5:00 Fridays: Schneider Mike in the House

My buddy Schneider Mike wrote a fantastic guest post today all about beer. Beer! I love Schneider Mike. I love beer. It's an age 21+ peanut butter and jelly match made in hoppy heaven. I met Mike at Social Media Business Forum last fall. We clicked. Just like that. Not in a smitten way, more of a you-are-so-witty-smart-fun-irreverent-and-cool way. I dig him so much that I've been nagging him to move down here. But I'm trying my best to keep him near me in the city and not in hinterland suburbia like his best pal Greg (whom I also adore!). Anyhow, here's Schneider Mike's take on beer, brewski, beevo, whatever you call it. Cheers!

The first taste of beer that I remember was a Ballantine Ale at 6 years old. Knowing my old man, it was probably sooner, but I remember liking the carbonation and the bite, but not the acidity. I now refer to old school beers like Ballantine and Schlitz as "drinking a battery". There is a metallic electricity and aftertaste that has been all but eliminated from the beer world. He also used to really enjoy Blatz. Blatz was a beer that would haul off and punch you in the mouth every time you dared to sip. I recall trying Goebel, American, Molson, Genny Cream Ale and my grandfather once let me try "generic beer". The bottle was brown. The label only had the word BEER on a yellow background. He came from a different era and so did my old man who still thinks it does not get any better than Ballantine Ale.

Unlike my dad and grandfather who find what they like and usually stick with it, I am really hard to satisfy. My dad would take me to the beverage store with him and I noticed that just like cereals, yogurts and sodas, there were beers I hadn't tried yet and I was curious. I tried a few beers in high school. I first drunk at a graduation party, but still I wasn't satisfied. Michelob Dark couldn't be the best, most interesting thing that the beer world had to offer, could it?

Enter Samuel Adams, who, in 1985 first introduced their Boston Lager and, in my mind, gave us hope that there was more to beer than Budweiser, Miller and Schlitz. I had my first Samuel Adams in college at 19. We had a friend pick us up a couple of six packs for the first ever "good beer night". The idea was concocted when Andy, Karl and I decided that drinking mass quantities of swill like Natural Light and Busch Light Draft was unacceptable, that we did not like drinking to get drunk and that we wanted something more. This was a very good idea and we spent the rest of the evening reveling in the fact that I was right all along about beer and that we had finally discovered the Holy Grail. This was a huge step up from freshman year when we decided that Miller Genuine Draft was the "Nectar of the Gods".

Since then, I've tried many beers in many glasses, casks, bottles and growlers on my show at belchingmonkey.com and wanted to tell you about 4 IPAs that I really enjoy.

Bear Republic Racer 5 (BM rating: B+)
They call it aggressively hopped, but I find this to be incredibly well balanced between orange zest, pine and floral notes. Highly drinkable, but beware of the 7% alcohol by volume.

Dogfish Head 60 Minute IPA (BM rating: A-) The pride of Delaware starts with a gentle, floral nose. Sipping reveals surprising java bean complementing bitter flowers and some vanilla.

Great Divide Brewing Company Titan (BM rating: A) This sucker has delicious forest-like notes on the nose. The hoppiest of the bunch (most bitter), the flavor reminds me of sushi that goes nicely with a little green tea, pine and lime zest. The packaging for Great Divide beers is also brilliant.

Avery Brewing Company (BM rating: A) Big lemon and spice nose. Perfect balance of pine and zest with gentle sweetness. When I am drinking this one I usually think "favorite".

What are your favorites?

5:00 Fridays

I have professed my love for Fat Tire before. Beer delivery among local watering holes just happens to be around the time I take my sons to school. We inevitably spot a Fat Tire truck. Bird and Deal whoop and holler like it's the Peeps truck. Even when I buy a different beer brand (GASP, the horror!), Deal asks, "Mommy, are you buying Fat Tire?" Bird puts the bubbles from his bath into a plastic cup and presents Fat Tire to Deal. A hallmark of stellar parenting.

It might come as a surprise that today's drink isn't Fat Tire, but it's another New Belgium masterpiece. A seasonal pale ale has me cheating on my beloved Fat Tire (nevermind the other pansy brands I've partaken in before).

Mighty Arrow.

Sounds like a good Y Guides tribe name. I'm tucking that in my back pocket for when Deal is of age.

In the mean time, I'll be donning my $9.99 Tarjhay shades and spending my moulah on Mighty Arrow instead. You can find me on my patio admiring my garden, chasing my dog, tossing the lacrosse ball with Bird, or just kicking back with Real Simple and a beer.

Mighty Arrow, named after a beloved dog. Crafted by a beloved brewery.

5:00 Fridays - For Duke

So I suppose it's not news anymore that Duke won some big basketball tournament. I inadvertently taught my sons to do air quotes and say "the game" because everyone around the water cooler seems to talk incessantly about "the game" regardless the time of year. Now Bird and Deal taunt and mock Mac Daddy every time he watches sports (It's only sports or the news with that guy. I don't know why he can't branch out into quality programming like Gossip Girl.).

I don't know squat about sports and usually choose my bracket based on very important, studied criteria such as school colors, mascot, and the city the school is located in. I don't know any player names and sure as hell don't know any stats. I didn't even know what "in the paint" meant until I got my friend John Hollis' book called Life in the Paint (Dude, it's for sale on Amazon. Check it out. John is a whole mess of awesome, but don't tell him I told you so. I like to keep him on my curmudgeonly stubborn side.). And then on Twitter @illig sent me straight to Google with his cager reference.

It would only make sense that I honor Duke in today's 5:00 Fridays post.

Duke Ellington, that is. You didn't really think I'd toast Coach K and the Dukies, did you?


Duke's a Champ (from The Daily Cocktail book my friend Kate gave me)

1-2 ounces vodka
1/2 ounce blackberry brandy

Pour the vodka and blackberry brandy into a mixing glass half filled with ice (cubed, not crushed). Stir and strain into a martini glass. Kick back and listen to some jazz...and I ain't talkin' Utah.


