Author: 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.

A hot drink for the holidays

I’ve got a rule of thumb that makes a deceptive amount of sense.

When you’re looking at used copies of cookbooks, buy the one that is in the worst shape. If it’s badly stained and has torn pages, a broken spine and mysterious burn marks, that’s the one that has seen some action. Somebody was loyal enough to the recipes in it to take it into the belly of the beast. It must have something to recommend it.

Anyone I’ve ever given that advice to has nodded and agreed that this seems really reasonable.

The deception comes into play over time. Over the years, I’ve adopted an alarming number of these battle-scarred books, most of which have gone relatively unused.

A case in point is 1969’s Esquire Drink Book. I don’t remember how it ended up in my cocktail bookcase, but it is a perfect time capsule of Swinging ’60s bachelor drinks.

For example, the Bee-Bee.

Even by the standards of the time, the description of the Bee-Bee is a little tone-deaf, sexism and other isms-wise.

“This will bring on leprechauns and williwaws after the third cup,” he says.

Given that 3 cups of bourbon is 24 ounces of 100-proof alcohol, I suspect that it would be more likely to bring on paramedics and divorce attorneys, and yet—

Classic Bee-Bee

Ingredients

• Zest of one lime – one of the really dark, leathery-looking ones
• Zest of one orange – just a regular, undemanding orange
• 1 Tablespoon honey
• 1 cup bourbon – given how much you are going to adulterate it, probably not your best stuff.

Also, have an instant-read thermometer.

Heat all ingredients to a boil in a small saucepan, over medium-low heat. (The lower temperature will give the alcohol time to strip some of the flavorful oils from the citrus rinds.) Bring to a temperature of about 170º. Alcohol boils off at a lower temperature than water, so bringing this to a full boil will strip off most of the bourbon. (I flamed off all the alcohol from some rum once and “disappointing” does not begin to describe the results.)

Rest for three minutes. This will give the bourbon a little more time to wash the citrus zest. Yes, it will cool somewhat, but you do the exact same thing when you make a good cup of tea. Think of this as extremely dodgy tea.

Strain through a fine-mesh strainer into an Irish coffee glass. To be clear, this is 8 ounces of bourbon and, at 170, the alcohol doesn’t cook off. You’ll want to share this one with a few fellow revelers to stay upright.

Shockingly, this is very good. Dangerously good. The bourbon is mellowed out by the honey and citrus. It tastes comforting. It has subtle butterscotch notes that suggest that maybe things aren’t that bad. That maybe you’ll get through all this. That maybe you should make another cup—

So I guess the question is this: Is there a way of lightening the Bee-Bee up so you don’t end up making a pass at a hat rack, and yet that doesn’t strip it completely of its dangerously seductive nature?

Maybe.

Modified Bee-Bee

Ingredients

• Zest of 1 lime – dark and leathery
• Zest of 1 orange – calm and demure
• 3 ounces ginger brandy – I like Jacquin’s
• 1 ounce Irish whiskey – I like Paddy’s for this. It brings a lot of flavor, without taking itself too seriously.
• 1 Tablespoon hot honey
• ½ cup boiling water

And that same thermometer, which has probably been surprised and delighted to find itself in an adult beverage today instead of a pork chop.

Again, heat all the ingredients except the water in a small saucepan, over medium-low heat, bringing the mix to 170º.

Again, rest for three minutes.

Strain into an Irish coffee glass, stir in the hot water.

This version of the Bee-Bee doesn’t taste the same as the original, but it has the same “Hey, buddy, I don’t know if anyone has told you lately, but you are very attractive and have a really great sense of style” quality of debauched, contented comfort to it. (Keep in mind that while only half as dangerous as its big brother, this drink still has 4 ounces of alcohol in it. For either drink, sharing is strongly recommended.) The ginger plays well with the spice of the hot honey. The alcohol is still there and lets you know that it is still there, but it plays so well with the citrus that you hardly notice the number of ill-advised ideas you come up with over the next half hour.

Featured photo: The Bee-Bee. Photo by John Fladd.

A lot of us feel a crisis of confidence in December. We like to think of ourselves as imaginative, creative people, but then we find ourselves surrounded by actually creative people bringing their crafting A-games. We are inundated with pine cone wreaths, hand-knitted sweaters of llamas drinking eggnog, and festive crocheted door knob cozies. It’s enough to make a person anxious. It’s easy to say that nobody is crafting at you, but any time spent in book clubs or PTO meetings puts the lie to that.

