Author: John Fladd

Spring means a lot of different things to different people:

Flowers

Mud

Taxes

Bunnies

Spring Break

When I was a college student, back in the Late Cretaceous, I had strong feelings about Spring Break. I had heard the stories about 24-hour beach parties, bacchanalian excess and overcrowded hotel rooms. I had dreams of going on a proper Spring Break, but each year I ended up broke and crashing on various friends’ couches, teaching them how to make piña coladas.

Admittedly, I was something of a low achiever in college. I was not smooth or popular. I never made the dean’s list. I did not break any hearts. I didn’t write much poetry.

What I did do, however, was master the art of making a piña colada. I prized my blender and through sheer repetition and practice could measure out the ice, rum, pineapple juice and coconut cream by eye, and make a roomful of college students with low standards very happy.

“Who’d you invite over, tonight?”

“Rick, Bob, Hugo, those three girls and their friends.”

“And—”

“And Fladd.”

“Ugh. Really?”

“And his blender.”

“Oh, OK, then.”

From time to time I’m tempted to make one of those college piña coladas, but just as there are television shows from my youth that I won’t watch for fear that Adult Me will hate them, I’ve been too afraid to make one.

But it is spring.

What if I made something that Adult Me would think tasted like spring but at the same time was strange enough that College Me would cautiously approve of it?

I give you —

The Pea-ña Colada!!!

• 2 ounces pea-infused rum (see below)
• 1 ounce pineapple juice
• 1 ounce coconut rum – I like Malibu or Coconut Jack for this.
• ½ ounce fresh-squeezed lime juice
• ¼ to ½ ounce simple syrup, depending on how sweet you would like this

Put on your most garish shirt, preferably something that will utterly humiliate your children.

Combine all ingredients over ice in a cocktail shaker. Tell your digital assistant to play “Margaritaville” at Volume 8. (Granted, you aren’t actually making a margarita, but the sentiments are just about perfect for this situation. If you can’t make yourself listen to Jimmy Buffet, ask for something by Van Halen.)

Put the top on your shaker, then shake until the ice cubes — and maybe your heart — break.

Pour, ice and all, into a rocks or small Collins glass.

Don’t make any plans for the rest of the afternoon, because this drink will go down very quickly, get lonely, and call for a bunch of its friends to celebrate Spring Break in your stomach.

OK, with all my industrial-strength reminiscing, I skipped over a detail that you might want to discuss a bit before actually making this drink:

“Excuse me? Pea-flavored rum?”

You heard me. Pea. Infused. Rum.

Here’s the thing: Against all odds, it’s delicious. The peas carry a spring-like herbaceousness that plays really well with the fruit juices. The coconut — which your own embarrassing memories lead you to expect to be too sweet — is actually restrained and tasty. Adult You probably doesn’t want a drink quite as sweet as you did in your salad days, and dialing in the actual sweetness with simple syrup will allow you to make this just perfect for singing really loudly. You might want to call an old friend on the phone and sing loudly to them, too.

Bright Green Rum

Add equal amounts by weight of fresh sugar snap peas and white rum to your blender. Don’t worry about snipping off the little stems and squiggly parts on the ends. Just wash them briefly and throw them into the pool with the rum. Go with a basic white rum for this. I like either Bacardi or Captain Morgan. The flavor of the peas will cover up any subtle nuances that you might want to savor in a top-shelf rum.

Blend the rum/pea mixture on a medium-low speed for a minute or so, so that the peas are chopped up really finely but haven’t been liquified.

Let the mixture rest for an hour, then strain it. It will be a vibrant, please-don’t-ignore-me shade of green. If you are so inclined, filter it through a series of coffee filters, which will tone down the color but leave you with the vibrant, pea-ey taste that you want for a proper Pea-ña Colada.

Featured photo: Pea-ña Colada. Photo by John Fladd.

It was my bragging that brought on my most recent identity crisis.

It was Monday morning, and someone asked what I had done over the weekend. Instead of using one of the responses recommended in the official small talk manual — “You know, same ol’ same ol’” or “Not much; chew?” — I was feeling a little bit full of myself and gave an honest answer:

“I was a little tired on Saturday, and I ended up taking a three-hour nap….”

The response was all I could have asked for — something along the lines of, “Wow. You lucky bastard!” — but it got me thinking. Is this what my life has come to? I used to have dreams and ambitions. I planned to travel the world, get a regrettable tattoo, learn to bungee-jump, maybe act as a courier, delivering a mysterious package to a country ending in “-stan.”

But here I was, bragging — bragging! — about taking a medium-long nap. Even by napping standards, three hours is not all that impressive; I remember crashing for 14 hours once, after a particularly long night. Eighteen-year-old me would be pretty appalled with how I have turned out.