A few lyrics from Duke Ellington's Cocktail for Two:

"Most any afternoon at five
We'll be so glad we're both alive
Then maybe fortune will complete her plan
That all began
With cocktails for two"

5:00 Fridays: Tipping My Glass to Laura Bennett

I recently got a copy of a fine read Didn't I Feed You Yesterday? A Mother's Guide to Sanity in Stilettos from the author herself. I've even exchanged emails with the author herself. I feel like it's a brush with fame. Well, if said brush were but one hair thick. A brush nonetheless. And nevermind that I have never owned a pair of stilettos in my life.

Gasp!

The author of Didn't I Feed You Yesterday? A Mother's Guide to Sanity in Stilettos, Laura Bennett, is someone I'd like to have a weekly cocktail with. We'd have our 5:00 Fridays inked in our calendar books, and it would be a weekly standing date while our boys would tear up the joint. We'd kick off our shoes, hers, 4-inch fabulous Manolos, mine, more modest cowboy boots or handmade leather sandals my aunt brought me back from India. I'd drool over her shoes and bags while she'd secretly be thankful I'm not her size. Then Bird would deck someone or Deal's whining would reach epic levels and she'd ask us to leave.

Laura and I would make quite a pair. She towering at close to six feet, while I stand at a solid five feet if I throw my chest out, yank my shoulders back, and hold my head up. She, a redheaded red lipsticked beauty. Me, a brown skinned and eyed, dark eye-circled, 40-something with a swoosh of black eyeliner and lip balm. I think I'd mostly like to hang out with Laura in hopes of her cool factor, sense of style (Did I mention she was on Project Runway and made it excrutiatingly close to the end?), confidence, and ability to shake it off.

You see, Laura (We're totally on a first name basis. I mean, we did exchange emails and all.), lives in Manhattan in a two bedroom loft. With FIVE boys (her daughter is lucky enough to be away at college...incidentally, her daughter and I went to the same boarding school...but let's just say I didn't graduate from the same school). And of course Laura has a husband, who's really like boy #6. And here I thought a lousy two boys and a husband (boy #3) was bad. Even my dog is a male. Being outnumbered isn't the issue as much as the sheer dirt and noise. You did know the meaning behind my blog's name, right? If two boys can run amok and wreak havoc, I can only have nightmares about what five boys can do.

Laura's life is pretty much a gassy cloud of burps, farts, shrills, guffaws, spills, and well, Chaos.

Yet she thrives in it. What I learned from reading this laugh-aloud funny book was that I could use a lesson in taking it easy. I'm clearly wound too tightly, and it ain't from my Spanx (which, thanks to Laura, I must run out and buy because it's apparently the miracle non-surgical surgery fix). My version of letting loose is to declare Sunday as no-making-the-bed day. In fact, on a recent vacation Bird cleared Deal's stuffed animals off the hotel bed and started to make it. I stopped him, but part of me was damn proud. In an admittedly sick way.

I'm a stickler for rules, manners, healthy food, home cooking, blah blah blah. After reading about Laura's philosophy on mothering, take care of yourself first (akin to putting on your oxygen mask first as Laura recounts), I realize I am piling on loads of couch fodder for my sons' future therapy. But can I really exchange my rigid cookin' ways for a more fabulous MO? I mean, it doesn't seem that Laura's sons are any worse for the wear. Actually, they appear quite smart, gracious, and downright funny.

And yes, she has help. Dear God, she must. But let me be the first to say that having help doesn't make Laura less of a mother. There are no blue ribbons in motherhood, so get off your soapbox and make room for us all to share a piece of the winner's circle.

I might not be as relaxed, charming, talented, and funny as Laura Bennett but I could at least don some red lipstick and stop yelling for a spell. Luckily for me it's 5:00 Friday so I can put up my kicky-shoed feet and relax with a cocktail.

This one's for Laura. Her candor. Her humor. Her style.

Now go buy her book. If you don't laugh aloud I'll buy you a drink. Make that three. Because if you don't laugh out loud, it clearly indicates that you are a fool with no sense of humor and a corncob stuck up your ass.


DIFYY

3 ounces of Hendrick's gin
1 ounce of Stirrings Bitter Lemon Soda
1 cucumber slice

Drop a few ice cubes into a highball glass. Pour in the gin. Top off with Bitter Lemon Soda. Float a cucumber slice in there to make it look fancy and spa-like. Put on some of that long lasting lipstick that doesn't wear off, you know, the kind flight attendants and Mary Hart must wear, and sip away. You'll tune out that chaos in no time.

5:00 Fridays

Today's 5:00 Fridays post is a special creation for my friend Gina. Gina of Taste This! fame. You know, the cookbook? Yeah, I have a friend who wrote and published a real cookbook. Cool, eh? You might know Gina better as the Bowl Licker. Based on Bird and Deal's kitchen antics, especially when we bake together, I think her blog is aptly named.

So we're toasting today for Gina's birthday. Everyone wish Gina a big ole Happy Birthday, mkay?

Nevermind that I haven’t yet met this fellow foodie and cocktail maven on the left coast, though I count her among my friends. I have a hunch that when we meet we could very well gab for hours on end whilst shopping and sipping, leaving little room for breaths and pregnant pauses. Gina perks me up, makes me chuckle, and whets my appetite. I’m dying to pull up a barstool in her kitchen and nosh and toast and laugh.

I imagine Gina has a lovely kitchen. I bet she has really cute aprons too.

A little bird, known as Facebook, told me that Gina will be blowing out candles on a cake this week. Nevermind just how many candles. Since she’s the one who inspired me to start baking from scratch (I’m telling you, her blueberry muffins are sinfully delicious.), I’m pretty sure she’s indulging in a damn good cake. Let’s just say that I’m a better mixologist than a baker. I’ve concocted a little birthday cocktail for my friend Gina.