Here is an easy way to win some crafting street cred.

What you will need

Some white chocolate – I use white chocolate disks, made for bakers and candy-makers, but a bar of white chocolate from a convenience store would work just as well.

Powdered food coloring – Melted chocolate (you will be melting the chocolate) is extremely finicky. If it comes in contact with even a tiny amount of moisture, it will seize up. Liquid food coloring, and even gel, will make your chocolate very difficult to work with.

Something to stir your melted chocolate with – popsicle sticks are good for this, although the stem end of a spoon would work just as well.

A dry-erase marker. Also, tiny brushes to paint with.

Paper towels

A plain cocktail glass

Your overly excitable plastic container – see Hint No. 1

Using your dry-erase pen, draw a simple picture on the outside of your martini glass. Let’s try something fairly straightforward, a Christmas tree with a couple of presents.

OK, it’s not great. Don’t worry. This is one of the few times in your crafting life that you can be confident in the process. This will turn out well.

Put a small amount of white chocolate on your overly excitable plate. (In my case, it’s a tiny soy sauce dish, presumably for sushi.) Use a smaller amount of chocolate than you think you need. Heat it in the microwave for a surprisingly short amount of time, 15 seconds or so, to start.

Stir the solid-appearing chocolate. If your plate is as excitable as you think, the chocolate will quickly collapse into a molten state. If necessary, hit it with a few more seconds in the microwave.

Stir a little powdered food coloring into your melted chocolate. Start with a small amount, then more, if necessary. Again, if the mixture is a bit stiff, a few more seconds in the microwave will loosen it up.

With your tiny paintbrush, paint the colored chocolate on the inside of the glass, using your drawing as a guide. Because you are painting on glass, think of this like a store window, where you will start with all the details in the foreground, then fill in the background later.

Let’s start with red ribbons on the presents and red ornaments on the tree.

Let’s add some details further in the background: blue presents and ornaments and a brown tree trunk. You could color the white chocolate brown, but I just melted a single chocolate chip and used that.

For the tree itself, I’m going to use two slightly different shades of green. I added a little yellow food coloring to one batch to lighten it up, then a tiny amount of black to darken another. Your first set of blotches will look, er, blotchy. Trust the process.

Hey, suddenly, this is all coming together!

Until you turn the glass around and look at it from the front.

No. Don’t panic. Trust the process. Wipe off the dry erase marker.

Wow. I mean, it’s not perfect, but it would totally shut up Simmons from Accounting at the office party.

You know what we need? A cocktail to go in it.

Pomegranate martini

• 2 ounces Pama Pomegranate Liqueur
• 2 ounces mid-shelf vodka – I’ve been enjoying New Amsterdam lately.

Pour both ingredients over ice in a cocktail shaker. Shake until you hear the ice start to shatter.

Pour your very cold drink into your newly decorated cocktail glass.

Considering it’s only got two ingredients, this is a surprisingly sophisticated drink. The sweet/sour fruitiness of the pomegranate hits you first but is replaced by a fairly bracing booziness from the vodka. The sourness of the liqueur activates your salivary glands, so you get a really “juicy” overall impression from it.

Now the question you are probably asking is, “Won’t the drink wash away the chocolate?”

Actually, no. Your drink is very cold, so the chocolate is unlikely to melt. And, remember when we talked about chocolate’s tendency to seize when exposed to liquid? We’re using that to our advantage here. The water content of the vodka, plus the diluted ice, panics the chocolate, which clings to the side of the glass for dear life.

If you rinse this glass out gently with very cold water, you can probably get three or four uses out of it.

Featured photo: Pomegranate Martini in hand painted glass. Photo by John Fladd.

There are two great scenes in 1947’s Miracle on 34th Street:

“Hey, Lou! How many letters do we have to Santy Clause down at the Dead Letter Office?”

“I don’t know — there must be fifty thousand. Bags and bags of them comin’ in every day….”

Charlie — because I’ve decided that his name is Charlie — gets thoughtful for a second. The scene cuts to the courthouse, where things don’t look good for Santa Claus, or maybe Kris Kringle, who is defending his sanity in court. He doesn’t want to be institutionalized. The D.A. doesn’t actually want to institutionalize him and risk alienating his own children. The judge, who is worried about re-election, doesn’t want to fit Santa with extra-long sleeves on Christmas Eve.

Then Lou and Charlie and the other postal workers give them all a legal loophole and save Christmas. It’s a brilliantly cynical bit of emotional manipulation. I love it.

