I’m finally attacking the intimidatingly large stack of books I’ve bought over the past year and never actually read. One of the most fascinating is Hear Me Talkin’ to Ya: The Story of Jazz as Told By The Men who Made it, by Nat Shapiro and Nat Hentoff (1955, Rinehart and Co.). Leaving its problematic subtitle aside (ahem, Bessie Smith, Ma Rainey and a parade of other unamused female musicians) the most fascinating part of the jazz story so far has been the descriptions of Storyville. Storyville was the celebrated red light district in New Orleans where, legend has it, jazz music was born. In New Orleans tradition, it has become mythologized so much that it has taken on a brassy, tarnished aura of being joyful and exotic. Nowhere more so than in the names of the “sportin’ men” and working girls who lived there: Flamin’ Mamie, Crying Emma, Big Butt Annie, Naked Mouf Mattie, Boxcar Shorty, Titanic, Bull Frog Sonny, Street Rabbit, Three Finger Annie, Charlie Bow Wow, Yard Dog, Knock On The Wall, and Tenderloin Thelma are all intriguing. Each of them deserves a song, an adventure movie, a mystery novel or at least a cocktail dedicated to them.
The two names that jump out at me, though, are Boo Boo and Big Boo Boo.
I don’t know who Boo Boo was. I don’t know how he got his name. I don’t know who Big Boo Boo was, though I like to think of the two of them as partners — Boo Boo being the brains of the operation, and Big Boo Boo lurking in the background, occasionally cracking his knuckles. If we were to make a movie about them, we would learn in one of the last scenes that Big Boo Boo had a beautiful tenor singing voice.
This is all conjecture on my part. For all we know, the Two Boo Boos might have been two women, calling to potential customers from their balconies.
Anyway, here are two drinks to honor them:
Boo Boo Shooter
It makes sense that if we are going to make a pair of drinks dedicated to Boo Boo and Big Boo Boo one of the drinks needs to be little and one needs to be big. This is the little one.
Ingredients: ¼ oz. hibiscus syrup (see below) 1 oz. jalapeño rum (see below) ½ oz. passion fruit juice cocktail (yeah — see below for that, too) ¼ oz. fresh squeezed lime juice 1 (seriously, just one) drop rose water
Add each ingredient to a chilled shot glass or very small juice glass. Drink it.
This is spicy, and sour, and floral. It’s rather delicious, but it hangs around in your mouth and your head for easily 10 minutes after you have drunk it, reminding you of all the exotic places you haven’t visited yet.
Hibiscus syrup: Bring 10 ounces of water and 9 ounces of sugar to a boil and boil it for a few more seconds, until the sugar seems to disappear. Take it off the heat and add ½ ounce of dried hibiscus flowers and 1 ounce of fresh-squeezed lemon juice. Stir, let it sit for half an hour, then strain it into a bottle, and store in your refrigerator. Depending on your hibiscus blossoms, the color will range from an exotic purple to a deep magenta.
Jalapeño rum: Roughly chop 4 or 5 jalapeño peppers, and put them into a large, wide-mouthed jar. Add a bottle of white or silver rum (again, probably not the good stuff; any subtleties of flavor will be completely covered up). Shake twice per day, then strain and bottle after 4 days.
Passion fruit juice cocktail: Find this in the juice aisle at your favorite supermarket.
Big Boo Boo
Yes, this is largely a scaled-up, highball version of the Boo Boo Shooter.
Ingredients: 1 oz. hibiscus syrup 2 oz. jalapeño rum 4 oz. passion fruit cocktai 1 oz. fresh squeezed lime juice 3-4 oz. plain seltzer or soda water (right now I like Topo Chico Mineral Water; it’s aggressively bubbly) 3 drops (again, seriously, only three) rose water
Fill a shaker with ice. Add hibiscus syrup, rum, passion fruit juice, and lime juice.
Shake until very cold
Pour into a large glass filled with ice. Strain it, don’t strain it — this drink does not stand on ceremony.
Add seltzer, and stir gently to combine.
Add rose water.
This drink tastes a lot like its namesake shooter but provides a more protracted experience. After a few sips you may decide that this drink is too spicy, or too sour, or too weird for you. A moment later you will find yourself going back for another taste. Then another.
Eventually you will probably find yourself back in the kitchen, making another, with a confused frown of concentration on your face. Which I think Boo Boo and Big Boo Boo would appreciate.
Featured photo: Big Boo Boo and the Boo Boo Shooter. Photo by John Fladd.
Early on in the Covid lockdown, I decided to take ice cream to the workers at my dump. I wanted to do something for someone in essential services and I have a lot of respect for people who do hard, thankless work.
Every week during hot weather I would swing by the general store in our town on the way to the dump and grab them some ice cream bars or cold sodas. A small gesture of thanks.0
So I was at the dump transfer station, dropping off our trash and talking with one of the guys there, telling him some sort of stupid joke, something like:
Q: Why did the dolphin flunk out of ballet school? A: Poor poise.
My friend laughed loudly enough to get the attention of one of the other guys working behind a giant stack of cardboard.
“IS THAT THE JOKE GUY?”
“YEAH!”
“DID HE BRING ICE CREAM?”
I’d kind of like that on my grave: THE JOKE GUY. HE BROUGHT ICE CREAM.
Anyway, one of my friends at the transfer station gave me a gift one week, a 1963 copy of The Barmen’s Bible — a well-worn cocktail manual from the time when bartenders could reasonably be expected to wear bowties.
This week, I was looking through The Barmen’s Bible and ran across a drink recipe that stopped me cold. Under a section devoted to “coolers” was something called a Honolulu Cooler — a solid name. A promising name. Until you get to the Southern Comfort.
Crushed ice — check
Lime juice — check
Pineapple juice — check
Southern Comfort … ?
Really, Oscar Haimo, President of the International Bar Managers Association, circa 1963? Southern Comfort?
As my wife pointed out, though, this drink is obviously called Honolulu because of the pineapple juice. It doesn’t necessarily have anything more to do with Hawaii than that. It could have been invented in an Elks Club in Akron.
So, this is what I figured. I’d make this clearly awful drink, figure out what was wrong with it (the Southern Comfort), then reformulate it to taste better.
As it turns out, there was a flaw in that plan.
The Honolulu Cooler is a solid, tasty drink. It’s shockingly good. You would think that Southern Comfort and pineapple juice would be cough-syrupy sweet, but the fresh lime juice keeps them on a leash. “Shhhh, boys,” it says, “these are our friends; be nice.”