I’d whisk her away to a blue hued sea with white sand beaches and red pedicures if I could. We’d eat fresh fish, succulent pineapples, and sweet coconut juice. This must sound like a romantic rendezvous to some, but for mothers who work work work, paradise is a beach replete with libations and girlfriends where no one calls us Mommy.

So to toast Gina on her big day, here’s my little taste of paradise. Cheers!


Gina Bina Bobeena

Ingredients
1 ounce dark rum
1 ounce coconut rum
1 ounce banana liqueur
5 ounces pineapple juice
splash of grenadine
pineapple wedge and banana slice for garnish

Directions
Pour first three ingredients over ice in a high ball glass. Add pineapple juice and an ever so slight dash of grenadine. Skewer a pineapple wedge and banana slice to plop in as garnish.

Happy Birthday, Gina!

5:00 Fridays

First of all, I'd like to thank all 12 people reading my blog today. I realize March Madness is upon us. In hindsight, I realize that is precisely why Mac Daddy whisked me off to Charleston for a tenth anniversary surprise getaway last weekend. Points scored and subsequently redeemed for an inordinate number of hours perched in front of our old dusty TV following an orange ball bouncing from here to fro. I can't get past the lanky guys in ill fitting shorts who have massive pipes. Did boys have muscles like that when I was in college? I think not.

Couch therapy takes on a whole new meaning during March Madness. Pass the chips, man.

Basketball is more grunge less refined, right? It's a beer swilling sport for the most part. Then again, all sports are beer swilling sports. Well, not polo or horse racing, but I'm not talking country club and cotillion here. Mac Daddy is a slave to basketball. He evens follows my alma mater to keep me abreast of all that's (not) happening on the court in Hooville. Apparently my guys weren't on the bubble this year. They weren't in the same zip code as the bubble. There might have never even been a bubble.

In any case, because I'm not a bitter kind of girl, I'd like to celebrate the bubble today. A toast to those teams whose bubbles didn't burst (not that I know who they are).


The Bubble

2 ounces lychee juice
3 ounces dry champagne

Pour the lychee juice into a champagne glass and top with champagne. Leave the garnish out today. I mean really, you can only fancy up hoops so much.

Cheers to the Madness that is March!

So tell me, who'd you pick to go all the way?

5:00 Fridays

You might imagine that I am difficult to live with. I'm testy, persnickety, hyper, emotional, opinionated, oh, the list goes on. Not many people can put up with me. I get that. I owe Mac Daddy a lot for putting up with me. He's a gem, that one. I might be foolish but I'm no fool. I know a good thing when I see it. Mac Daddy is the Mac Daddy of husbands. If I had fewer student loans and more dough he'd get more than a blog post for our anniversary.

Mac Daddy and I are celebrating our tenth wedding anniversary on Sunday, March 14.

That's 10 freaking years. Married. Happily. More than happily.

4 cities.
2 apartments.
4 houses.
3 home renovations.
2 kids.
2 cats.
1 dog.
7 jobs.
1 true love.

It's so cliche to say this, but really, where has the time gone? We met at work. We were friends. I used to set him up with my girlfriends. Wiley E. Coyote came around and dropped an anvil on my head to get me to see the light. We easily transitioned from friendship to relationship because, well, we were friends. Real friends. We celebrated our 30th birthdays together (Mac Daddy threw me a surprise party worthy of a blog post all its own). We traveled to some amazing cities, dined in dives and hoity toity venues, and gotten our groove on in juke joints all over creation.

I first fell in love with Mac Daddy when he unabashedly hopped onto the dance floor and rocked out to the likes of Andy Kim, Earth Wind & Fire, and The Gap Band. We have always laughed so easily together, though he doesn't think I'm nearly as funny as I do (rather, am). I like to say he has Funny Envy. Mac Daddy is more sarcastic than funny; the two are indeed mutually exclusive. Mostly we can laugh at each other's expense without getting our britches in a bundle. And when we do get our britches in a bundle...well, that's another story...

Mac Daddy and I got married in Key West on somewhat of a whim. That kind of no frills fun affair suited us perfectly. Our simple wedding was more about us, less about fuss. We were under the glorious banyan trees in the gardens of the Audubon House. Those trees are magnificent, seeming to defy gravity and the very assertions you had about nature. The limbs climb every which way, sweeping up, across, down, and back up again. Intertwining along the way, peppered with leaves so hearty you can carve your initials in them (As tradition goes at the Audubon House, we did just that, with our wedding date too). The banyan tree's trunk is sturdy and thick, elegant in its rugged simplicity. The kind of tree that beckons you to climb its branches in a fit of frolic, have a seat to chill in a comfortable silence, lean against it for unfailing support.

In typical laid back Mac Daddy and Key West fashion, today's drink would be best imbibed from a tin cup chalice.

Which incidentally, was our first dance.

And tin is the traditional 10th anniversary gift.


The Mac Daddy

2 ounces Hendricks' Gin
Juice from 2 key limes (Fresh! You can't possibly use imitation juice in Mac Daddy's signature cocktail!)
1/2 ounce simple syrup
Few sprigs of fresh mint
Key lime wedge for muddling and garnish

Muddle a couple limes wedges with the simple syrup and mint. Add to martini glass. Shake gin in cocktail shaker filled with ice. Pour over simple syrup, lime, and mint. Garnish with a key lime wedge. Have a sip with someone you love. And remember, the things worth toasting are the ones keeping you toasty every night.

Chalk this one up there with things that make you go hmmmm.

Happy Anniversary to Mac Daddy! You make my world bright and have given me the life I've always dreamed of. I love you.

5:00 Fridays

So the Oscars are on this weekend. Yawn. Ho hum. Whatevah. It's normally kind of a big deal in my house. Over the last 12 or so years I have seen all the Oscar nominated films in the top six categories. You know, the ones in which the actors get accosted on the red carpet and make the cover and center spread of People magazine.

