day, I'm pretty sure.

So far the most fun part of the Limoncello exercise has been buying the Everclear and watching the checkout child try not to smirk.  He told me that he hadn't had Everclear since college, which was probably last week, and I told him that I'd invented Everclear before he was born.  He believed me. 

I was thinking that I'd put the finished product (if I live to see the day!) into the Everclear bottles, so I filled a huge stainless steel bowl full of hot water to let them soak overnight to remove the labels.  I was scraping at the labels after about three minutes, and I don't think that's a good sign -- if I can't wait overnight to remove the labels, how in the hell am I going to wait 40 and 40 more days for the limoncello??  This, I ask you. 

Love.  Janet

When Life Gives You Lemons ...

"Make Limoncello!!  No, not lemon jello, you unsophisticated swine, limoncello, a liqueur made by soaking lemon zest in grain alcohol for 40 days and 40 more days (as debdeb pointed out, it's almost biblical), and used in drinks that will surely have one begging forgiveness, with names like Devil's Punch, In and Out Lemontini, Lover's Lane, and Island Voodoo.  Have I not told you to stick with me?!?

When I say "when life gives you lemons", I really mean when your dear friend Rone' gives you, not just lemons, but a bag full of Meyers lemons from her very own SoCal tree.  Actually, Rone' IS life, totally embodied life, so life really did give me lemons.  We've already juiced some into our Midnight Ramblers, which reminds me, the Northern Bramble has been re-named.  I know, I know, I said that delicious concoction some call the Cougar Baitini would be forever known to me as the Northern Bramble, but then I couldn't get that Midnight Rambler song by the Stones out of my mind (just the one line, you know, "did you hear about the Midnight Rambler?"), and there you have it.  That whole 'forever' concept is just too much for me sometimes, which perhaps explains some things. 

If I start now, or soon (first I'm going to buy a lemon zester, having limped along without one all these years) the limoncello will be ready for the blazing heat of the San Antonio summer, and we can sit around in the shade (or the a/c) and sip limoncello cordials from the chilled ceramic glasses that, in Italy, are apparently de rigeur (i.e., required, see unsophisticated swine, above).  BTW, I had to google limoncello.  I pretended to know what it was when Rone' suggested it, but I confess, the unsophisticated swine?  That would be me. 

Now, whoooooo's mixing?

Do Not Go Gently, or Ode to the Parenthese

Drinking ones’ way through The Bartender’s Guide needs, at some level, to be an exercise in moderation in order not to flame out. Once in a while, though, there needs to be an extravaganza like the one I had with my dear partner-in-crime (you know who you are) whom I will refer to as K. (the only acceptable single initial to use as an alias) the other night (okay, afternoon) at Piatti's, after both of us had finished our therapy appointments (we share one – therapists, not appointments). Piatti’s is actually a pretty decent bar/restaurant, and while the prices are nuts, at least they use good ingredients so that you don’t feel totally bilked. They also have full disclosure of ingredients, no surprise mint or bitters to leave you scratching your head.

It was a beautiful afternoon, reeking of mountain laurel, and we chose Piatti’s as much for its’ outdoor seating as its’quality. They also serve a basket of excellent bread with a fine olive oil, and don’t balk when you ask them to keep the baskets coming. I’d had an hour to kill before cocktail hour, so I’d stopped at the local Stein Mart to beat myself up a little (therapy hadn’t been enough), and what song was playing in the background when I walked in the door but Bruce Springsteen’s Dancing In The Dark, my anthem. Those lines about being tired and bored with myself? About wanting to change my hair, my clothes, my face? Those words are exactly why I’d gone into Stein Mart, after all, and I’m pretty sure the marketing mavens who choose the store’s sound track know that. So there I was, trying to calmly find the garments that would define and announce the new, and real, me, even going so far as to try a few things on, and all I could come up with was a navy blue t-shirt. Woo … now that’s out of the box! I left without it because it hadn’t been marked down enough times, no one near as many times as I’d been.