It is refreshing and delicious. You could easily drink an injudicious number of these.
Honolulu Cooler
Juice of half a lime, about 1 oz.
1 jigger (1½ oz.) Southern comfort
Approximately 5 oz. pineapple juice
Fill a tall glass with cracked ice.
Add lime juice and Southern Comfort
Fill to the top with pineapple juice
Stir with a bar spoon.
A little research on this drink hints that it was actually invented and served in a large hotel in Honolulu. The more I thought about it, the more this made sense. It would be incredibly fast and easy to make for wide-eyed tourists and the use of a name-brand alcohol would allow the hotel bar to bump the price by a good 30 percent.
Of course, the fact that this is a perfectly good drink already did not stop me from reconfiguring it anyway.
My version uses lime syrup instead of lime juice, which would make the drink too sweet, but I countered that with the bitterness from Campari and a bracing note from gin.
Existential Luau
1 oz. lime syrup (see below)
1 oz. Campari
2 oz. gin (I like Death’s Door)
4 oz. pineapple juice
cracked ice or tiny ice cubes
Fill a tall glass – a pint glass or a Collins glass – with ice.
Add lime syrup, Campari, and gin.
Top off with pineapple juice.
Stir with a bar spoon.
This drink is pink, but not bubble-gum pink. It’s the color of a sunset. An apricot that someone has whispered a dirty suggestion to. The color of contentment at the end of a hot, trying day. The ingredients have a tendency to separate very slightly, so the Luau starts out a little bitter-sweet, then becomes more limey as you drink it.
As do your thoughts.
Lime Syrup
Juice of 3-4 limes
An equal amount (by weight) of white sugar
Zest of 2 limes.
In a small saucepan, bring the lime juice and sugar to a boil. Stir until the sugar is completely dissolved, about 10-15 seconds, once it’s boiling.
Remove from heat and add lime zest. Let it steep for 30 minutes.
Strain the zest from the syrup, so it doesn’t get bitter.
Label your jar so you won’t have an awkward moment a week from now, when your wife wants to know what’s in that jar in the door of the fridge. Or maybe that’s just me.
During the 1920s and 1930s, if you were young and had the means, Paris was the place to be.
The war had ended — at least everyone thought so. In the boom times of the Roaring Twenties the arts flourished like they never had before. The French embraced jazz, experimental art and edgy literature. Unencumbered by Prohibition, Parisians were extremely open-minded about cocktails (and indeed, many other fun things as well). American authors and artists moved there in droves.
They stayed through most of the ’30s. The Great Depression hit France as hard as anywhere, but things seemed just as bad at home, and again, there were cocktails. And if you were young, and beautiful, and American in Paris in the 1920s and ‘30s, the place to be was Harry’s New York Bar, on the Rue Daunou. Hemingway drank there. George Gershwin composed An American in Paris there.
And then there were the drinks. Harry’s claims to have invented the bloody mary. Also the Sidecar and the French 75. And this one.
What’s that? What’s it called? Um — er —
HEY! Look over there! Is that an oscelot?!
Anyway, the thing to keep in mind when you are making this particular drink — Excuse me? What’s it called? Darling, let’s keep this pure and special. Let’s not complicate things with too many questions.
As I was saying, the thing to keep in mind when making this particular drink is that while it is, at its core, a relatively straightforward cocktail, it lends itself to more and more elaborate ingredients and techniques. It is easy to slip down a rabbit hole of obsession. As I did.
The Recipe:
1 1/2 ounces mid-level gin (I’ve been drinking Death’s Door lately)
1 1/2 ounces fresh squeezed tangerine juice (OK, you’re going to use orange juice. You know it. I know it. All I’m saying is that I made this with tangerine juice and it is good that way.)
1/2 teaspoon absinthe (Seriously, no more. Absinthe is a very serious player and she is not here for your nonsense.)
1/3 ounce (2 teaspoons) Oleum Saccharum — see below. (Again, let’s face reality. You’re going to read about OS, nod, then probably not make it. Admittedly, it’s a bit of a project. You can replace this with the same amount of grenadine, which will also give your final drink a lovely color.)
1 ounce lime juice (This was not called for in the original recipe, but this drink benefits from extreme cold and a little extra acidity.)
1) Shake all ingredients over ice until skull-shrinkingly cold.
2) Strain into a chilled coupé glass.
3) If you insist on a garnish, then apply one high-octane cocktail cherry with stem. (I’ve been liking Luxardo lately).
This is a lovely cocktail that looks sophisticated and paces itself well. In spite of having just a few ingredients, its flavor is complex. It takes thought and reflection to sort out the fruitiness of the juice and the licorice notes from the absinthe. It lends itself to thoughtful consumption. Is it too sweet? Is it sweet enough? Seriously — licorice? Is the tangerine juice assertive enough? Should I have gone with the orange juice that Harry suggested? What if I played around with ruby grapefruit juice? These questions are to be expected if you’ve made this well. I like to think of it as an intellectual’s cocktail.
And that, my friend, that is how you make a Monkey Gland. Yeah, I know. Would you like another?
Oleum Saccharum Oleum Saccharum is at its heart a homemade syrup of citrus oil and sugar. It requires you to use a technique called maceration, which is not as naughty as what you’re thinking, but in this case just as self-indulgent. It is the name for extracting juice or oil from fruit with sugar. Using a vegetable peeler — the Y kind works better for me than the type that looks like a paring knife with a glandular condition — remove the outermost layer of rind from some well-scrubbed citrus fruit. In my case, I used a combination of tangerine and lime rind. (See above.) If you can, try not to get any of the white pith that is beneath the rind; it will add a bitter note to your syrup. (Unless you’ve gotten sucked down the rabbit hole and want to play around with bitterness. In that case, you’re on your own.) The recipes I’ve found call for 200 grams of rind to 150 grams of sugar. I never have that much fruit rind available; just use a 4:3 ratio (that’s 1 to .75). Alternately, if you are the type of person who plans and thinks ahead, you could save rind in your freezer until you’re ready to make a batch of this. Combine the rind with sugar and let it sit for about six hours, stirring or shaking occasionally. After letting it macerate (stop giggling), use a small funnel to pour your oleum saccharum into a tiny bottle. If you leave the rinds in the funnel to drain for an hour or so, you can get a few more precious drops. Store it in your refrigerator until you’re ready to use it.
