Aside from Bombay Sapphire on the rocks, vodka lemonade is about the most perfect summer drink there is. And it's especially perfect because it's easy to make (you got your vodka, you got your lemonade) and easy to regulate your liquor intake (if it's lunchtime, you use a little more cup-for-five-cents; if it's late afternoon, you step up the Finlandia).
But here is my particular genius: I happened to have a creamy, gold-and-green Cucumis melo inodorus lyin' around, so I cut it up, let it saturate in the vodka lemonade for about an hour, and then drank it down like a man who'd just eaten a big hunk of the sun.
And that, my friends, is what summer tastes like.
Showing posts with label vodka. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vodka. Show all posts
Wednesday
Thursday
Superman and I damn near killed a man.
Ah, the halcyon days of youth (or, dast I say it, the al-anon days of youth), the college days when first we legally entreated to sup at the cups, as it were. When the state-issued, firmly-established-as-an-adult ID first fell into our hands, no longer fettered with condition upon condition of youth, allowing us for the first time ever to establish our own condition of youth, which is to say, we got blotto often and indiscriminately. And legally, one can never forget legally.
For those of us who - either from fear of parental reprisal or a general deserted island drought of draught in one's sneakable or shopliftable arc of influence - deigned not to tipple as a teenager, the day we turned legal-for-drinking was a grand day. A grand weekend, even. A grand, lost weekend.
It's tempting to describe the experience as a matter of quantity over quality, but it was more than that. Sure, in our state-supported enthusiasm and vintner's virginity, we may not have been able to distinguish between V.S.O.P. and Everclear without the label looking us in the mush, it was still more than chugging cheerfully - it was about the occasion.
We planned parties for every conceivable case, observable or contrived. And we drank. We planned parties for groundhog's day, for conveniently numbered dates, for months-late housewarmings, and oh, we drank, drank, drank.
For instance, we - that being my roommate and I - held a party for Superman Day. June 19 (according to a 1976 comics-oriented calendar I'd owned since childhood, and which, besides sharing with us the exact date on which the city of Metropolis extended its thanks to its super-powered protector, also informed us of the exact date of the Joker's birthday and, saddest of saddest, the day Robin's parents were murdered, which was my birthday. I carried that terrible happenstance in my heart for a long time).
We went all out, hanging decorations and buying party favors. I made a cake in the shape of the legendary Fortress of Solitude, but misunderstanding the distinction between baking soda and baking powder, it ended up a density capable of deflecting bullets itself. So we ate the frosting. We arranged episodes of the classic George Reeves-headlined Adventures of Superman television program on the VCR, and mostly, we crafted a custom drink.
We called it the Kryptonite Kooler, and in our exuberance, we built a super-powered monster to rival any of the Man of Steel's rogues' gallery.
We were inexperienced in mixology, and played it by ear. To begin with, in a display of crass bolshevikism which my currently refined palate (and ruined liver) shudder to recall, we chose as the foundation of the drink the Safeway store-brand vodka. We decanted the tank-sized jugs into an enormous glass jar which I believe previously may've held the annual rainfail of Boston, MA. Very large, it was large.
To this we added green glow-sticks. Toxicity uncatalogued, it still was not the most poisonous of the ingredients. No, that honor falls to the mint extract. I added it, a drop at a time, tasting with a spoon as I went. One drop, no change in flavor, two drops, no change in flavor, three drops, good christ, am I getting drunk on this or what, four drops, OH THERE IT IS! Mint, like a Stalinist purge of overwhelming flavor, like four fat, belligerent bouncers sitting on you until the cops arrive, it was pretty goddamn awful.
The Kryptonite Kooler was mixed specifically for a drinking game. I wrote tropes and conceits of the Adventures of Superman television program on index cards, then handed them out randomly to guests. Drinkers had to drink when their card came into play. Mine was "When Jimmy Olsen says 'golly.'" I felt fear, knowing how often the televised twerp uttered that particular, pale-bodied profanity.