Cut to the chase: I was thirsty in every sense of the word when I hit Piatti’s, so it was easy enough to be seduced by their “signature” drinks – every one of them sounded like just the ticket, even, or especially, at $9.50 each. Rather than blindly asking the waiter to surprise us, we actually deliberated over our choices, and began with a Cucumber Gimlet and an Old Cuban.

The Gimlet was a revelation, refreshing beyond compare, with a fragrance so pure it knocked out the mountain laurel. And beautiful to look at, the merest fragments of cucumber suspended in the lime infused Tangueray Rangpur. And it had a beat that I could dance to! I already knew my way around Piatti’s Mojito, and so I knew the similar Old Cuban wouldn’t disappoint, and left it mostly for K. How is it that I know my way around their Mojito? Oh, that is the stuff of another post.

Second round included a Cosmocello (for me, the older, more dated of us), and a Dark & Stormy for K., who I don’t think would mind me saying that it suits her. We ended up trading, neither of us ultimately able to make peace with the Dark & Stormy. Of course we were fighting the beautiful day, but for K. it was no fun at all, and for me what began as odd but delicious ended up as the ultimate alcohol abuse – unfinished. Gosling’s Black Seal Rum isn’t kidding, and ginger beer is no ginger ale. Proceed with caution.

Just slightly sloshed (we both have excellent metabolisms), we ended up at the nearby Whole Earth Provision Company, once again with the idea of finding me, not a new style, but ANY style. We man-handled quite a bit of Flax, but Flax still reminds me of a Salon article that haunts me, “Do Not Go Gently Into That Eileen Fisher”, and I don’t think I have quite the attitude to pull it off. K. and I are not that different in terms of size and shape, but what looks like casual elegance on her looks on me like I just gave up entirely. Designers might call it the ‘just-shoot-me-now’ look, which suits me just a little too well.

Sigh. I wonder if that navy blue T-shirt has been marked down enough yet?  In the meantime, someone get me a cucumber.

The Vegan Question - and answers

I know this blog was supposed to be about drinking my way through The Bartender's Guide while becoming vegan, and the title does imply a little detox; still, I'll admit it's pretty disportionate. I've pondered this inconsistency, and lest pondering lead to the more depressing rumination, I've kept my pondering in the style of the rhyme that good old cousin Joan taught me (see earlier post).  Questions to ponder about becoming vegan, asked and answered:

Would ya? 
that's empirical, as I used to tell my daughter when she wanted something and I was trying to put her off; it drove her crazy

Could ya?
yes, I can do anything I want, nyah, nyah, nyah

Do ya wanna? 
Apparently not, given my love of cream

If I let ya, are you gonna?
Let me?  Don't get me started ...

Aw, come on, you said you would, what's the matter ... scared? 
Heck yes, I'm scared of becoming more insufferable than I already am, and besides, inconsistency is my strong suit and I'm not giving it up without a fight. 

Hmmm ... what to do about the title?  I'll ponder it ... suggestions? 

Begging Your Forgiveness

Dear Bartender's Guide,

Please forgive me.  I was wrong to imply, nay say, that you were in any way negligent for leaving The Mudslide out of your pages.  The Mudslide, while benign and pleasant enough, was forgettable, and besides we all know that the key ingredient, cream, is on the list of things that never hurt anything, and so including it in any cocktail is really just a cheap trick.  I fell for it, and I am sorry. 

Further, Brand X Irish Creme is just a blend of cream, honey, and "mild Irish spirits", which is an oxymoron if there ever was one, and now I am just left with the shame of having indulged in creamy, sweet deliciousness when I should have belted down some Old Bushmills, neat.  If I am lucky enough to live to see another St. Patrick's Day (and BTW, today I am wearing the green that I FORGOT to wear yesterday (please believe me)), that is exactly what I will do.   