Featured photo: What’s in a name? Photo by John Fladd.
One fairly common New Year’s resolution is to read more classics of literature. I didn’t actually make that resolution this year, because I really don’t need any more sources of failure and self-recrimination. But that said, I’m probably ahead of the game and have read more classic literature during the first few weeks of this year than many people who did make that resolution.
To wit, 1951’s The Holiday Drink Book.
I did rather well for myself over the holidays and was given several antique cocktail books, this being easily the most festive.
Is it dated? Yes. Does it include dated references to ingredients — claret or sauterne, for example — that we don’t use anymore? Undoubtedly. Does it include unfortunate illustrations of leprechauns, cannibals and serving wenches? Um, yes. That, too.
That said, given the first few weeks of this new year, I think we could all use a stiff drink. And if you are looking for a stiff drink, I say, go to the source — the 1950s, the era of the Three-Martini Lunch. And, if you are looking for a stiff drink from the 1950s, you could do worse than go with the grandfather of all stiff drinks, a Zombie. TheHoliday Drink Book puts it rather well: “In appearance and effectiveness the Zombie is the king of all table drinks.”
I’m a big believer in sticking strictly to a recipe the first time I make something. It drives me crazy when someone omits all the butter from a recipe and replaces half the flour with oat bran, then complains that their muffins taste cardboardy. It’s a good idea to cook what the recipe’s author had in mind before messing with it too much.
But you do need to draw the line somewhere.
Did I use four types of rum in my test Zombie, as specified? I did. Did I garnish it with fresh mint leaves and a dusting of powdered sugar? Yes.
But here’s where The Holiday Drink Book and I parted ways: Their recipe calls for papaya juice.
Now, I don’t want to hurt your feelings if you happen to be a papaya, but certain harsh truths need to be recognized. Papaya is a trash fruit. If fruit cocktail and oatmeal had a torrid half-hour in the alley behind a bar, the result would be something very much like papaya. So I had to play with the recipe a bit. Ultimately, this is what I came up with:
The Purple Zombie
The juice of one lime – approx. 2 oz. 1 oz. pineapple juice 1 oz. frozen grape juice concentrate – the deeply purple kind 1 oz. golden rum 2 oz. dark rum – I used Meyers’s 1 oz. white rum – I went with Mr. Boston ½ oz. apricot brandy
Enough over-proof rum to float on the surface of the cocktail – in my case, Gosling’s Black Seal 151-proof dark rum
4 up-market cocktail cherries – right now, I really like Luxardo.
Fresh mint leaves to garnish
1) Combine the first seven ingredients in a cocktail shaker with ice. Shake until very cold. I like to include one of the spent lime halves, as well. I don’t know for a fact that it improves the flavor, but I like to give limes the vote of confidence. They are the hardest-working members of the citrus family, and I like to make them feel needed.
2) Remove the lime half, then pour the contents of the shaker — ice and all — into the most garish tiki glass you own.
3) Float ½ an ounce or so of the 151 over the top of the drink. Pour it over the back of a spoon, much like you would the whiskey in an Irish Coffee, so it stays on the surface.
4) Garnish with snobby cocktail cherries and fresh mint. If your mint leaves are large, chiffonade them (cut them into ribbons).
Three important points about The Purple Zombie:
a) The mint leaves totally make this drink. Somehow the herbiness of the mint plays very well off the dominant taste of the cocktail, which is the rum. Don’t skip the mint.
b) Do skip the powdered sugar. I’m not entirely sure what they were thinking with that one.
c) “Wait a second. You got all snobby about papaya, then replaced it with frozen grape juice concentrate? What kind of beatnik hypocrite are you?” What can I say? It works. The drink needs some sweetness to balance the alcohol and the grape juice concentrate does that very well while adding to the fruitiness. Why not just grape juice? It isn’t quite sweet enough. You need to go with the hard stuff.
Plus, it turns your Zombie purple.
Am I saying that drinking a Zombie will remove any of the heavy weight that the past year has put on your shoulders? No. But I am saying that if you approach it right, a good Zombie might give you the emotional shoulder pads to allow you to claw your way through to February.
Do you remember reading those Choose Your Own Adventure books when you were a kid? You’d get to a turning point in a story, then find instructions like: “To poke the sleeping bear with a stick, turn to page 130. To run away from the sleeping bear as fast as you can, turn to page 170.” So, then you’d turn to page 170, and read something like: “Oh, no! You run away so fast that you don’t watch where you are going and ram into an oak tree, dislodging a porcupine, which falls on you. You scream so loudly that you wake the bear, who eats you, then picks his teeth with the quills. The End.” This drink is a little like that, minus the hostile wildlife. It is an adventure in sesame. I’ve been thinking a lot about fat-washing, lately. Fat-washing is what upscale bartenders call a method of infusing alcohol with the flavor of something oily. You hear occasionally about bacon-washed bourbon, or butter-washed rum. Almost any food that is fat-soluble is also soluble in alcohol. Shmancy bartenders can use that chemical loophole to add background notes to a cocktail. Theoretically, you could use this technique to make a peanut butter and jelly martini, for instance. (Actually, that’s not a bad idea. Let me write that down…) A week or so ago, it occurred to me that if you can fat-wash peanut butter, couldn’t you do the same thing with tahini, the sesame paste used in hummus? I adapted a recipe for peanut butter-washed bourbon:
Tahini Rum
1 liter inexpensive white rum (As usual, you probably don’t want to use your good stuff, when you are covering up most of the subtle flavors with tahini. I used Mr. Boston.) 16 oz. tahini (I like Krinos.)
Combine rum and tahini in a very large jar or other air-tight container. Shake with great vigor.
Store the jar somewhere warm and dark for seven days, shaking twice per day.
Strain through a fine mesh strainer, then filter through a coffee filter.
This results in a fantastic sesame rum. It is silver in color. It is smooth and tastes delicious. You could easily sit in an armchair with a brandy snifter of the stuff. There is, however, a drawback: The rum and the tahini have spent a week getting their groove on. At the end of it, the rum has gotten everything she wants out of this fling, says, “Well, this was fun…” and goes on her way. The tahini, on the other hand, has turned into Rick Astley, and is determined that he is never going to give her up. As much as the rum has bonded with the tahini, the tahini has bonded with the rum, and without the use of a lab-grade centrifuge — which my wife will not let me buy — a liter of rum nets you between 10 and 12 ounces of finished product. Given that there was a relatively small investment in the rum to begin with, that might be OK. But there is another way:
Sesame Rum No. 2
1 cup white sesame seeds 4 cups white rum
Over medium-low heat, toast the sesame seeds in a small skillet, stirring constantly, until they have turned the color of a graham cracker or a lion.