Mac Daddy and I would fill out our ballots and sit down to a feast of the surf and turf variety. We used to call our old friends Chris and Shan during commercial breaks to taunt them since we took our balloting seriously. I never liked Oscar parties because of all the...talking. I like to watch it all in uninterrupted silence: the pre-show, post-show, fashion police show, and everything in between. Shan is the only person I have ever met who would watch the Oscars with the same riveted attention. Back in the day we ended up shooing our loud mouth husbands out of the room so we could watch in peace.

This year our Oscar night will be a wee different. For starters, we've seen about two movies. Mac Daddy and I are the only people on the planet who have not seen Avatar. The only category I have covered is Animation. I have a hunch Chris and Shan are in the same boat. And now instead of shooing our husbands we'd be shushing our boys, which is never very effective. Also, no more surf and turf since we gave up red meat. Surf is still on the table but doesn't have quite the same ring to it. I'm also a tired wreck these days so it's likely I'll fall asleep somewhere between the Cinematography award and the recap of the technical awards where all the geeks are segregated from the real stars but get to ogle a Hollywood hottie in all her cleavagey glory for an evening.

The one thing that won't change is toasting our love of the movies with champagne. Even if we're curled up in fleece PJs a size too big (that would be me, not Mac Daddy) and a shedding farting dog between us, we'll crack our the Tiffany champagne glasses my brother (who happens to be a Hollywood type himself who has been nominated for an Oscar...ooh, the irony) and pour some bubbly. Not to be confused with the Buble that might be on your iPod, not mine.

I'm mixing it up a tad this year as a nod to our dear friends Chris and Shan whom we miss terribly. I recall some excrutiatingly fun evenings with them way back in the day, just a bevy of buddies sharing some Absolut Mandrin libations.


Oscar Oranj

5 ounces good quality brut champage
1 ounce Absolut Mandrin vodka
teaspoon Grand Marnier
Orange slice


Pour the vodka and Grand Marnier into a champagne flute. Top with champagne. Garnish with an orange slice. Sit back, pretend you're dolled up in a custom gown so fancy and tight that you're taped and tucked into it, toss your head with a gay lilting laugh, bat your eyelashes, pout your ruby lips, be charming, and have a sip. Now revel in the escape of the movies.

Cheers!

In the words of Kevin Spacey at the 1995 Academy Awards (Holy shit! The Usual Suspects is 15 years old?!):

"Whoever Keyser Soze is, I can tell you he is going to get gloriously drunk tonight."

5:00 Fridays

You know I like it hot.

And there's only one thing I like dirty.

My martinis.

I'm one stoked mama when I can have it hot and dirty.

You sweating yet? This is starting to get bit frisky.

I've proclaimed my love for Dirty Sue before. Dirty Sue has made a dirty martini snob out of me (like I needed more to be snobbish about). I don't dare order one at a bar anymore, what, with the barkeep's hands digging around the brine in the tray of olives that's set right out there for public consumption and all. No thanks.

I've decided to take a whirl at my own concoction to make my martinis the way my life's unfolding these days:


Hot and Dirty

3 ounces of Rain Organic Vodka
1/2 ounce Dirty Sue
splash of olive juice from Trader Joe's Jalapeno Stuffed Olives
2 Jalapeno stuffed olives (or 3, if you tend to be a bit piggish like me)


Fill your shaker with ice. Add liquid ingredients. Hum a little KC and the Sunshine Band and shake shake shake. Strain into a martini glass (I'm digging these.) and drop in a couple of those bad boy olives. Sip. And say ahhhhh.


Oh, and sadly, the only thing that's really hot are my flashes. As for the dirty, if you have two boys and a dog, you know what I'm talkin' about.

5:00 Fridays

Today's 5:00 Fridays is a guest post from one of my favorite bloggers. We haven't met (yet) in person, but I think I might squee and pee when I get to belly up to a bar with this fellow mama of boys. I imagine it will pan out a lot like when I met my lovely Caroline for the first time.

Meet Melissa, sweet Melissa. Green Girl in Wisconsin. Click over on that thar link and read some of her stuff. Then sign up for the RSS feed. She's a whole lot of awesomeness and smack talk.


When Ilina (and many, many other East Coast bloggers) wrote about their Snowmeggedon, I totally sympathized. After all, I live in Wisconsin, land of the Nanook, the Frozen Tundra, the legendary Ice Bowl. Ten inches of fluffy stuff to us is commonplace where everyone owns a parka, snow boots and tire chains. Between snowmobiles, skis, sleds and snow shoes, we make the most of winter here.

The time of year we hate here is early spring, when the temperatures warm up to 36 degrees--enough to turn pure white bountiful flakes into a slushy, dirty, sloppy mess. It coats our cars, it tracks into our houses and leaves charcoal-colored puddles on the floors. Children are resigned to playing around the puddles in their driveways. Snowmobile trails close, ski hills shut down, and while the rest of the country enjoys mild weather, we curse the ice floes clogging up our rivers and the mountains of gritty slush stubbornly blocking the storm sewers along the roads. We wait impatiently--staring out the windows at the gray landscape. Whether farmer, baseball player, teacher or fisherman, early spring is a cruel time.

Regardless of the calendar, whether it's a hot summer night, a blizzard or the slow thaw of spring, one cocktail brings a smile to the faces of people living in Northeast Wisconsin. The Dirty Snowball. A recipe developed and perfected at Cleo's Brown Beam Tavern, Dirty Snowballs are as potent as Long Island Iced Tea and more delicious than fudge brownies.

I told Theresa she needs this legendary recipe because soon all that snow will start to melt, leaving behind snowdrifts pockmarked by auto exhaust and gravel. When her two boys are outside chucking dirty snowballs at each other, she can stand at the window and watch--while tossing back her own Dirty Snowballs.