This is a riff on a cocktail by Colleen Graham, in which run-of-the-mill gin is replaced with cucumber gin and the wasabi is bumped up to adventurous levels.

Adventurer’s Cocktail: Cucumber Wasabi Martini

• 4 slices of cucumber
• ¼ teaspoon prepared wasabi paste
• ½ ounce simple syrup
• 1½ ounces cucumber gin (see below)
• ½ ounce fresh squeezed lemon juice

Muddle three slices of cucumber in a cocktail shaker.

Add simple syrup and wasabi. Muddle again.

Add gin, lemon juice and ice. Shake thoroughly, long enough to get halfway through a very groovy song.

Strain into a chilled martini glass. Garnish with the remaining slice of cucumber.

Go out and seek adventure, like, I don’t know, fighting for a parking space at the gym or promising your daughter to go with her to the Barbie movie this summer.

Wasabi seems like an unlikely flavor for a cocktail, but surprisingly it’s the cucumber that does the heavy lifting here. The wasabi supports it, linking arms with the lemon juice and providing backup vocals. The sweetness of the syrup brings out the fruitiness of the cucumber.

It’s just really good.

Cucumber Gin

• Persian cucumbers
• An equal amount (by weight) of medium-quality gin — Gordon’s is my go-to for infusing.

Wash, but don’t peel, the cucumbers.

Blend the cucumbers and gin on the slowest speed in your blender. You are trying to chop the cucumbers finely to maximize the amount of surface area they have exposed to the gin, but you want them to still be in large enough pieces to filter out.

Store the mixture in a large jar, someplace cool and dark, for seven days.

Strain, then filter and bottle this very delicious gin.

Featured photo: Cucumber wasabi martini. Photo by John Fladd.

“Hi,” the lady in the apron says to me.

I look up from a pile of tangerines. “Hey. How are you?”

“I’m good. You?”

I fall back on my stock answer when I don’t really want to think too much about how I actually am: “You know how it is — the power, the money, the respect, the women. Frankly, it would crush a lesser man.”

“I can imagine. Are you finding what you want?”

And that’s when it hits me: What do I want? I have no problems that a rational man would complain about. And I realize that she’s almost certainly talking about my produce needs, not my emotional ones.

And yet—

What do I want?

I’m overwhelmed by an image. I’m on a bamboo veranda, overlooking the dark cyan* waters of the South China Sea. (*I looked it up later on a paint chip.) An overhead fan whooshes. A gentle breeze carries the scent of salt and white ginger. I’m reclining on something made out of teak.

This is all a bit much to lay on my new friend of 35 seconds, so I ask her where the macadamia nuts are.

Sill distracted by my tropical vision, I end up buying pineapple juice and paper umbrellas. It’s February. It’s time for pancakes and tiki drinks.

The pancake part is easy.

Pancake batter should be thinner than you think, as should the pancakes themselves. Fluffy pancakes are a false standard put forth by Big Pancake; go with the thin ones. You absolutely will not regret it.

The syrup is up to you, but there should be a small pitcher of melted butter. As for the cocktail —

Singapore Sling

• 2 ounces dry gin
• ½ ounce kirsch (cherry brandy)
• ¼ ounce cognac
• 2 ounces pineapple juice
• ¾ ounce fresh squeezed lemon juice
• 1¼ ounces cherry syrup from a jar of maraschino cherries
• 1 to 2 dashes Peychaud’s bitters
• 1 to 2 dashes orange bitters
• 2 ounces plain seltzer

Add all ingredients except the seltzer with ice in a cocktail shaker. Shake until the ice starts to break up.

Pour, with your now-cracked ice, into a tall glass — the type is up to you. A tiki mug would work well. So would a Pilsner glass. You could make a case for a clean peanut butter jar.

Top with the seltzer and stir gently. Garnish with at least five maraschino cherries.

The first sip of a proper Singapore Sling is deceptive. You will wonder if you forgot an ingredient. Considering the pineapple and cherry juices, you’d think it would be sweeter. Should it be this pink?

Do you know what puts negative thoughts like that in the front of your brain?

Stress and anxiety. Also, February.

By your third sip, do you know what are losing their grip and slipping down your cerebral cortex? The Negativity Triplets.

This is what you need.

Featured photo: The Singapore Sling. Photo by John Fladd.

I know that I don’t need to remind you of it, but Feb. 2 is National Tater Tot Day. I’m sure you’ve already put up the decorations and picked out your outfit, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to weasel out on you.

I was going to develop a Tater Tot-themed cocktail, made, of course, with potato vodka. I thought about infusing it with actual Tater Tots or french fries. I was working on some solid puns for names. I was even — and I admit this was a personal low point — considering using ketchup as the sweet element.