Transfer seeds to the same large jar or airtight container. Add the rum. There will be a satisfying sizzle.
Shake, then store in the same warm, dark place for four days, shaking twice per day.
Filter through a coffee filter.
This sesame rum is not as smooth and silvery as its little brother, but it is also delicious. It has a deep golden color and really pops in your mouth, shouting, “It’s SESAME TIME, Baby!” And you net about a quart of rum. So, now you’ve effectively made the first of your Choose Your Own Cocktail choices — silvery and sleek, or bold and bronzy. Here is your second choice: The Vera Cruz Chameleon 3 oz. Tahini rum 3 gr. (a very small handful) cilantro ¼ oz. simple syrup Tonic water to top (I like Fever Tree) Tiny ice cubes
Rinse the cilantro, then muddle it thoroughly in the bottom of a cocktail shaker.
Add rum, then dry shake. (This means without ice.) This will allow the alcohol to extract color and flavor from the cilantro.
Add ice and simple syrup, then shake again, until cold.
Strain into a large glass, over tiny ice cubes.
Top with tonic, then stir gently.
This is really delicious. The first flavor to hit you is the cilantro, but there is a delightful, smooth sesame aftertaste. If you are a cilantro fan — and of course you are, because you are smart and tasteful — you will love this. But wait! What’s that you say? You’re not a cilantro fan? That’s very sad, but I’ve got you covered there, too.
The Lebanese Chameleon
3 oz. Sesame Rum No. 2 3 gr. (a very small handful) flat-leaf parsley ¼ oz. simple syrup Tonic water to top Tiny ice cubes
Rinse, muddle and dry shake the parsley as above. Do NOT shake a second time.
Filter your parsley/sesame rum through a coffee filter, into a tall glass, half filled with tiny ice cubes.
Add the simple syrup and stir vigorously.
Top with tonic, then stir again, this time gently.
Drink with immense satisfaction.
So, do you remember that classic of American literature, The Cat In The Hat Comes Back? The one where the cat leaves a greasy pink bathtub ring that threatens to engulf the neighborhood? If you don’t filter the parsley rum, you will get the same stain, but in swamp green. It will taste delicious but will not look appetizing. If you want to skip the filtering step, drink this cocktail in a tiki mug. A note on tiny ice cubes: I recently discovered that you can buy small silicone ice trays that make tiny (about ¼-inch) ice cubes that are like crushed ice, but better! They chill your drink extremely well and they look really, really cool. So you can make a cilantro-based cocktail with tahini rum or sesame rum, or use the same recipe — again, with your choice of rums — with parsley, instead. You are somewhat spoiled for choice. And there are no bears. John Fladd is a veteran Hippo writer, a father, writer and cocktail enthusiast, living in New Hampshire.
Featured Photo: The Vera Cruz Chameleon. Photo by John Fladd.
Shortly after the end of the First World War, it became fashionable for wealthy British to spend at least part of their winter in Southern France. Their money went further there and the Riviera had been spared the worst of the destruction during the War. They could see and be seen by their peers, while sitting in the sunshine and pretending to be bored by their privilege.
This was so common that a train service developed to pick the Smart Set up in Calais, on the other side of the English Channel, then take them, via Paris, to different stops along the Mediterranean. Because the sleeper cars were painted blue, this train became known as The Blue Train.
One interesting aspect of this was that upper-class British adventurers started challenging each other to race the Blue Train across France in their cars. For a brief period of time this became a standing challenge, like swimming the Channel, or shooting leopards — a chance to show off for their peers and look good doing it. Because, of course, the other members of their social circle would be on the Blue Train itself.
“I say,” one of the passengers might say, pointing at a cloud of dust in the distance, “do you think that is Waldo and Reggie?’
“I believe it is! Oh, jolly good; we must drink a toast to them! Waiter!”
Which, theoretically, is where we get The Blue Train Cocktail.
If you go searching for a recipe for a Blue Train, you will find dozens, which vary wildly in their ingredients and methodology, but the oldest ones are extremely simple:
• Three parts brandy
• One part pineapple juice (Pineapple juice? Where did that come from?)
• An unspecified amount of Champagne
I like the romance of this drink and such a simple formula seemed extremely flexible, so I decided to try various riffs on it. Instead of Champagne, I substituted prosecco – because what am I, fancy? – and several different types of brandy:
• Several sources suggested using apricot brandy and that seemed promising. As it turns out, not so much.
• Ginger brandy was even worse.
• Then I decided to return to the fruit theme and made a batch with blackberry brandy. Please, for the sake of everything that is good and wholesome, do not do this.
After a great deal of experimentation and heartache, I was able to fine-tune this recipe to its ideal proportions:
• Three parts brandy
• One part pineapple juice
• An unspecified amount of Champagne
(1) Shake the brandy and pineapple juice over ice.
(2) Strain into glasses
(3) Top with Champagne
This is not a drink that is meant to be sweet. If you use prosecco and a sweet brandy, it ends up tasting like cider, which is fine, but then, why not just drink cider? This drink calls for a drier, more bracing, more refined set of ingredients. I am a big proponent of using bottom-shelf alcohols; when you are making cocktails with strong-flavored ingredients, the subtler nuances of more serious, expensive labels can easily get overwhelmed and covered up.
Not in this case. If you’ve got good brandy, self-respecting brandy, this is a good time to break it out. The same with the Champagne. I’m not saying to buy the best Champagne, but this is a good opportunity to use a dry Champagne that isn’t afraid to look at itself in the mirror. This is not a drink that was developed by people who cut corners.
Serve this with something salty, like caviar.
Or Cheez-Its.
Cocktail-inspired gift suggestions
• Truly excellent cocktail cherries — Bada Bing Cherries from Stonewall Kitchen ($7.95 for 13.5 oz., or $34.95 from 72 oz., if you’re really serious) A good cocktail cherry can save a cocktail. A good cocktail cherry can bring a moment of sunshine and contentment in a gray and sullen world. These are very good cocktail cherries. They are rich and deeply flavored, with the slightest hint of muskiness, like a half-heard whisper. And they fit in a stocking.