Other cards are faint in my memory. My roommate pulled something like "Clark touches his glasses," or something suitably fatal like that. Others drew seemingly equally ominous alternatives. Our friend Jon Swan, he picked luckily, I remember. He chose a rarity, which surfaced once or rarely twice in an episode: "Someone calls Perry White 'Chief'"
I loaded a deceptively ominous episode - "The Monkey Mystery" - into the VCR, and we watched.
Jimmy spoke: "Gosh, Mister Kent!" "Gee Whiz, Mister Kent!" "Christ Wept, Mister Kent!" Nary a golly. I began to resent my sobriety.
Clark Kent also refrained from touching often his spectacles, once only to transform into his costumed alter-ego. Josh, my roommate, drank almost angrily. He may have muttered "About time."
But Jon Swann, poor Jon Swann. None of us expected that this, of all episodes, would be one where salutations to Perry White would be in abundance. "Right away Chief, by the way Chief, say Chief, Chief, can you hear me Chief, is the Chief there? Chief? Chief, there you are!"
"I can't do any more!" he yelled suddenly, lifting his linebacker frame hurriedly but heavily from the couch, "It's like drinking toothpaste."
We learn lessons from insults like that. Jon Swann learned, as a for instance, not to imbibe of apocalyptically mint-flavored concoctions, lest one die. All six-feet and four inches of him learned while this arched over our toilet, barking out the names of Avengers. Waaaaaaaaaaasp. Huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuulk. Haaawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwk-eye.
I learned to leave the mixology to more practiced hands and more powerful intellects. Clearly, it was a dangerous ground I trod in those days of allowance and exuberance, and I tread blindly, heavily, and carrying others on my back. The rest of my fortunes were spent conservatively, on screwdrivers, or training myself to drink my vodka straight, so that suffering was direct and immediate, and hesitated not for the Adventures of Superman to catch up to it.
The events continued to be scheduled, the imibing done with great enthusiasm as always, but I decided to veer not towards custom concoctions of any sort, fearing the holy heck I'd visited on one poor head could be repeated a thousand times over in someone's overcrowded studio apartment, the vomit flowing over the second-story railing like magically parting waterfalls in fantasy films.
Oh, but I did often mix Peach flavored Boone's Farm with Smirnoff. I called it a "Peach Politburo." No one has yet died, but the looks on their faces when I describe it may be considered death masks in some primitive cultures.
For those of us who - either from fear of parental reprisal or a general deserted island drought of draught in one's sneakable or shopliftable arc of influence - deigned not to tipple as a teenager, the day we turned legal-for-drinking was a grand day. A grand weekend, even. A grand, lost weekend.
It's tempting to describe the experience as a matter of quantity over quality, but it was more than that. Sure, in our state-supported enthusiasm and vintner's virginity, we may not have been able to distinguish between V.S.O.P. and Everclear without the label looking us in the mush, it was still more than chugging cheerfully - it was about the occasion.
We planned parties for every conceivable case, observable or contrived. And we drank. We planned parties for groundhog's day, for conveniently numbered dates, for months-late housewarmings, and oh, we drank, drank, drank.
For instance, we - that being my roommate and I - held a party for Superman Day. June 19 (according to a 1976 comics-oriented calendar I'd owned since childhood, and which, besides sharing with us the exact date on which the city of Metropolis extended its thanks to its super-powered protector, also informed us of the exact date of the Joker's birthday and, saddest of saddest, the day Robin's parents were murdered, which was my birthday. I carried that terrible happenstance in my heart for a long time).
We went all out, hanging decorations and buying party favors. I made a cake in the shape of the legendary Fortress of Solitude, but misunderstanding the distinction between baking soda and baking powder, it ended up a density capable of deflecting bullets itself. So we ate the frosting. We arranged episodes of the classic George Reeves-headlined Adventures of Superman television program on the VCR, and mostly, we crafted a custom drink.