Dirty Snowball (the real recipe from Cleo's Brown Beam Tavern*)

1 shot vodka
1 shot dark creme de cacao
1 shot coffee liqueur
1 shot cream
ice

Blend to the consistency of slush.

*I searched the internet to find this recipe to no avail. Many other "Dirty Snowball" drinks exist, but they call for Bailey's and Mint Schnapps--NOT the same drink we toast and get toasted on in Northeast Wisconsin! I knew that Cleo's used vodka in this cocktail, so I went straight to the source and asked one of their bartenders. This, Ilina, is the real deal!

And further cause for celebration...

This year Cleo's Brown Beam Tavern turns 40 years old. Named both for the original owner and for the beams that stretch across the ceiling, Cleo's is known also for its crazy decor. The first Christmas after it opened, Cleo never took down the decorations. Since then, decorations from EVERY holiday have been added by patrons, making the interior truly unique and memorable. Name the holiday and tacky decor and you will find it somewhere inside Cleo's!

5:00 Fridays

Photo courtesy of Laurie White:
Photo courtesy of Laurie White:

Photo courtesy of Brenda Bartella Peterson:



I hear that some people in my viewing area have been hit with just a tish of snow.

Prepare yourself for a sidebar here:

When I was in about third grade I recall writing a story about where snow comes from. This was a creative writing assignment, not a science paper. I mean, really, I might have fared better in science class had there been more writing and less calculating. I didn't even know that snowflakes have six sides until Bird (who's 6) told me. All I knew is that each snowflake is unique and that that fact makes for a tired metaphor. Nothing like digressing in a sidebar that is already a digression of sorts. Anyway, I wrote a rather in-depth folkloric tale, replete with glitter in my illustrations, about snow. My story was that every time the angels combed their hair it snowed. My teacher hated it. She visibly shuddered. Back then we didn't need to pad self-esteem to the Nth degree and pat kids on the back for every gosh darn pea they ate and pee they tinkled. My teacher even took me into the hall for a good old fashioned talking-to.

You see, I equated snow with angel dandruff. Apparently angels are holy creatures not to be taken snidely. And apparently that little itch was totally telling my teacher something. I was too young to be irreverent; I was just being creative. So I thought. Lesson learned: Some people are very touchy about their dandruff.

Here in Raleigh we got some snow too. All of four inches. We missed three days of school. I'm not mathy but I think that figure to an average of about a day or so for every inch. I donated almost three times that much hair and didn't get a day off. When it snows here it's equal parts glorious novelty and pain in the arse. The novelty wears off as quickly as the white stuff melts. The pain in the arse lingers since the yard is pretty much a sodden mush pit now. From mosh pit to much pit in the course of a few years. Such is the plight of those of us who grow up.

Since our snow left us as quickly as you can blow dandruff off your shoulder, I'm honoring my friends just over the state line and beyond with today's drink. My pal Colin was serving these the first night it snowed here. I hear the plows aren't making much headway so you must have some untouched snow to use. Word to the wise, leave the yellow snow alone.

This cocktail is Head & Shoulders above the rest.


Snow Cream

Fresh snow
Bourbon
Vanilla
Maple syrup (The real deal only, folks!)
Cream

Fill a tumbler with fresh snow. Add a shot or two of bourbon, dash of vanilla, tablespoon or so of maple syrup, and a healthy pour of cream. Stir ever so slightly. Keep this one pure and don't add garnish.


Remember, the more you drink, the more quickly the snow will go away. Be your own plow.

When life gives you snow, make snow creams.

When life gives you dandruff, make a trip to CVS for Head & Shoulders.

5:00 Fridays

So Obama has once again declared he'll repeal Clinton's (Bill's, that is) "Don't Ask Don't Tell" policy. Seems to me that the spirit of that ridiculousness sparked Vegas' "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" ad campaign. Um, as if we just don't talk about it, it doesn't matter. Yeah, tell that to your jilted bride who's gonna get a mad case of herpes thanks to your hedonistic indiscretions.

Besides that, so much for the whole equality thing. What a novel concept anyway. Have we really seen that work in any realm? I mean really, we wouldn't have Title IX, affirmative action, and so on if Equality really mattered. "Don't Ask Don't Tell" is just one more cog in that stifling machine. I'm thinking that "separate but equal" more closely aligns with where our country has socially been pointing its nose. Then again, based on the raving rants and roars by the likes of a tub bellied arse named Rush and a becurled beauty queen named Sarah, I'd say our nose, theirs and their minions' at least, is pointing elsewhere.

Hear's hoping that Obama makes some headway on the repeal of "Don't Ask Don't Tell." I'm applauding his wisdom with a drink.

Oh, and lest you think this is not a real drink, allow me to point you to page 214 of the fine book The Daily Cocktail that my dear friend Kate gave me.


Gay Marine

few sprigs of fresh mint
4 - 5 lime wedges
1 T sugar
1/2 ounce Grand Marnier
1 1/2 ounces Mount Gay Barbados rum
1 - 2 ounces apple juice (Surely every parent of young kids has this on hand!)


In a silver (or at least stainless steel) cocktail shaker, muddle a few sprigs of mint, the lime wedges, sugar, and Grand Marnier. Add some crushed ice and pour in the rum. Stir and top off with the apple juice. Serve in an old fashioned glass with some mint and a lime wedge as garnish.

Cheers to ALL those patriots who serve loyally, courageously, dutifully.

5:00 Fridays - Farewell, JD Salinger

“Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around - nobody big, I mean - except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff - I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all.”

I have this line, among many others, underlined in my tattered paperback copy of Catcher in the Rye from roundabout 1984. I related to Holden Caulfield, so much so that we very nearly named our youngest son Holden. I was skeptical of the phonies, eschewed the bores, and intimidated by those whose suitcases were nicer than mine. And to this day, money makes me feel blue as hell.