• A proper kitchen scale — KUBEI Upgraded Lager Size Digital Food Scale ($23.99) Like many people over the past several months, I got sucked into the fraught world of sourdough bread. In theory it’s pretty simple. There are few ingredients. Peasants have been making it for centuries. In the trenches, though, sourdough is a cruel mistress who will toy with your emotions and leave you a spent, whimpering husk.
The secret to establishing detente with her is a good kitchen scale.
Weighing – especially by the gram – gives you freedom and power in the kitchen. Your measurements become precise. You use fewer dishes. You start writing weight-equivalents in your cookbooks.
This is an excellent, affordable scale. It switches easily between grams, ounces and pounds with the press of a button. It is battery-powered but can be plugged in or even recharged. It measures to an accuracy of a hundredth of a gram. It has a tare button.
A tare button!
If you don’t know what that is, you will. Oh, you will…
Featured Photo: A Blue Train. Photo by John Fladd.
Sylvester Graham would hate this article. For the purposes of this week’s cocktails, here’s what you need to know about Graham, who died in 1851:
• He didn’t invent the graham cracker — he encouraged people to grind their own flour (he said white bread was made from “tortured wheat”). Some mills started producing a rougher-ground, whole-grain flour that they called Graham flour. Graham crackers were made using this flour.
• He was horrified by alcohol.
• He was very impatient; he couldn’t understand why Americans didn’t just listen to him and change their lifestyles instantly (he basically thought pleasure and anything that gave you pleasure — alcohol, meat, sex — is bad for you).
So, here’s our first tie-in with Sylvester Graham: What’s with all the exotic ingredients, Cocktail Boy?
I’ve been looking back at the last several cocktails I’ve written about and I’m pretty sure some of you have been thinking to yourself, “OK, this drink sounds very interesting, but do I really need Nepalese orchid pollen to make it?” The most exotic ingredients in today’s drinks are cocoa nibs and grapefruit juice. (No, not together.)
The bad news is that Cocktail No. 1 will take you a week to make.
Cocktail No. 1 – The S’mores Martini
After making chocolate vodka last month, I decided to see if I could make graham cracker vodka (Sylvester Graham connection No. 2).
I’ll spare you the experimental methodology, but in short, it works.
Graham Cracker Vodka
1 sleeve (135 grams) graham crackers
3 cups 80 proof inexpensive vodka
Combine graham crackers and vodka in a blender. Blend at whatever speed pleases you for one minute. Feel free to chuckle evilly as the graham crackers meet their fate.
Pour into a wide-mouthed, airtight jar.
Store in a warm, dark place for a week, shaking twice daily.
(And this is really important) On Day 7, DO NOT SHAKE THE JAR.
Gently pour the clear liquid through a fine-meshed strainer, then through a coffee filter, into a labeled bottle.
Strain the remaining graham cracker glop overnight, then filter and add to your bottle.
S’mores Martini
2 oz. chocolate vodka
2 oz. graham cracker vodka
3-4 miniature marshmallows, for garnish.
In a mixing glass (see below), pour equal amounts of chocolate and graham cracker vodka over ice.
Stir gently but thoroughly.
Pour off, into a chilled martini glass.
Garnish with toasted miniature marshmallows, much like you would a conventional martini, with olives.
Some bartenders make standard, conventional martinis by pouring an ounce or so of vermouth over the ice in the mixing glass, stirring it around, then pouring it out. The vermouth-washed ice adds just enough vermouthiness to the gin to make a solid dry martini. I suspect that if one were to wash the ice in this drink with creme de cacao before mixing in the chocolate and graham cracker vodkas, it would deepen the flavor even more. That would stretch the boundaries of Sylvester Graham-like simplicity and humble ingredients, though.
Observation No. 1 – Is this idea a bit cutesy and Food Networky?
Yes, but if you find yourself with chocolate and graham cracker vodkas, the Universe sort of demands that you do it.
Observation No. 2 – Shaken versus Stirred
For years, I’ve heard martini snobs sneering at the whole James Bond, shaken-not-stirred concept. But for the sake of … um, I’m not actually sure what … I decided to make two different versions of this martini, one shaken brutally in a Boston shaker (the kind with two halves) and one stirred in a mixing glass.
Shockingly, there was a real difference, and not a small one. The shaken martini had a different look, a different mouth-feel and even a different taste than the silkier one made in the mixing glass. By comparison, it seemed like it was made in a frat house. The stirred one was delightful and civilized.
Does this mean that you’ll have to invest in a special mixing glass and long spirally bar spoon? I did, but I suspect you could do just as well with a glass measuring cup and the blunt end of a butter knife. But let’s say you suffer from a Sylvester Graham-like impatience. Try this instead:
Featured photo: S’mores martini. Photo by John Fladd.
Cocktails and mocktails created for flavor-seekers of all ages
The Dad: A new father does a fair bit of daydreaming in the early days, largely about the bonding experiences he hopes to have with his kid as they grow up — going to football games, field-dressing a deer, rebuilding a carburetor — that sort of thing.
Life often takes a jagged left turn, though, and for men like me at least, those stereotypical father-child moments are more elusive than you’d think. Being the sort of man I am, and the excellent but offbeat teenager my child has grown into, most of these experiences are off the table.
We are vegetarians and ambivalent about the outdoors, so the deer are probably safe.
Someone reminded me the other day that cars don’t even have carburetors anymore, which is frankly a relief, because I’m not sure what a carburetor is, though it sounds vaguely threatening.
And the closest The Teen and I would ever get to the going-to-a-game experience would be if we could score tickets to an off-Broadway, all-drag reboot of The Music Man.
So I guess what I’m trying to say is that you take your bonding experiences where you can find them.
Which is why I was happily gob-smacked recently when The Teen asked if they could make me a cocktail. I suggested that they make a non-alcoholic one, so they could taste it as they went along and develop something that they liked too. This led to several actual back-and-forth conversations and a week-long project that involved a frankly stunning lack of eye-rolling and muttering under the breath on both our parts.
These are the results of that project: The Teen has developed a set of non-alcoholic beverages, which I have then adapted for more adult tastes.
The Teen: There’s this idea that non-alcoholic drinks shouldn’t be super-complicated or fancy and I don’t like that because I am both super-complicated and fancy. There’s so much culture built around bars and drinking that I don’t think other types of drinks should be ignored. Non-alcoholic drinks should have a certain sophistication, a certain je ne sais quoi to them. I have tried to make drinks that are delicious and have a sense of style to them.