But ultimately I had to ask myself whether I wanted to subject you, myself, or even a good-quality vodka to this kind of gimmicky cocktail indignity.

So let’s take a big swing in the other direction and make an attempt at class and sophistication. I don’t know about you, but sophistication has proved somewhat elusive for me over the past couple of years. I’d like to explore a Zelda Cocktail.

You know, Zelda.

Zelda Fitzgerald.

The novelist, playwright and artist? She was married to F. Scott Fitzgerald?

No. Not the Legend of Zelda princess.

OK, when she’s remembered at all today, Zelda Fitzgerald is known largely for her struggles with mental health, alcoholism and a really dysfunctional marriage, but for a brief shining moment in the 1920s she was widely known as one of the most beautiful, brilliant and sophisticated women alive. And a cocktail dedicated to her is a little-known classic.

Like Zelda herself, this drink is delightful, with an unexpected challenge. In this case the challenge is bison grass vodka.

You might hear rumors about Żubrówka vodka being illegal — and it was, apparently, for several years — but it is available in liquor stores, if you look for it hard enough. If you aren’t up for a multi-state vodka quest, I’m going to make a substitution suggestion. If you muddle a sprig of thyme when you are muddling the mint for this drink, it will add a subtle herbal back-note that will make a guest stop and wonder what is going on.

Apparently the Zelda Fitzgerald experience was a lot like that — people would be overcome with delight in her presence, only to wonder, just a little, what they had gotten themselves into.

The Zelda

Several sprigs of fresh mint. (As I write this, I find myself writing the word “mink,” which I think would please Mrs. Fitzgerald.)

• 2 ounces Żubrówka Bison Grass Vodka or the best-quality vodka you have, plus a sprig of thyme
• 1 ounce fresh-squeezed lime juice
• ¾ ounce orgeat (almond syrup)

Muddle the mint (and thyme, if you are including it) in the bottom of a cocktail shaker.

Add five or six ice cubes and the other ingredients to the shaker. Shake vigorously.

Strain into a coupé glass and drink while it is very cold.

Featured photo: The Zelda. Photo by John Fladd.

How to squeeze a lime

(Or a lemon, or an orange, or a tangerine, but limes lend themselves to being squeezed; they have the fewest inhibitions of any citrus fruit.)

Method 1 – Pure brute strength

Wash your hands.

Carefully place the lime on a cutting board in front of you. Carefully cut the lime in half.

Center your thoughts, then pick up half a lime, hold it over a bowl, and crush it.

The key here is rage. Naked, blind fury, if you can manage it. If you are a sports enthusiast, or a middle child, this should be fairly easy for you. The pain from previously unknown cuts on your hand will only make you angrier, eliciting even more juice.

Method 2 – An improvised reamer

A fork works well for this. So does a pair of kitchen tongs.

Cut the fruit in half, as before, but this time retain your composure. Insert the business end of the fork or tongs into half a lime, then twist it around, while squeezing with the hand that’s holding the lime. Tell the lime, “You might feel a little discomfort.”

You should be pleased with the result.

Method 3 – A hand-held juicer

Sometimes called a hand-juicer — though that implies that it actually juices hands — this looks something like the love child of a pair of pliers and a tea-strainer. It’s usually yellow or green — depending on the size of the fruit you intend to squeeze — and some models have a second squeezing cup, so you can tackle lemons and limes. It seems very gadget-y and might not fill you with confidence at first glance. It does a shockingly good job of squeezing citrus, though, and has become my juice extractor of choice.

A note on fresh orange juice

If you only need a few ounces of orange juice for a cocktail, a very good option is squeezing a couple of clementines. They have a fresher, zingier taste than orange juice from a carton, and they are roughly the same diameter as a lemon, so they are relatively easy to squeeze. I have found that after I have juiced both halves of a clementine, if I stack the spent carcasses of the two halves in the larger bowl of my hand-held juicer and squeeze them again I can extract a little more juice and theoretically a little citrus oil, which will intensify the flavor of the juice.

A very juicy cocktail

This is an adaptation of something called a Tangipahoa Planter’s Punch that I found in an extremely distressed copy of 1937’s Famous New Orleans Drinks and how to mix ‘em:

Ingredients

• 2 ounces pineapple/mango juice. Could you use plain pineapple juice? The Fruit Police, or possibly the Tangipahoa Parish Liquor Commission, would probably not come crashing through the window, if you did.
• 2 ounces fresh squeezed lime juice (see above)
• 2 ounces fresh squeezed clementine juice. Could you just use Tropicana? That’s between you and your conscience.
• 3 ounces white rum
• ½ ounce raspberry syrup (see below). Could you use grenadine instead? I suppose so, if you were a COWARD!
• 5 to 6 ice cubes

Combine all ingredients into a cocktail shaker, and shake until the ice starts making “I can’t hold it together much longer, Captain” sounds.