Even better is at the beginning of the movie, when it’s discovered that the Macy’s Parade Santa is soused and can’t finish the parade. How can that not have happened at least once in real life?

In that spirit, here are a trio of drinks to enjoy while you watch the parade this week.

Macy’s Parade

• 1 ounce apple brandy – I like Laird’s Applejack
• 1 ounce rye – I’ve been enjoying Knob Creek
• ½ ounce cranberry syrup – see below
• ¼ ounce Cynar – yes, the stuff with the artichoke on the label
• 2 dashes Angostura bitters

Pour all ingredients over ice in a mixing glass. Stir gently.

Let rest 15 to 20 minutes, to let the ice chill and dilute this very authoritative cocktail.

Strain into a coupé glass, and drink while singing show tunes along with the lip-synching, float-riding Broadway stars with overly bright eyes. Do this until your teenage child threatens arson.

This drink, courtesy of Craig Eliason in Minnesota, is not a light, frivolous cocktail. It is sweet, boozy, and a little herbal, courtesy of the Cynar and the bitters. It stares you in the eye and dares you to get cynical about the parade.

“Don’t you dare make fun of Al Roker,” it tells you in a low growl.

Cranberry Syrup

Combine frozen whole cranberries with an equal amount of white sugar, by weight, in a small saucepan. Bring to a boil, mashing the berries with a potato masher once they have thawed. By using frozen berries, you have forced ice crystals to stab through all the cell walls of the cranberries, encouraging them to give up their juice.

Bring to a boil, to make sure that all the sugar has dissolved, then strain, battle and cool. This should last a very long time in your refrigerator, but the point is somewhat academic, because the odds are very good that you will use it all to make cranberry margaritas throughout the holiday season.

Parade Route

• 1½ ounces rye
• ¾ ounce fresh squeezed lemon juice
• ¾ ounce simple syrup
• 2 dashes Peychaud’s bitters
• 4 to 5 ounces sparkling rosé

Combine the rye, lemon juice, syrup and bitters with ice in a cocktail shaker. Shake and chill thoroughly.

Strain into a small Collins glass. Top with sparking rosé.

This is light and delicious. For reasons that defy mere logic, it turns out that rye and sparkling wine go really well together. The sweetness from the syrup takes the edge off the booziness, and the lemon juice keeps things from getting too sweet.

If you decide to double down, here’s your next stop:

34th Street Miracle

• 1 ounce cognac
• 1 ounce orange curaçao
• 1 ounce orange juice
• 1 ounce fresh squeezed lemon juice

Combine all ingredients with ice in a cocktail shaker. Shake and chill.

Strain into a cocktail glass

The orange juice and orange liqueur go together extremely well in this drink — no surprise there. The cognac adds a boozy backbone to keep things from getting too orangey — not vodka or gin boozy, but something a little more gracious and civilized. The lemon juice keeps everything from taking itself too seriously.

At this point, when the Parade finally gets to Macy’s, is where you should weepily sing “Over the River and Through the Woods” in at least three different keys. Your family will encourage you to go take a nap. Everybody wins.

OK, this one is going to be fun.

First, you’re going to need about a pound and a half of bee pollen — the Italian stuff, if you can get it, otherwise whatever you can get your hands on. After that, you’re going to need some small-batch bourbon. This particular label is a little hard to track down, but if you—

No.

And, of course, you’re going to need to sculpt some ice into—

No.

I beg your pardon?

I said no. Every couple of weeks, you come here and get very excited about some fancy, or exotic, or, worst of all, “interesting” cocktail, and I go along with it, because it’s mildly amusing and you seem like you need the attention.

But I just can’t do it this week. Do you have any idea how many soccer games are involved in the end of a season? And I hurt my knee in Zumba class. And my mother-in-law has decided that she’s coming for a visit. Not at Thanksgiving, not at Christmas — next week. Do you have any idea how much house cleaning that involves?

So, no. Don’t come at me with freakin’ bee pollen. What else do you have?

A Champ—

If you’re about to say “Champagne,” you can stop right there.

[A thoughtful pause.] What if you can get almost everything at the supermarket?

[Suspiciously] How many ingredients?

Three. Four, if you count ice.

Special artisanal ice?

No. Just ice.

[A pause.]OK, hit me with it.