I must further confess that I was just plain lazy in not exploring your pages more thoroughly in search of a proper Irish cocktail.  Had I tried harder I'd have found the Rory O'More or the Blarney Stone or even a Paddy, all perfectly wonderful choices.  Truthfully, I've been a  little depressed, even though I've totally avoided your Tailspins (they're green, after all, aside from being a little scary for a depression-prone sort), and promise to mix a Smile or a Smiler real soon. 

Today, or at least this morning, I am back on the straight and narrow, drinking only from within your pages. If I drink an Old Pal in your honor, are we still friends?

Most Sincerely,
JanEO

P.S.  I will even share my complete list of things that never hurt anything if you'd like.  Cream is number one. 

St. Patrick's Day Revisited

Kiss Me ... I'm Irish!  One eighth, that is, but it's my favorite eighth, from my father whom I miss and miss some more.  To honor my Irish heritage, and tangentially my dad, around my fiftieth birthday I had a rubbing from an Irish tombstone, a delicate stream of shamrocks, tattooed onto my left ankle.  Of course, it's a little ironic that my dad absolutely hated tattoos, on anyone, and so I don't think he felt particularly honored when he saw mine, which happened in the aisle of the grocery store where we ran into each other one afternoon, shortly before he died.  Do you think?  Nah.  Anyway, he saw it, and in my dad's characteristic style, said simply, "get me a file".  Then he said it again.  Gotta love him. 

Back to the present:  Ahhhh ... third Nia class of the day over, dear daughter came home today for spring break, and all is right with the world.  With my Irish luck a liquor store happened to be open today (!) and I was able to score some Irish Creme -- not Bailey's, because it only came in humongous sizes, but some brand X which is probably better than Bailey's anyway.  I'm going to mix what is called on the box a Mudslide, equal parts Irish Creme, Vodka, and coffee liqueur over crushed ice.  Neither it nor anything like it can be found in The Bartender's Guide, and my faith is a bit shaken -- and stirred.  There is only one St. Patrick's Day cocktail in it, and I refuse to drink it.  Because ...

Because when I began this project I knew that there were some places I just couldn't go.  Unlike Julie, who chose to do every recipe in Julia's book, including the aspics, I drew some parameters, including drinking anything green -- no creme de menthe, no chartreuse, no way.  The Guide's St. Paddy's cocktail has both.   Blech. 

The Mudslide is sounding better every minute.  In fact, see ya ...

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

And me without a bottle of Bushmill's, or Jameson's, or even a girlie Bailey's Irish Creme, of which I could drink a quart, no problem, except that a pint sounds more Irish.

Teaching three Nia classes in one day definitely gets in the way of my research, but perhaps on my way home from the studio tonight ...

Stay tuned ...

And by the way, whose idea was it to teach three classes today?  Oh, yeah.    

It Could'a Been A Contenda

The cassis in the Northern Bramble?  It shoulda' been Chambord. 

Trust me on this.  You can trust me, right?

Which reminds me of a little rhyme that my cousin Joan taught me when I was too young to have a clue, which is pretty much still the case.  Old, but clueless.  She's six years older, and knows everything.  Or so I thought.  Here's the rhyme. 

Would ya? 
Could ya?
Do you wanna?
If I let ya,
Are you gonna?
Aw, come on
You said you would ...
What's the matter?
Scared? 

Say that many times over, with expression.  It will change your life. 

It's Just a Guide, or Ode to a Blackberry

It's just a Guide.  It's important to remember that a maraschino cherry is only a guide -- it's not gospel.  Tonight I boldly dropped a blackberry into my Whiskey Sour, passing right over maraschino cherries in the refrigerator door, and lightning has not struck me dead, although the Crown Royal might. 

The other day a friend (you know who you are!) described having a vat of Crown Royal in her cabinet and a hankering for a Whiskey Sour, so she asked for Guide guidance.  I sent her the recipe and she described the resultant drink  as wanting; sipping this one I have the same reaction.  Perhaps the problem is that most of us, in our whiskey sour days, drank mediocre whiskey and used a sour mix, probably powdered (that's how I mixed my mom's), and so that's how our taste buds have been trained.  This one, with fresh lemon juice and powdered sugar, to say nothing of the Crown, is different and, I'll admit, growing on me. 