My high school penciled notations in the opening of the book indicate that the same words would be appropriate in my memoir one day. See, even at a young age I wanted to write. This was after math and science kicked my ass to Nova Scotia and I realized that the closest I'd get to medicine was as a doctor's wife (which didn't happen): “If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.”

Holden, though he was an angst ridden, complicated, yet wise, youth of 17, spoke my language. I, a 15 year old in an all girls boarding school surrounded by phonies, wannabes, and American duchesses, could never navigate my way through the social kinks and curves. I was lost and often alone. I felt like I was the only sane person in a loony bin because no one shared my story, or admitted to it anyway. Holden must have become real to me then. My 15 year old self.

I'm almost 42 now. I won't re-read Catcher in the Rye, for I don't want the lines to lose their glow. I want to remember Holden as the boy whose ear flapped hunting hat wasn't out of place in my world, the world more sodden with fancy labels and Bergdorf buys. We even bought a hat like Holden's hunting hat for Bird when he was a baby. He was a doll in that thing, puffed out chunker cheeks pooching out beneath the corduroy and faux fur. Holden would be 75 today. I have a hunch he'd have much to say about the phonies and bores in these, our modern times. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Today I tip my hat to the venerable JD Salinger who died yesterday. He was 91.

Writer. Recluse. Crackpot. Enigma.

Let's inhale a healthy dose of peace, wrap up in a stole of silence, and sip some rye.

Catcher in the Rye

3 ounces Templeton Rye
Splash of ginger ale
Teaspoon or so of maple syrup (It is imperative you use the real deal here; Mrs. Butterworth isn't worth it!)

Pour rye over ice in a lowball glass. Add ginger ale. Slowly stir in maple syrup. No garnish today. Holden, and JD Salinger, would find garnish to be a grand gesture stinking of superfluousness.


Some parting words from Holden Caulfield: "What really knocks me out is a book, when you're all done reading it, you wished the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it."

5:00 Fridays

Mac Daddy and I got married in Key West. Almost 10 years ago. That means we should be buying each other tin or aluminum to commemorate the big milestone. Clearly a cheapskate SOB groom came up with that addition to the anniversary gift list. I am pretty well stocked on Reynolds aluminum foil so I'm going to go with the modern interpretation and insist on diamonds instead.

A tennis bracelet would be lovely. A belly button ring would be...um, tacky. And not so lovely, not to mention extraordinarily painful since my belly button is not pierced. and nor will it ever be, regardless how closely I teeter to a midlife crisis or anything resembling such lapse in judgment. If you knew me in college you'd know that I already spent my lifetime of judgment lapses back then. I hear they're not reprinting that currency these days.

I recall hearing a quote from my idol Audrey Hepburn that women under age 40 shouldn't wear diamonds. I was about 22 when I heard that. 20 years ago. I'm well into my diamond years. Present the diamond jewelry in a tin box if you must keep the foolish tradition alive.

Mac Daddy and I used to travel to Key West every year with our dear friends Chris and Shan (@turn_design). Since we all acquired mortgages, student loans, and well, children (though they were more than a mere acquisition), we have not been back. We used to all live in the frozen tundra somewhere between Minneapolis and Chicago. We'd be enduring winter's wretched blast right about now, with no sign of spring in sight and the damn department store merchandising teasing our inner sunbathing beauty. Chris, Shan, Mac Daddy, and I at least had Key West tucked into the back pockets of our flannel lined jeans. We all wore Birkenstocks on the plane in anticipation of feeling the sun bring some pinkness back to our frigid digits.

While it's not "Minnesota cold" here in North Carolina, it has been a pretty cruel winter for those of us who burned our furry hooded parkas and Moon boots upon registering to vote in this state. As a nod to Key West and the warmth it burnished in our psyches, I bring you:

Key West Breezes

(Note: Much like my cooking, I never measure precisely so just go with what suits your palate.)
3/4 cup coffee (good quality, dark roast)
dash+ of Kahlua
dash+ of Frangelico
dash+ of Grand Marnier
dash+ of Baileys

Add all the liqueurs to hot coffee. Top with whipped cream and a quick grate of nutmeg or cinnamon.

Here's to whatever warms you on a cold winter's night. Other than a mug of this tucked into my cold shivering hands, I have Mac Daddy to thank. He lets me put my cold feet on him; he endures flannel sheets long after we've done the spring cleaning; he warms my chilly disposition; he heats me up in all the right places. Va va vavoom!

5:00 Fridays

I grappled with posting today. I mean, I feel kinda lousy throwing back a cool cocktail while millions of people are struggling for a simple glass of water in Port Au Prince, Haiti. It is hard to belt out a guffaw and embrace glee while I know so many people are hurting in the throes of despair. There's not enough hyperbole to go around to adequately explain the situation down there. A mere 90 miles from our shores.

I'm one of those people glued to CNN as soon as Bird and Deal go to bed. We make it a point to tune into not much more than the weather when they are in the room. No way do those boys need to imprint such horror in their little heads. While Bird and Deal know there was an earthquake on an island in the Caribbean, they don't know much else. I've made it a point not to talk about it around them, lest I sob. I've always been a sobber, but motherhood has exacerbated my sob reflex. Dude, this commercial makes me bawl.

Today I'd like to use 5:00 Fridays to give a nod to Haiti's culture. With this drink, you'd better make a couple batches and invite over the neighbors. Better yet, invite the neighbors and collect a cover charge at the door. Donate the cash to the people of Haiti. I'll even donate a buck to UNICEF for every comment on this post.

This drink is like a delectable milkshake without the hassle of a blender. What I love is that the Haitians like to serve this rich concoction with pastries or cakes. I'm all about indulging my inner sweet tooth (and outer love handles).


