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.