We actually have two stashes of Crown in our home -- one in a nightstand drawer (do the math), and the other in a flask that I have kept over the years exclusively for trips to the McNay.  Who can imagine why, so many years ago, the McNay Art Museum seemed a place to sip Crown from a flask.  I like the way the security guards take notice; my take is that at first glance they suspect I have a camera (oh no!), and then relax when they see it's only a flask.  I like that in a security guard. 

I love the McNay, and one of my favorite early memories of San Antonio 20 years ago was learning that it was within walking distance of my home, and free.   How things have changed. 

A Toast to Bob Edwards

It's been almost five years since Bob Edwards was fired from NPR's Morning Edition, and I still miss him.  However fine the current programming, I think I'll always miss Bob, and I'll also always owe him thanks for sharing his favorite recipe in the NPR Cooks! book, the collection of recipes from NPR staff that could be had for a cool donation of $150.00.  His Mint Julep recipe made the book a bargain at any price.  Here it is:

"Pour straight Kentucky sour mash bourbon over ice in a sturdy glass.  Think about rows of mint in a garden.  Thank about the mint left on your pillow in a comfortable hotel room at the end of a long day on the road.  Think about the United States Mint churning out coins that are used to actually buy things.  Think about any kind of mint you like, but don't let any of it get near the glass."

"What you are holding is not a mint julep, but rather a bourbon on the rocks, a much more satisfying refreshment than some girly drink with too much sugar and some ugly leaves in it.  While enjoying the bourbon, play a Ray Charles CD that includes his early '60s instrumental hit, "One Mint Julep."  Turn up the volume."

"Refill glass as desired.  Smoke 'em if you got 'em."

Thanks for that, Bob, and for so much more.

Does This Cocktail Make Me Look Old?

After crying in my Cosmopolitan upon learning that, according to More magazine, it makes me look old, I sucked it up (actually quite tasty with the added salt) and shopped More for a suitably youthful cocktail to serve my (hip) friends before dinner last night. Dinner was to be a Julia favorite, which called for a gin-based cocktail, so the choice was fairly easy -- I chose the prettiest one in the magazine. It was called the Cougar Baitini, aka The Northern Bramble. My friends first asked "why would a drink be named after a cat?", and after I forgave them their hip slip I explained what a More cougar was, and then confessed that when I read the name I heard it pronounced as buy-tini before my aha! moment -- cougar bait-ini -- get it? Sigh. We all needed a more youthful drink, and fast.


The drink is darned tasty -- decent gin (Boodles), fresh lemon juice and a little maple syrup shaken with ice and poured over crushed ice, then drizzled with enough cassis to make it look like a sunset -- garnished with blackberries and served with a fondue fork that can double as a swizzle stick and a blackberry fork. We made the first round, and immediately mixed a second, agreeing that no one should have any down time -- shudder.

Dinner, roast chicken on a bed of mixed greens, green beens with bacon, onions, and feta cheese, fresh baked bread, served with a red wine named "Low Hanging Fruit", was stellar. There's almost nothing like enjoying a meal with people you love, who love food, who aren't shy about breaking off a chunk of bread and scooping up watercress drenched in sauce.

The verdict on the cocktail, which we agreed should be forever known as the Northern Bramble? A veritable fountain of youth.

How Much?

Yes, how much booze do I need? 


We can stop pacing and wondering, because I have GREAT NEWS! On page 176 of The Guide (which I’ve come to think of as “My Guide”, sung to the tune of “My Guy”) is a reference table, and I have to say a spreadsheet has never spoken to me the way this one did. Charts and graphs usually leave me pretty cold, but not this one, which is a 1935 style spreadsheet “for determining approximately how many bottles you may need for various occasions.” Turns out that the recommended number of cocktails before dinner is between 2 ½ and 4!! Per person!! AND, it is recommended that to be extra safe, substitute quarts for fifths! I couldn’t have said it better. For the novice, a fifth refers to 4/5 of a quart so, in short, always have more, more, more!!