Cremas

2 (12 oz) cans of evaporated milk
4 (12 oz) cans of sweetened condensed milk
1 (15 oz) can cream of coconut (NOT to be confused with coconut milk)
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 tsp almond extract
1 anise star
1 tsp ground cinnamon
1 tsp grated nutmeg
1 lime (zest and juice)
1/5 80 proof rum (You read that right. A fifth. The whole bottle)

Mix all ingredients together in a large pot and pour into tall glasses filled with crushed ice. Sprinkle with a bit of nutmeg to fancy it up.

And if you can't be bothered to whip this up, you can order a premade bottle called Cremas Dorobe. I have a hunch this might be a staple in my bar.

I raise a glass to the people of Haiti and all those reaching out and flying in to help them. Peace.

5:00 Fridays

Allow me to wax about how much I love my readers, and I ain't talkin' about just the people who had anything to do with my birth or the birth of my children. I mean the meat n' potatoes bunch who don't even know me and have no DNA obligations to read my writing or boost my spirits. I thank you all for being my fuel on this little blog journey I'm on. My favorite thing is reader comments and interaction. It's always wonderful to hear your insights and perspectives on the musings and rants that make their way from my brain to your screen.

Today I thank my reader Sandra for sharing a cocktail recipe inspired by...band fruit.

She happens to have a crate of tangerines in her kitchen that are going to rot if not properly consumed. Sandra, being fond of 5:00 Fridays, naturally resorted to squeezing those babies into cocktail creations. As I write this post, a woodern crate of clementines is staring me down. One has already gotten mushy, leaving its most unpleasant juicy stench behind. I also have a slew of oranges and grapefruit rolling around my counter tops and in my produce drawers. Drawers. What a great word to use instead of britches. Does that count as a homonym, I wonder? Maggie will have the final verdict. Am I digressing? Non sequitors abound in my brain.

I'm happy to support the band, being a band geek myself. The only trophy I ever got in my life was for marching band. I might still have the gold sash stashed somewhere. Meanwhile, Mac Daddy has boxes of trophies in the attic for various sports - basketball, baseball, football, air hockey. I like to say that Mac Daddy even married his trophy wife on the first try.

Well, thanks to Sandra now I know what do with all this fruit. I mean really, I can't stuff a clementine into my kids' lunchboxes everyday, and the family is tiring of orange/grapefruit vinaigrette. Our love of citrus has been squeezed out of us.

Until I found vodka.

Rather, until Sandra found vodka and pointed me to it.


Grown Up Juice

1-2 oz. Rain vodka (In Sandra's words: "Use however much you need--you know your liver better than I do.")
Juice from 2 tangerines (or in my case, oranges and grapfruit that we bought from the neighbor's kid)
Splash of lemonade or limeade

Mix all of this together in a grownup juice glass filled with ice. Garnish with a wheel of whatever citrus fruit you have on hand.

Cheers to you and all that vitamin C!

PS
Bonus points if you guess what instrument I played in band. And no, I've never started a story with, "This one time, in band camp..."

5:00 Fridays

Happy 2010!!!

We're starting the new year, ahem, new decade, with a guest post from one of my favorite writers. I've had the joy of hanging with her at BlogHer and hope to see lots more of her as soon as she digs out from the Iowa snow.

Drum roll.....

I’m Becky, and I blog at Deep Muck Big Rake and hang out with Ilina on Twitter (I’m @BeckyDMBR). We talk lots about drinks and dinner and wine o’clock and recipes and beer-thirty and…well, you get the idea.

I’ve been a Norwegian-by-proxy for almost 20 years, which means we have a Very Norwegian Christmas in our house every year. If you haven’t been in Norway for Christmas, you should try it sometime. Or at least celebrate with a Norwegian.

Christmas lasts forever in Norway. It starts even before Christmas with “lillejulaften” (little Christmas Eve), which is the night before Christmas Eve. The time after Christmas and before New Year’s is called romjul, a time when you visit extended family and friends. Unless you work in retail or in the medical system, chances are good you get the whole time off.

You can find several ways to get into the holiday “spirit” in Norway: juleøl (Christmas beer), aquavit (“water of life” *cough, cough*) and gløgg (mulled wine). Gløgg is especially festive after an afternoon of sledding or snowman-building. It fills your house with the warm, spicy goodness of the season. You can make an alcohol-free version for the kids (although mine still prefer hot chocolate).

The absolute easiest way to make gløgg is to use a bottled mix and just add water or red wine. (Many Scandinavian stores sell the bottles online. You can also check German stores for glühwein mix. They’re similar.) Or you can make your own.

I tried both this year.

Here’s a recipe from the cookbook, The Norwegian Kitchen, written by The Association of Norwegian Chefs.

2/3 cup port wine
2/3 cup sherry
2/3 cup Madeira
1/3 cup red wine
4 whole cloves
2 cardamom pods

Combine in a saucepan and slowly bring to a boil. Serve warm in cups with raisins and blanched almonds. Place a teaspoon in each glass.

I prefer the mix. It’s sweeter. Whatever you prefer, play around with it and have fun.

“Skål!”

Have a wonderful New Year! Godt nytt år!

5:00 Fridays

I love egg nog. This statement will not be a non sequitor in a moment.

Read on.


Merry Christmas!

Feliz Navidad!

Joyeux Noel!

Froliche Weinachten!

Ho! Ho! Ho!

We shared a lovely Christmas Eve by the outdoor fireplace with dear friends (who luckily enough, happen to be our neighbors). The children frolicked in noisy abandon as only children can. We stuffed our jelly bellies full of smoked salmon, fennel salad, steamed shrimp, crostini, apple/cranberry pie, and chocolate truffles. There was much merriment to be had, and Christmas spirit(s) flowed.

We all remarked how stress-free and footloose and fancy free our celebration was. As the kids get older the hovering gets easier. Bird and Deal know to stay in the yard, they can claw their way through tussles, and there are enough dart guns, remote control cars, and stuffed animals to go around. Lark was an exhausted little champ who happily retired to his crate to escape the onset of Kid-dom ruling.