Pour into a pint glass and garnish as you see fit.

A lot of tropical drinks have a sort-of generic, yeah-there’s-some-fruit-in-here background flavor. The nice thing about squeezing your own juices into this one is that you can taste each individual ingredient. The lime, clementine and raspberry all step forward and raise a hand if you look for them. The rum stands in the back with hands in pockets, humming to itself.

You know those miserable winter days when all you want to do is sit by a fire, read a book and eat soup? Alternate that with drinking this and lying on the couch and watching game shows. You’ll feel 12 percent more optimistic about life.

Raspberry syrup

Combine an equal amount (by weight) of frozen raspberries and sugar in a small saucepan.

Cook over medium heat. The ice crystals in the berries have already punctured the cell walls, and you will be surprised at how much liquid they give off.

Bring to a boil, to make sure that all the sugar has dissolved, then remove from the heat.

Strain through a fine-meshed strainer, and store in your refrigerator for about a month.

Feature photo: Tangipahoa Planter’s Punch. Photo by John Fladd.

“I’m an attractive person,” you might say. And you’d be right.

“And,” you might add, “I tip well. I don’t ask for anything complicated when we go out — a gin and tonic, or a sea breeze — something fast and easy to make. So why aren’t the drinks I get at the bar very good?

“I mean, they’re all right: gin, tonic, lime; or vodka and cranberry juice. There’s not much to mess up there. They just don’t taste as good as when I make them at home. Why is that?”

This is a good question.

It isn’t about the competence of your bartender. Trust me, she knows what she’s doing. And it isn’t that she doesn’t care; I’m sure she’s a conscientious professional who wants you to have a good drink.

The problem is that you’ve been ordering something utterly forgettable.

Don’t get me wrong. Classics are classics for a reason. There are very few things in life better than a properly made gin and tonic. The laughter of a small child is a petty and grating thing compared to the piney, slightly bitter dance of gin, quinine and lime.

But look at it from your bartender’s position.

There’s a good chance she didn’t expect to be working at all tonight, but Sheila called in sick, so she was stuck. She was able to get a babysitter at the last minute, but this is the first time she’s left her kid with this new sitter, and she’s not sure she trusts the large numbers of facial piercings the girl had.

Then, there’s Stanley, at the end of the bar. He tipped her an extra 50 cents once, a year ago, and ever since then he’s felt entitled to her attention, even during rushes.

Plus, it’s Thursday, which means that there aren’t as many customers as on the weekend, but somehow the bar moves just as much booze, which brings its own set of issues.

All of which is to say, your margarita, rocks-no-salt, probably didn’t benefit from her complete focus and attention.

You know how sometimes you pull into your driveway at the end of the day and have no memory of driving home? That’s how she just made your completely reasonable, utterly forgettable cocktail.

So, what’s the solution?

For the sake of everything Good and Decent in the Universe, please don’t order something obnoxious with a cutesy name. Or anything with 17 ingredients. Or anything that will involve dusting off a bottle from the back of the bar.

What you want is a gin sour.

And what is a gin sour, you ask?

It’s a gimlet, but with lemon.

I sense that you are still staring at me, waiting for further explanation.

OK — a gin sour is one of those very basic cocktails that is a cinch to make, takes 45 seconds and is truly delicious. It has three ingredients: gin, lemon juice, and simple syrup. It uses the same proportions as about six other cocktails: two ounces of alcohol, an ounce of citrus, and three quarters of an ounce of something sweet — the same as a margarita or a daiquiri or a lemon drop.

The difference is, nobody else has ordered one this week.

So, just like stopping for your dry cleaning on the way home makes you pay more attention to your commute, making a gin sour will be just out of the ordinary enough to grab your bartender’s full attention. It’s not difficult, but she will have to keep her mind on what she’s doing.

And you get a very nice drink.

So nice that you will probably start making it for yourself at home.

Gin sour

• 2 ounces gin (see below)
• 1 ounce fresh squeezed lemon juice
• ¾ ounce simple syrup

Combine all ingredients with ice in a cocktail shaker.

Shake.

Strain.

Drink.

So, the question you are probably asking yourself right now is, what kind of gin?

Wanting to give you the best possible information, I made three gin sours last evening, identical except for the variety of gin. The floral gin was exceptional, truly delicious. But so was the version with gunpowder gin; the lemon really played a leading role. The dry gin was slightly more astringent, which gave it a delicious booziness on the back end. You would really have to make a deliberate effort to mess this drink up

And after three of them in quick succession you will be astonished at what sparkling conversationalists your houseplants are.