It’s another story for a buffet, where we are told to plan 2 cocktails, 2 glasses of wine, 1 liqueur, and 2 highballs, again, per person. I can’t stop smiling even writing this. The news is just too good. Wanna come to my house for a buffet? Yes, I thought you would!

Several years ago I brought Sangria to a Christmas pot luck dinner for about 15 people. People. I’d found a recipe on Epicurious that said it would serve 100. Once I managed to get up off the floor from laughing, I began to imagine -- one hundred what? One hundred who? Certainly not the people in our crowd, who managed to finish it over the course of the evening. Check it out yourself, epicurious.com, Sangria for 100. And then stick with me.

The Swizzle Stick

I can’t believe it happened again. It’s apparently happened enough times to enough people that some yonko made a pithy statement that people now quote, something about how lots of people have great ideas, but only great people bring them to life. Blah blah blah. What an idiot.


So there I was walking back from the mailbox with the New Yorker in my hot little hand, not even waiting to get to the house before I start reading (first the cartoon contest on the back page, then the table of contents) and WTF, scooped by Malcolm Gladwell. Malcolm Gladwell. Why couldn’t it have been by someone like Christopher Buckley? But noooo… It turns out that Malcolm has been researching alcohol consumption. Yeah, but did he actually mix a drink in the process?

So that’s bad, but it gets worse. The very next day, I peruse a copy of More magazine, you know, the one for women of style and substance, and what do you know? Scooped again. There’s an article entitled “Does This Drink Make Me Look Old?”, and it’s about updating your cocktail so as not to look dated by drinking a Cosmopolitan. You want to see dated? Watch me whip out a Manhattan. The article has recipes and photos, though, so it’s not totally useless. I’ve been tossing and turning, wondering if the article was about style, or substance? Substance, or style?

I’d better get on the stick (the swizzle stick, that is) and get back to work. By the end of this I may have even learned to love the Bloody Mary, breakfast of champions everywhere (or would that make me look old?)

Off the wagon

Oh no, I keep falling off the wagon and not drinking! 

I do have a great vegan success story, though.  The other day, while wandering through the newest HEB (that's Texan for grocery store, monopoly that it is), strolling through the bins and running my fingers through the various dried beans (everyone just loves to see me do that), the very dark red aduki beans got me thinking ... about a roast.  Before I knew it I was rubbing down  beef with pepper and herbs and searing it in olive oil; several hours later we sat down to pot roast and potatoes in rich gravy, and a gorgeous array of roasted root vegetables -- beets, turnips, onions, carrots, all beautifully carmelized, fresh bread and butter  ... give me a moment, I think I need a cigarette ...

Where was I?  Oh yes, the vegan part.  Since part of my motivation for going vegan is environmental (what did you think?), one of the sub-texts in this blog will be the various ways that I am also going green.  Just today I read the ingredients on the hair spray I use and thought "Hmm.  This might have to go."  But I wander.  The vegan/green success story is that the roast was packaged in ... get ready ... a bio-degradable tray!!!  You can imagine, I practically skipped to the check-out line, feeling smug and just  a  little  bit  superior. 

Now, though, it is happy hour, and I have work to do.  Love you all. 

We've come a long way since the Bartender's Guide was first published, and there are variations on martinis that weren't even imaginable in 1935, or whenever.  They didn't know about garlic stuffed olives, and certainly not jalapeno stuffed, the point being that I'm going to spend a looooooong time on martinis, visiting and probably revisiting the many options.  Oh yes. 

