Anyone who has ever questioned that “fruit is nature’s candy” could use either (a) a good lecture, or (b) a persimmon.
There’s a radio station in the DMV that plays Christmas music starting from the middle of November, and every year I make it my personal objective to fill all proximal airspace with as much snowball-throwing, jingle-belling, reindeer-abusing cheer as possible.
This drink is complicated and intense. Like Melody.
There are plenty of awesome ways to trick out your Halloween treats – I’m going to pat myself on the back for that one – but many of them involve black lights, dry ice, fire, or food coloring, and I’d personally prefer to spend more time drinking my drinks than managing their levels of apparent radioactivity. (Plus, food coloring gives me the creeps. There are few things more disconcerting than taking a sip of a neon-blue, chocolate flavored cocktail).
Instead, we took a page from the highly gimmicky and extraordinarily disgusting Viniq, a liqueur that resembles nail polish and is so offensively flavored that it may in fact be better used for that purpose. To give you a quick description, it sort of tastes like somebody put cheap vodka in cheap wine and added the flavoring from purple Gatorade –
Oh, wait. That’s exactly what it is.
Sarah’s brother the Bread Smith is here. He has a name, but nothing feels relevant next to fresh bread unless it’s a condiment.
People often make the joke of “famous last words,” but I assure you that few are as innocuous as the ones that prompted Sarah and I to go bushwhacking in the relative jungles of the Potomac River.
It’s been many years since I’ve barbecued anything, so I couldn’t have possibly given fair warning to Sarah and our friends that I’ve somehow inherited my dad’s grilling attitude. He’s one of many fathers who names himself Grill Master, whose authority is unquestionable at the advice of our mother, and who instilled in me the strong association between steak and what I thought the diesel engine of a sports car must taste like after hitting 100,000 miles.
With spring arriving as the outdoors’ liberator
And nothing but wine in our frat boy refrigerator,
A pitcher of sangria seemed quite symbolic,
To drink and be merry and amongst flowers frolic.
(“At least,” Sarah said, “for an alcoholic.”)
The weather has been so nice lately that Sarah and I decided to take advantage of it by having an evening walk. We’d eaten three full meals that day and figured there could be no harm in a little exercise, so we opted to take a short stroll down our native city of Rockville with it’s expanses of concrete and its rush hour traffic and the tantalizing aroma of car exhaust…
Maybe not reflective of the blooming springtime we tried to experience, but better than nothing.
For your last minute St. Patrick’s Day needs, here is a quick two-step idea to get you to your ideal level of inebriation, and then pass it.