The Drinks
Non-Alcoholic Cocktail No. 1: Whispers of Ogygia
Whispers of Ogygia. Photo Courtesy of John Fladd.
½ oz. fresh-squeezed lemon juice
½ oz. non-alcoholic blue curacao
½ oz. simple syrup
2 sprigs (~ 1.5 grams) fresh mint
5 ¼-inch slices (~ 25 grams) cucumber
6 ice cubes
3 oz. extremely bubbly sparkling water, like Topo Chico Mineral Water
1. Add the first six ingredients to a cocktail shaker. (I like the kind with the built-in strainer in the top.) Shake until very cold.
2. Strain into a rocks glass, over more ice.
3. Add the sparkling water and stir gently.
4. Garnish with a cucumber wheel.
The Teen: This drink has a very islandy/oceany feel to it. The color is sort of a bougie Mediterranean blue. In Greek myths Ogygia was the island where the nymph Calypso was exiled. It’s the island where Odysseus was shipwrecked. This drink tastes sweet and fresh and windy, in a way. The citrus of the lemon is a good bridge between the cucumber and the mint.
Dad’s Alcoholic Riff No. 1 – Calypso’s Icy Gaze
Calypso’s Icy Gaze. Photo Courtesy of John Fladd.
The Dad: Greek myths are really rough on women. Calypso was imprisoned on Ogygia because her father was the titan Atlas, who had opposed the gods. Calypso herself wasn’t involved; this is just the sort of thing that happened to female relatives of jerks in the myths. (If you really feel like shaking your fist at the gods, look up what they did to Pasiphaë.)
According to The Odyssey, Odysseus was shipwrecked on Ogygia and Calypso found him so beautiful that she kept him there for years, before he managed to “escape.” Clearly, we are relying on his version of events here.
Calypso is not here for your nonsense.
2-3 sprigs (1.5-2 grams) fresh mint
4 slices (~25 grams) cucumber
1 oz. lemon juice
1½ oz. very cold vodka
A “slip” of traditional, alcoholic blue curacao
~ 1 oz. dry ice (optional, but highly cool)
1. Muddle the cucumber and mint in the bottom of a cocktail shaker.
2. Add ice, lemon juice and vodka. Shake vigorously. (I like to shake it really hard, until I hear the ice splinter. A lot of bartenders will tell you that this is not a good idea, because the ice fragments will dilute your drink too much, but that’s actually the effect we’re going for here.)
3. Strain into a martini glass. (See below.)
4. Pour a “slip” of blue curacao down the side of the glass. It will puddle in the bottom and give this drink a blue/green layered look.
5. Smile and take a picture of the drink, because it looks extremely fancy.
6a. At this point you can drink this and have a perfectly civilized cocktail. It will start out a little acidic and bracing from the lemon juice, then get sweeter as you work your way down to the blue curacao. If you would like it a little sweeter, add a tiny bit more curacao. The term “slip” is extremely vague and bartenders tend to use it as a code for “Use your own judgment.”
6b. If you decide to add dramatic flair to this cocktail, add a nugget of dry ice to it. It will bubble and churn and mist will flow over the side of the glass, making it a very good drink for Halloween. The bubbling and churning will mix the drink, turning it a very assertive green. Like the will of Calypso. [Editor’s note: Dry ice in cocktails is a whole to-do that requires some dry ice education and safety steps so that it doesn’t cause injury. The Betty Crocker website (bettycrocker.com) offers a good explanation.]
A note on cocktail strainers: There are all sorts of devices designed to help a home drink-maker strain a cocktail. The traditional tool involves hooks and a spring and intimidates me. Some cocktail shakers have an internal strainer in them. I find it takes a long time to strain some drinks through one of these. Recently, I have started using an inexpensive strainer that is designed to fit over the drain in a kitchen sink. It is extremely inexpensive, it works well, it is easy to clean, and it fits exactly over the rim of a martini glass.
Non-Alcoholic Cocktail No. 2 – A Cascade of Roses
A Cascade of Roses. Photo courtesy of John Fladd.
The Teen: At first, I wanted to make a drink that was similar to a Cherry Airhead, one of those really sour candies. I really like a combination of sweet and sour. Getting this right was a long and arduous process of mixing and drinking and mixing and drinking and mixing and drinking. I used citric acid because it seemed like a good way of getting the sour flavor I was looking for without adding any liquid. It ended up a little intense, but the seltzer spread the flavor out a lot and gave it some sparkle.
When I was done making this, I wanted a name that referenced its rosy red color, so I decided to call it “A Cascade of Roses.” After thinking about it a while, I decided to add rose water to make the flavor more rosy. Rose water can be tricky to use, but six drops is just about enough. I think it adds a subtle, background flavor.
1 oz. cherry syrup – as artificial as possible
½ oz. maraschino cherry juice
¾ teaspoon citric acid (available in many grocery stores this time of year, because of canning, or online)
6 ice cubes
6 drops rose water
5 oz. plain seltzer
Maraschino cherries for garnish
1. Combine the first five ingredients in a shaker. Shake until mixed and cold – about a minute.
2. Pour into a wine glass.
3. Add seltzer and stir gently.
4. Garnish with maraschino cherries.
Dad’s Alcoholic Riff No. 2 – Les Cerises du Roi
Les Cerises du Roi. Photo courtesy of John Fladd.
The Dad: I love the idea of a deeply cherry-flavored cocktail. The trick is to try to avoid making it taste too much like candy. In the end, I had some good luck in making my own cherry syrup (see below), but the resulting drink was a little bit frou-frou. After thinking it over, I decided to reclassify it in my mind as “rococo” and really embrace the over-the-top effeteness of it.
1 oz. homemade cherry syrup
1 oz. fresh squeezed lime juice
1 oz. kirsch
3 oz. plain seltzer
Upscale cocktail cherries for garnish
1. Shake the first three ingredients in a cocktail shaker, with ice.
2. Pour into an extremely froofy glass – the froofiest you can find.
3. Add seltzer and stir gently.
4. Garnish with several upscale cocktail cherries. I like the Bada Bing brand.
Cherry Syrup:
1 part (by weight) frozen cherries (the ice crystals in the cherries will break up the cell walls and give you more juice)
1 part (by weight) sugar
(A pound of frozen cherries and ¾ cup sugar will give you ~1½ cups of syrup.)
1. Put the cherries and sugar in a small saucepan over medium heat. As the cherries start to thaw, they will start giving off juice. Stir to combine.
