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.