We called it the Kryptonite Kooler, and in our exuberance, we built a super-powered monster to rival any of the Man of Steel's rogues' gallery.
We were inexperienced in mixology, and played it by ear. To begin with, in a display of crass bolshevikism which my currently refined palate (and ruined liver) shudder to recall, we chose as the foundation of the drink the Safeway store-brand vodka. We decanted the tank-sized jugs into an enormous glass jar which I believe previously may've held the annual rainfail of Boston, MA. Very large, it was large.
To this we added green glow-sticks. Toxicity uncatalogued, it still was not the most poisonous of the ingredients. No, that honor falls to the mint extract. I added it, a drop at a time, tasting with a spoon as I went. One drop, no change in flavor, two drops, no change in flavor, three drops, good christ, am I getting drunk on this or what, four drops, OH THERE IT IS! Mint, like a Stalinist purge of overwhelming flavor, like four fat, belligerent bouncers sitting on you until the cops arrive, it was pretty goddamn awful.
The Kryptonite Kooler was mixed specifically for a drinking game. I wrote tropes and conceits of the Adventures of Superman television program on index cards, then handed them out randomly to guests. Drinkers had to drink when their card came into play. Mine was "When Jimmy Olsen says 'golly.'" I felt fear, knowing how often the televised twerp uttered that particular, pale-bodied profanity.
Other cards are faint in my memory. My roommate pulled something like "Clark touches his glasses," or something suitably fatal like that. Others drew seemingly equally ominous alternatives. Our friend Jon Swan, he picked luckily, I remember. He chose a rarity, which surfaced once or rarely twice in an episode: "Someone calls Perry White 'Chief'"
I loaded a deceptively ominous episode - "The Monkey Mystery" - into the VCR, and we watched.
Jimmy spoke: "Gosh, Mister Kent!" "Gee Whiz, Mister Kent!" "Christ Wept, Mister Kent!" Nary a golly. I began to resent my sobriety.
Clark Kent also refrained from touching often his spectacles, once only to transform into his costumed alter-ego. Josh, my roommate, drank almost angrily. He may have muttered "About time."
But Jon Swann, poor Jon Swann. None of us expected that this, of all episodes, would be one where salutations to Perry White would be in abundance. "Right away Chief, by the way Chief, say Chief, Chief, can you hear me Chief, is the Chief there? Chief? Chief, there you are!"
"I can't do any more!" he yelled suddenly, lifting his linebacker frame hurriedly but heavily from the couch, "It's like drinking toothpaste."
We learn lessons from insults like that. Jon Swann learned, as a for instance, not to imbibe of apocalyptically mint-flavored concoctions, lest one die. All six-feet and four inches of him learned while this arched over our toilet, barking out the names of Avengers. Waaaaaaaaaaasp. Huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuulk. Haaawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwk-eye.
I learned to leave the mixology to more practiced hands and more powerful intellects. Clearly, it was a dangerous ground I trod in those days of allowance and exuberance, and I tread blindly, heavily, and carrying others on my back. The rest of my fortunes were spent conservatively, on screwdrivers, or training myself to drink my vodka straight, so that suffering was direct and immediate, and hesitated not for the Adventures of Superman to catch up to it.
The events continued to be scheduled, the imibing done with great enthusiasm as always, but I decided to veer not towards custom concoctions of any sort, fearing the holy heck I'd visited on one poor head could be repeated a thousand times over in someone's overcrowded studio apartment, the vomit flowing over the second-story railing like magically parting waterfalls in fantasy films.
Oh, but I did often mix Peach flavored Boone's Farm with Smirnoff. I called it a "Peach Politburo." No one has yet died, but the looks on their faces when I describe it may be considered death masks in some primitive cultures.
Sunday
Mini-reviews
Afforded the chance yesterday to do some unfamiliar drinking at a friend's birthday party, I naturally took advantage.
