Someone, obviously very brilliant, referenced my blog on her twitter - isn't that a little like being published?? It was the toast to Bob Edwards. What a thrill!! Especially for Bob!!
Now, let me hope that I never write a sentence again that has both the words 'blog' and 'twitter'.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Thinking Makes Me Thirsty
The last time I’d taken so long to write I blamed it on some technical problem – probably a computer. So what’s the excuse this time?
No thoughts to report, as I’m pretty sure I delegated the thinking to Bill some time ago, without telling him of course, supposing that he’d (again) read my mind, which would not be a good thing if I don’t want to be stuck with all the thinking again. I want to not think, and have no once notice – the usual, that is. It scares me how much sense this paragraph makes to me.
I’ve never actually written it: I’m so grateful for Nia. I’ve been teaching so much over the past three years that I rarely get to be a student, nor can I spend much time practicing on my own. On this rainy day, oh joy for the rain, with no commitments to be anywhere, it’s nice to do a little practice at home, mostly the yoga part, which I miss from my yogi glory days. Actually, these are the glory days.
I read that people who are naturally thin are moving constantly without their awareness, even when they’re resting. One of the gifts Nia has brought is that I’m more inclined to notice sensation in a muscle, (I know, I said ‘sensation’) and can choose what to do with the energy. Oh man, I said ‘energy’. Just put me in front of the Nia firing squad now. Wrap a white belt around my eyes, and shoot. Anyway, sometimes it’s hard to sit still and I find myself in one room after another, sometimes having walked there and sometimes having bounced, and the next moment I realize I’m so still I’m barely breathing, taking long stretches after I’ve exhaled before bothering to inhale. Like it would be so much trouble.
Now how can Pandora get it right and then wrong in such a brief span of time? Isn’t it supposed to know my mind? Oh.
Back to breathing. My thinking days are over. Or perhaps you’d noticed?
No thoughts to report, as I’m pretty sure I delegated the thinking to Bill some time ago, without telling him of course, supposing that he’d (again) read my mind, which would not be a good thing if I don’t want to be stuck with all the thinking again. I want to not think, and have no once notice – the usual, that is. It scares me how much sense this paragraph makes to me.
I’ve never actually written it: I’m so grateful for Nia. I’ve been teaching so much over the past three years that I rarely get to be a student, nor can I spend much time practicing on my own. On this rainy day, oh joy for the rain, with no commitments to be anywhere, it’s nice to do a little practice at home, mostly the yoga part, which I miss from my yogi glory days. Actually, these are the glory days.
I read that people who are naturally thin are moving constantly without their awareness, even when they’re resting. One of the gifts Nia has brought is that I’m more inclined to notice sensation in a muscle, (I know, I said ‘sensation’) and can choose what to do with the energy. Oh man, I said ‘energy’. Just put me in front of the Nia firing squad now. Wrap a white belt around my eyes, and shoot. Anyway, sometimes it’s hard to sit still and I find myself in one room after another, sometimes having walked there and sometimes having bounced, and the next moment I realize I’m so still I’m barely breathing, taking long stretches after I’ve exhaled before bothering to inhale. Like it would be so much trouble.
Now how can Pandora get it right and then wrong in such a brief span of time? Isn’t it supposed to know my mind? Oh.
Back to breathing. My thinking days are over. Or perhaps you’d noticed?
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
I Can't Drink -- Don't Ask Me
What's a journey through the Bartender's Guide without drinking? Something happened, some odd constellation of events, or stars, or whatever makes such things tick, and for the last 39 but who's counting days I can't drink. It's not for lack of trying, either. The only drink I've come even close to finishing was a margarita, and that I drank strictly for medicinal purposes (I have aborted more colds with the magical administration of tequila, contreau and lime juice than anyone ever has with chicken soup). I tried a martini and reared back like a frightened horse; wine made me cringe and turn up my nose like a wine snob; a cold beer after raking leaves was almost appealing, but not enough to make me want to drink a whole one -- so what's a journeywoman to do? Until something changes, I'll be sipping carrot juice from a beautiful glass at cocktail hour, and that will have to be enough.
In the meantime, I can't drink, so don't ask me, but I'll still dance at the drop of a dime.
In the meantime, I can't drink, so don't ask me, but I'll still dance at the drop of a dime.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
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
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
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
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?
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
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??
Monday, June 28, 2010
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!
Cheers!
Friday, June 25, 2010
The Amalfi Dream
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.
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.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
a thing of beauty
is a joy while it lasts!!!!!
(notice the hammock in the background -- perfect for sipping icy limoncello in the moonlight?)
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
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 ...
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 ...
Friday, May 7, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
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 ...
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
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.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
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!
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
P.S. Think flask
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
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 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.
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