Now, about the vegan part of this blog.  I was doing pretty well today until the salmon, which is definitely flesh.  And Rone' is right, I get almost giddy around roast chicken, especially when it's roasted a la julia.  Still, at the grocery store today I managed to stop short of buying a bird, settling for a quick fondle.  Turns out that a fryer feels exactly the same as a roaster,  blindfolded (the feeler, not the bird).   Whooooo's mixing?

Actually from February 5

Last night’s pasta y fagioli, with a sprinkling of freshly grated hard Italian cheese: not vegan. The accompanying salad of mixed greens and a light buttermilk dressing: also guilty. Actually, one can’t get through The Guide without breaking a few eggs for a gin fizz, and then there’s the whole nog category, not to mention the white Russians. I recall a saner-than-average vegan saying that the ideal diet is to aspire to be vegan, but to occasionally fail. (Lest anyone be wondering, yes, I am free to judge sanity, as this is my blog post). She was referring to the difficulty of getting absolutely all essential nutrients with a strictly vegan diet, but I’m referring to more basic needs here: fermentation and fun. So, I’ll aspire to go vegan, but I’m afraid I’m going to be caught not aspriring very hard.


There’s a good chance there won’t be much touring through The Guide very much in the next few days, given that I’ll be in Eugene with Chloe. Eugene is a good place to be vegan, though, with all those crunchy, organic, granola types.  We shall see. 

Ready or Not

Just two days ago I ran an idea by some friends, the good kind, and they responded the way good friends are wont to do:  we love it! 

Well, no wonder.  Who wouldn't want to drink their way through The Bartender's Guide while becoming a vegan and blog about it?  Correction -- who wouldn't want to watch someone else to do it? 

Thing is, eating and drinking are social activities, so like it or not my friends will be coming along for the ride.  However much I relate to the line in George Thorogood's song ("when I drink alone, I prefer to be by myself"), we're in this together. 
 
So, today begins the project, beginning with the Abbey. It's so obviously the right way to start, with all the stars in alignment around it.  It's the first drink in The Guide, but that's not all -- when I went to a web-site to learn about how to become a vegan (I couldn't just DO it, I had to read about it first), there was Paul McCartney's video, his face oh so soulful, him telling me to just stop eating meat. So THAT's how you become a vegan!! Glad I read up on it. I haven't been much of a fan of Paul's since 1963, but I am a fan of Abbey Road, and there you have it.  I can find cosmic justification for anything, anywhere. Stick with me.


Along with the days' other errands, I'll be adding a stop at the local package store for gin and orange bitters. The Abbey contains orange juice, and if I hustle I can sneak it in before noon and call it breakfast!

So that didn't happen.  It didn't actually get mixed until four o'clock, but the motto for this project will be "it's always breakfast somewhere!"  The verdict?  A good English gin (Plymouth), sorry ass Orange Bitters (in a plastic squeeze bottle?), a splash of orange juice, and a marachino cherry made for a perfectly nice cocktail for getting out of the gate.  A side of Pepperidge Farm Mint Milano cookies wasn't the perfect accompaniment (they'd be the Orange Milanos ideally), but it sufficed. 

I've not had a bit of animal product all day -- when do I get to call myself a vegan?  Whoops, forgot about the half and half in the morning coffee.  Damn. The vegan thing is going to be harder than the drinking thing, I'm thinking.

I've got a problem with marachino cherries that I'm going to have to come to terms with (they seem to figure prominently in drinks from a certain era -- mine).  Might as well start wrestling those demons early.  Years ago, beginning when I was about ten, I was the mixologist in our house, and Manhattans were the cocktail of choice.  Mom and Dad would have several Manhattans, and each drink would have its own cherry.  Gradually, they started keeping the same cherry through the cocktail hour, not such a bad idea, but by the time I was in my twenties they'd started putting the cherry back in the jar and re-using it -- night after night, until it became blanched and ragged, at which point they'd start with a fresh one.  The other day my therapist told me that life at my house sounded depressing, and I hadn't even told her the cherry story.  So, for me, it's cherries unlimited, all you want, any time.  Like I said, stick with me.