After our friends went their merry ways we perched the boys at the kitchen table with a plate of smoked salmon and set to cleaning up. They then showered (must be clean for Santa!) and donned their matching plaid Christmas jammies. So cute it would melt the Snow Miser's frigid heart. We settled in under blankets to watch the old Rankin Bass Twas the Night Before Christmas and romped in the yard to sprinkle glitter and oat reindeer food.

Now that the boys are tucked in bed and sleeping (not even pretending!), Mac Daddy and I opened a beribboned gift from a neighbor. Lo and behold, my most favorite of Christmas spirits was there!

And so it is with an iced crystal tumbler full of this I toast you this Christmas. Merry Christmas to my delightful readers. I hope your season is so bright so you gotta wear shades. I know you're all so Hollywood like that.

Evan Williams Holiday Egg Nog

Da Bomb.

First of all, let it be known that I love me some egg nog. Our family friend Ty makes some killer homemade stuff that I cannot replicate to save my life. I settle for the grocery store brands and spike it myself. Then I get a work out just swallowing that gloppy thick stuff while I trick myself into believing it's the real deal.

Evan Williams does it all for me. And it's oh so good.

Not treacly sweet. Not fake. Not so thick you could condition your hair with it.

Evan Williams is the Avis of straight bourbon whiskey in the US. It's "extra aged," which I can totally identify with.

5:00 Fridays

Drink wine. Donate to a worthy cause. No catch.

Well, the catch is the great wine secret I'm about to let you in on. Shuffle in a tish closer, won't you? Oh hell, let me drag out my soap box. It's practically an extra appendage anyway. Are you listening?

Lean on in, friends.

OneHope

I said ONEHOPE.

This grassroots wine company has a big philanthropic heart. Red wine and my bleeding heart pair nicely together. OneHope donates 50% of its profits to various causes. Fifty. Percent. That is no piddly 5% or the like that we usually hear about. For those of you who are as bad at math as I am: that means half. One. Half. Of. All. Profits.

This is not chump change.

I know that my readers can help make a dent in some of the great causes that OneHope supports. This is a lovely wine to serve at your holiday open house, block party, neighborhood progressive dinner, office gathering, book club, bunco group, tennis social, family dinner, or any ole time you're popping a cork with a friend. OneHope wine also makes a generous gift to friends, colleagues, or neighbors. I really can't think of a better way to capture the holiday spirit of giving. And for the record, I'm not being paid to tell you all this. I happened to try the wine at the BlogHer conference in July and again at my local grocery store.

If you drink Chardonnay, support the fight against breast cancer. My wine drinking pal Jenn will thank you for it.

Are you a Zinfandel kind of guy? Well, word on the street is that you can imbibe your favorite cool weather wine and support the troops while you're at it.

Merlot? AIDS awareness. All these years after its story hit the presses we are still fighting this battle on many fronts.

So you say Sauvignon Blanc is more your speed? Drink up and help save our planet. Make sure you recycle that bottle, mkay?

Cabernet Sauvignon, my personal favorite for these winter months, helps spread the word about autism awareness.

OneHope wine is available at my local Harris Teeter and in grocery stores in 14 states. They'll ship to 47 more states. Just have a look here to see where you can find it.

Now hop on to Facebook to become a fan by December 31. OneHope is donating $1.00 to charity per fan through December 31, 2009 (and "charity" is not capitalized so I don't think charity is a girl living in a Chevy van somewhere). Another easy way to donate a buck. It might not seem like a lot, but in aggregate, that dollar makes a difference.

Cheers! And here's to OneHope making a million and one differences.

5:00 Fridays

Since I played the Indian card (coined by my friend Erin), I figured I'd stick with that theme this week.

I'm no beer connoisseur but I know I'm generally not a Coors Light kind of gal. Well, if Bird and Deal are particularly whiny or petulant I might succumb to whatever is within reach, Coors Light included. All that acrimony can make a girl pretty durn cantankerous. Trust me. I speak from experience. In fact, I was such a crab apple sourpuss last night that I wrote the boys apology notes sprinkled with scented marker hearts because I felt so bad. Not a proud parenting moment, but I am finding fewer and fewer of those this time of year. Funny that the stress of making Christmas perfect and just-so turns me into such an impatient bitch. Next year I'm considering going to Tahiti for the holidays and forego all this candy making, cookie baking, gift buying, light stringing, stocking stuffing stress. What does this have to do with beer?

Everything.

Did you hear me? I have children. Basic math and physics lesson here. Pay attention.

2 boys + 1 mom = basket case

Children drive you to drink.

There will be a pop quiz next Friday.


When I was 18 years old I went to India with my dad. We stayed in some pretty posh places, including where the movie Octopussy was filmed. Seriously, what was Ian Fleming smoking (or stroking) when he penned that title? I almost can't say it aloud. Perhaps a more fitting name for that nut job woman who birthed eight babies last year? Geesh, now I'm all flustered and off track. Where was I?

Beer. India. 1986.

I was a world traveler. Young. Footloose. Fancy free. Worldly. Daring. Too-cool-for-school.

I drank beer. Legally.

I have fond memories of ordering up a Kingfisher at the Lake Palace Hotel bar. I was stunned by how the epaulet adorned waiter made the opening of a simple bottle top and pouring of liquid gold into a frosted crystal goblet such a grand gesture. I was 18 and easily impressed. That was before I even knew the beer was brewed in copper urns back in the day. Keep in mind that "back in the day" in India means something slightly different than it does here. I'm not talking 1972, folks.

I'm 41 now but still serve up Kingfisher when I have friends over for a good home cooked Indian meal. It's not fancy. It's not pretentious. It's not complex. But it is a gilded symbol over the arch I walked through on my way to adulthood. Join me on the lovely stroll that hasn't yet ended. You can fish with kings too.

Namaste.


Kingfisher

Pour into a frosted glass, preferably with a stem instead of a handle.




(Image from Rocky of Hoppsy.com)