Buffalo Trace Kentucky Bourbon: This seemed a little flat and lacking in bite to me. Which actually made it easier to drink -- and in fact it grew on me later in the evening, because I was able to drink a lot of it. But it didn't really have a lot of flavor or character the way mt preferred Bourbons do. Not a bad sipper, but nothing I'd buy for myself.
Vincent Van Gogh melon-flavored vodka: This I actually bought for my friend, but of course I tried it myself, because what am I, not gonna drink it? I've never really seen the appeal of flavored vodkas; the whole appeal of vodka is that it's flavor-, odor- and color-neutral and thus takes on the characteristics of whatever you mix it with. But this seemed like a nice light summery sort of thing, and so it was. The scent was very strong, so much so that I question its claim of all natural flavoring, but it was pretty good -- almost like a liqueur, only not as thick and sweet. It would have been swell upended into an actual watermelon, but I was too lazy to stop and buy one. Story of my alcoholic life.
Buffalo Trace Kentucky Bourbon: This seemed a little flat and lacking in bite to me. Which actually made it easier to drink -- and in fact it grew on me later in the evening, because I was able to drink a lot of it. But it didn't really have a lot of flavor or character the way mt preferred Bourbons do. Not a bad sipper, but nothing I'd buy for myself.
Vincent Van Gogh melon-flavored vodka: This I actually bought for my friend, but of course I tried it myself, because what am I, not gonna drink it? I've never really seen the appeal of flavored vodkas; the whole appeal of vodka is that it's flavor-, odor- and color-neutral and thus takes on the characteristics of whatever you mix it with. But this seemed like a nice light summery sort of thing, and so it was. The scent was very strong, so much so that I question its claim of all natural flavoring, but it was pretty good -- almost like a liqueur, only not as thick and sweet. It would have been swell upended into an actual watermelon, but I was too lazy to stop and buy one. Story of my alcoholic life.
Friday
Vodka Collins
I'll be honest with you people. We've known each other long enough. I didn't pick out this drink because it's iconic, or because it's one of my favorites, or because it's got a really interesting history behind it, or any crap like that. I know next to nothing about Collins drinks and I can't remember ever having made one or ordered one. But I recently bought this fancy-pants Icelandic boutique vodka, and I wanted to drink some of it, but I didn't want to just take it straight because it's midnight and I'm alone and I've already had three really strong drinks in a row and it's taking me like twenty minutes to write these posts by this point because I'm misspelling every third word. So I had to mix it with something, and the only fresh fruit juice I have in the house is lemon juice. And it just so happens, cowboys and cowgirls, that lemon juice + sugar + vodka + soda = a vodka Collins. A vodka Collins just like this one.
I garnished it with what was left of my fresh lemon and a cherry. The cherry, for reasons far too complex to go into at the moment, was also lemon-flavored, making the whole thing altogether too citrus-intensive and also lending a somewhat surreal air to the entire proceedings, but what can I tell you? It was still a perfectly good little mixed drink -- maybe not the best nightcap in the world, but the soda water helps calm the stomach and overall it was very refreshing. And I may not be much on God or country, but goddamn it, I believe in refreshment.
The Recipe: 3 oz. vodka; 1 1/2 oz. lemon juice; 1 1/2 tsp. sugar. Combine with ice in a highball glass and stir; top off with soda water. Garnish with lemon wheel and cherry.
I garnished it with what was left of my fresh lemon and a cherry. The cherry, for reasons far too complex to go into at the moment, was also lemon-flavored, making the whole thing altogether too citrus-intensive and also lending a somewhat surreal air to the entire proceedings, but what can I tell you? It was still a perfectly good little mixed drink -- maybe not the best nightcap in the world, but the soda water helps calm the stomach and overall it was very refreshing. And I may not be much on God or country, but goddamn it, I believe in refreshment.
The Recipe: 3 oz. vodka; 1 1/2 oz. lemon juice; 1 1/2 tsp. sugar. Combine with ice in a highball glass and stir; top off with soda water. Garnish with lemon wheel and cherry.
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