2. When the cherries are thoroughly warmed up, mash them with a potato masher. It won’t matter if they have pits in them. The masher is a democratic tool and will mash any fruit regardless of its pit status.
3. Bring to a simmer and cook until the sugar is completely dissolved – three to four minutes.
4. Strain into a jar, label and store in your refrigerator.
Non-Alcoholic Cocktail No. 3 – Reverse Hot Chocolate
Reverse Hot Chocolate. Photo courtesy of John Fladd.
The Teen: This was not my idea. I want no part of this.
The Dad: I am a passionate ice cream maker. One of my favorite flavors of ice cream from when I was a kid is peppermint stick. It’s really hard to find anymore, so once a year or so I make my own. As I cook the base for the ice cream, dissolving peppermint candies in milk and cream, I always think how much I would like to drink a cup of it on a rainy fall day —never mind the ice cream.
This is a spin on that.
2 cups whole milk
1 cup half and half
75 g. crushed starlight mint candies (about 15 candies, once you’ve unwrapped them)
1. Unwrap and crush the candies. I use a hand-held vegetable chopper – the type with the plunger on top that you pound with your fist, often with a wild look in your eyes. If you decide to use your food processor to chop these up, you might want to freeze the candies first, so the dust doesn’t heat up too much in your food processor and get gummy and inconvenient.
2. Add all three ingredients to a small saucepan and heat until the candy fragments have dissolved, but before the mixture boils (about 200 degrees). It will turn a delicate shade of shell-pink.
3. Pour into mugs and serve.
Makes two to three servings.
Dad’s Alcoholic Riff On His Own Drink – Pink Cocoa
Pink Cocoa. Photo courtesy of John Fladd.
The Dad: The classic sitting-around-in-a-ski-lodge-with-your-leg-in-a-cast drink is hot cocoa, with a generous slug of peppermint schnapps in it. I’ve taken that and turned it on its head. This is a mug of hot peppermint, with a generous slug of chocolate in it.
10 oz. Reverse Hot Chocolate (see above)
1 oz. chocolate vodka (see below)
½ oz. crème de cacao
1. Add all three ingredients to a mug.
2. Stir.
3. Drink and pretend to be classy.
Chocolate Vodka
750 ml 80-proof bottom-shelf vodka (The chocolate flavors of the finished infusion will cover any subtle flavors you might get from an up-market vodka. You will be filtering this, which will largely remove any rough flavors from your discount vodka. Save your money for all the frou-frou, exotic ingredients The Teen and I have asked you to buy for our other recipes.)
½ cup (about 2 oz.) roasted cocoa nibs
1. Combine in a large jar with an airtight lid. If you worry about such things, place a small piece of wax paper between the mouth of the jar and the lid.
2. Shake vigorously.
3. Store somewhere cool and dark for four days. I put it on top of the freezer in our basement laundry room. That way, I remember to shake the jar every time I go downstairs to switch the laundry over or get something from the freezer.
4. Oh, yeah — shake two or three times per day.
5. After four days, filter into a bottle, through a coffee filter in a funnel. This will take longer than you think, so just walk away and let the filter do its job. It knows what it’s doing. If you stand there, watching it, you will be tempted to play around with it. You’ll probably want to do this in stages. Just walk away and watch a round of The Great British Baking Show or something, then come back and pour a little more into your filter, until you’ve filtered the whole jar.
6. Make sure to label your bottle.
Non-Alcoholic Cocktail No. 4 – Unnamed Passion Fruit Beverage
Unnamed Passion Fruit Beverage. Photo courtesy of John Fladd.
The Teen: I really like the flavor of passion fruit. I like how sour it is but still mouth-wateringly fruity. That is my favorite combination of flavors in the whole world. Passion fruit has a juicy quality that just exactly suits me. I’ve tried to make this drink passion fruit-forward, but not soda-like.
5 oz. passion fruit green tea, iced (I like Lipton’s Orange Passionfruit Jasmine Green Tea, made with four tea bags per pitcher.)
1 oz. fresh-squeezed lime juice
½ oz. simple syrup
5 ice cubes
1 oz. commercial passion fruit cocktail (This is something you have walked past a zillion times in the supermarket, but you’ve probably never noticed. It comes in a cardboard container. It’s in the fruit juice aisle at the store, probably on the top shelf, with pear nectar and stuff.)
1. Add all ingredients to a cocktail shaker and shake until extremely cold. This may dilute the drink a little, but that is what you’re going for here — subtlety, Dad!
2. Pour into a Collins glass, perhaps with extra ice.
3. Drink this on the porch, with tasty snacks.
Dad’s Alcoholic Riff No. 4 – “What Are They Going To Do? Fire Me?”
“What Are They Going To Do? Fire Me?” Photo courtesy of John Fladd.
The Dad: The Teen has opted for subtlety in their final drink. That’s marvelous. There is a time for gentle and subtle. Like a delicate butterfly lighting on your finger.
Other times call for a brute confrontation with Reality. Like an angry buzzard crashing into you from a great height.
This is one of those drinks. It should be drunk in the largest, most garish glass you have. That shrunken-head tiki glass you thought was so cool on vacation that time, that you’ve never used? Break that baby out. It’s game time.
4 oz. passion fruit cocktail
2 oz. dark rum. I like Myers’ for this.
1 oz. crème de banana (Because bananas and passion fruit get along very well, like friends who often make questionable decisions together.)
3 oz. plain seltzer
lime wedge for garnish
1. Add passion fruit cocktail, rum, crème de banana, and ice to a cocktail shaker. It doesn’t really matter how you are shaking this particular drink, but if you’ve chosen this one, you’ll probably be in the mood to be pretty brutal about it.
2. Pour into your large, garish glass.
3.Add the seltzer and stir gently, if you can.
4. Garnish with a lime wedge and maybe a paper umbrella, if your trembling fingers allow.
Argument – There comes a time when a rational adult needs to set aside emotion and accept Reality.
Counter-Argument – What has Reality ever done for me?
OK, it’s October.
October, in a year that has been circling the flush-line since March and promises to circle even faster around the bowl before we give up on 2020 entirely and hope for something better next year. Summer is gone and we have to brace ourselves for a grim fall and a winter of — I don’t know — discontent?
That’s one way to look at it.
Another is to adopt, as P.G. Wodehouse put it, a campaign of stout denial. You know what I’m talking about — grown men wearing shorts, sandals and Santa hats in December. Women who wear white after Labor Day and meet your gaze with steely determination.
Whichever camp you fall into, you could probably use a drink.
Case No. 1 – “I Grudgingly Accept That Summer Is Over and Will Adopt a Serious, Adult Demeanor”
The cocktail for you:
Black Tie Cocktail 2 oz. dark rum, such as Myers ½ oz. triple sec ¼ oz. orgeat ½ teaspoon blackstrap molasses ½ oz. fresh squeezed lime juice 1 teaspoon simple syrup
Put all ingredients into a cocktail shaker with five or six ice cubes. Shake until you can feel the ice splintering (see below). Pour without straining into a rocks glass.
The Black Tie is a deceptive cocktail. On its surface it is dignified, sober (in an emotional sense) and entirely appropriate for the season.
On tasting it, though, you will be surprised. It has complex, playful flavors that come in stages — the molasses and lime play off each other unexpectedly well. It is a bit subversive.
Case No. 2 – “Fall Foliage Is Just Another Way of Describing Tiki Trees”
The cocktail for you :
Rum Runner 1½ oz. navy rum like Lamb’s or Pussers, or dark rum like Myers ½ oz. crème de mûre, or blackberry liqueur, or blackberry brandy (the kind you find sometimes in little single-portion bottles in the sale bin at the liquor store) 1 oz. crème de banana 1 oz. fresh squeezed lime juice 2 oz. pineapple juice ½ oz. grenadine (pomegranate syrup)
Again, put everything in a cocktail shaker with five or six ice cubes, then shake brutally, until you feel the ice shatter. Pour into a tall glass. Garnish – Several weeks ago I described the Jungle Bird as too serious a drink to garnish with frou-frou paper umbrellas or fruit. This drink is a defiant rebellion against the changing of the seasons. It calls for a minimum of two cocktail umbrellas, and as much fruit as you want to cram into it.
Just as the Black Tie is deceptively playful, this drink is deceptively sophisticated. The key ingredient here is the blackberry brandy, which insists on shining through all the other goofy ingredients.
A word on cocktail shakers When you first start making serious, grown-up cocktails you will probably buy a cocktail shaker with a strainer built into its spout. “This looks easier,” you will say to yourself. You might even congratulate yourself on keeping your common touch and not buying into cocktail snobbery. Eventually, you’ll start getting impatient with how long it takes to pour your entire drink into your glass through the built-in strainer. You will probably have to re-shake and re-strain your drink several times to get all of it out of the shaker. The solution is what is called a Boston Shaker. It consists of one large steel canister, and a smaller one. It is what most professional bartenders use. You put your ingredients into the larger canister, turn the little one upside-down, wedge it firmly over the ingredients in the larger one, then shake. It seems like it should leak. It doesn’t. It seems like it would be hard to strain drinks with. It isn’t. The drinks end up colder, somehow. As you shake, you can feel the ice cracking and splintering — which is profoundly satisfying — and you can pour your drink quickly and efficiently into your waiting glass, and shortly thereafter, into you.
At the risk of oversharing, it seems like when it comes to decision-making I have two settings: overthinking or not thinking at all.
Throughout my life, a series of exasperated parents, bemused drill sergeants and my long-suffering wife have asked me, in varying degrees of anxiety, “What were you THINKING!?” To which, I only have one answer: “Uhhh… what?”
And then, there’s the other extreme.
Sometimes, without warning, I will fall down a rabbit hole of obsession, hyper-focusing on some objectively trivial matter. Last week, after watching a movie where one of the characters had to go on the run and retrieved a “go bag,” I spent hours thinking about what would go in my go bag, how much of what currency should go in it, and how I could inconspicuously buy everything I needed with untraceable cash. Never mind that I would probably never need to flee anywhere, or that I’m too fundamentally lazy and timid to do it if I had to; the fact remains that I spent hours working out an elaborate escape plan. (The secret is to include a Flowbee in the bag, so I can shave my head in a convenience store bathroom, then grow a beard, to blend in with all the other aging hipsters.)
And then, there’s the orgeat. Orgeat (supposedly pronounced “Oor-Jot”) is an almond syrup that is used a lot in tropical drinks to add depth and a sweet fruitiness to the background flavor. I’m mostly alone in this, but I think it tastes a bit like maraschino cherries. People with a more sophisticated palate than mine get very particular about their orgeat, saying that the cheap stuff tastes “artificial.” (I kind of like “artificial”, but they do have a point. The more chi-chi stuff definitely tastes more sophisticated.)
Some people will even go so far as to make their own orgeat.
[There… Right there… Did you hear it? The ominous music in the soundtrack as I start to overthink things?]
I was reading recipes for homemade orgeat — some simple, others much more complex and involved — when I started to wonder about making it from pistachios, rather than almonds. This led to more research than I can really justify, and several trips to the store, for ever-larger amounts of raw pistachios.
In the end, here’s what I came up with:
Pistachio Orgeat Equal parts, by volume: • sugar • water • raw, shelled pistachios
1. Chop the pistachios in a blender 2. Boil the sugar and water together to make a simple syrup 3. Steep the pistachio crumbs in the syrup for several hours 4. Strain the pistachio solids out, then squeeze
The Paisley Jane • 2 slices of cucumber • ½ oz. unsweetened pomegranate or cranberry juice • 1½ oz. vodka • 1½ oz. pistachio orgeat • ½ oz. full fat plain yogurt • Exactly 3 drops rose water (seriously – no more, no less. Trust me on this.) • A pinch of sumac powder for garnish (Not optional. See below.)
1. Place the cucumber slices at the bottom of a cocktail shaker, then top them with ice. If you do it this way, you don’t have to muddle or bruise the cucumber. The ice will do it for you. 2. Add all the other ingredients except the sumac. 3. Shake vigorously for longer than you think you actually need to. Remember that you are throwing down a beating on the cucumbers. 4. Strain over ice into a rocks glass or an Old Fashioned glass. 5. Top with a generous pinch of sumac.
A note on sumac: Sumac is a Middle Eastern spice that has a distinct, sour, astringent note to it. It is one of the garnishes called for in the original Hazy Jane recipe. Without it, this pistachio version is missing something. You can buy sumac at any Middle Eastern grocery store or online. You have to be somewhat obsessive to try this, but the good news is that you won’t have to drastically change your appearance.
Featured photo: Paisley Jane. Photo by John Fladd.