Dark and Stormy

A Dark and Stormy is a classic drink. If you’re making it for yourself, it is cold, refreshing and quick to make, but just a little different from your standard highball. It feels a little bit like giving yourself a treat. If you’re making it for a special friend, they might have had it before and if so it might bring back that summer they spent with Fancy Yacht People. If not, it will probably sound familiar and thus non-threatening.

Ingredients

• 2 ounces dark or black rum — I like to use a black rum, but Meyer’s will work very well.
• ½ jalapeño or Fresno pepper — My preference is for the heat and flavor of a jalapeño, but they can be undependable. You never know what you’re going to get heat- and flavor-wise.
• 5 to 6 ounces ginger beer — I like Goya, but whatever they have in the soda aisle at the supermarket will be fine. Just remember to get ginger beer, not ginger ale.
• A lime

Cut your pepper in half lengthwise. Cut a little bit off the tip and taste it to see how hot it is. If it seems a little too aggressive for your taste, scoop out the seeds and membranes with a spoon; that should knock the heat down a little bit. If you’re happy with the heat level, put it in a cocktail shaker.

Muddle the pepper thoroughly against the bottom of the shaker. You can use an actual bartender’s muddler for this, but a wooden spoon will work just as well. I use the pestle part of a large mortar and pestle to do this sort of thing.

Add the rum, and dry-shake the two ingredients. Dry-shaking means shaking it without ice. The reason you’re doing that in this case is that the capsaicin in the pepper is not water-soluble but it is alcohol-soluble. That means that the rum will be able to strip away a maximum amount of flavor and heat from the chile. Ice and melt-water would only get in the way at this point.

Strain the rum over ice, in a tall glass. Top with ginger beer, and stir gently.

Garnish with a quarter of a lime. I would slice the lime in half lengthwise, then again, but that’s a personal preference.

Rum goes extraordinarily well with lime, and just as well with warm spices, like ginger. This is a cold, delicious drink that will help you get a little distance from the chaos and entropy in your life. This is the “self-care” people are always encouraging you to practice.

Though maybe not at work. Although it might make budget meetings more interesting.

I’ve got a firm rule for buying old photographs at flea markets; I’ll definitely buy one, if the price is right, but there has to be some sort of identification on it, so I can do some research and find out who the subjects are. I want to know more about them. Where did they live? How were they related to each other? What happened to them? Were there any shocking skeletons in their closets?

One look at this family, though, convinced me that they almost had to have a minimum of three literal skeletons. In the time it took me to get $5 out of my pocket, I constructed a backstory for each of these (technically unknown-to-me) people. I named the daughter Hortense.

From the quality of the photograph and the style of their clothes, I suspect that the picture was taken in the very early 1900s, perhaps 1904 or 1905. In very old photographs, from the mid-1800s, subjects did not smile, for fear of blurring the image in the several minutes that the film was exposed, but by the beginning of the 20th century the exposure time was down to a few seconds, so this somewhat forbidding-seeming family did not have to look this way. I get the feeling that it was just their default expression.

I don’t know about you, but I feel like drinking something bitter.

Negroni – Two Ways

Perhaps the best-known bitter cocktail is the Negroni, a mixture of gin, Campari, sweet vermouth and a splash of soda water. If you are a fan of bitter-sweet flavors, it’s a lovely break from the sweet/sour/boozy rut a lot of us find ourselves in from time to time.

One of the reasons you’ve heard of Negronis but rarely see anyone drinking one is the Campari. I like Campari enormously and use it for background bitterness in many drinks, but there are some cocktail fans, perhaps with less enlightened palates, who are not strictly fans of the red liqueur.

So here are recipes for two variations on the Negroni theme:

Mostly Traditional Negroni

• 1 ounce Campari
• 1 ounce botanical gin – I’ve been enjoying Uncle Van’s
• 1 ounce sweet vermouth – I’ve been using Dolin Rouge
• 3 to 4 ounces plain seltzer
• 1 very large ice cube

Pour the Campari, gin and vermouth over a large ice cube in a rocks or highball glass.

Pour the seltzer over the other ingredients, and stir gently to combine.

Drink while looking at a photo of Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck in Roman Holiday.

As advertised, this version of the Negroni is both bitter and sweet. The addition of so much soda is somewhat controversial, but I feel that the cocktail benefits from the dilution and carbonization. It is a complex, adult drink.

But pink.

An Alternate Negroni

• 1 ounce Campari
• 1 ounce gin
• 1 ounce sweet vermouth
• 1 ounce Amaro Lucano
• ½ ounce plain seltzer
• Another very large ice cube

This version is made in the same way as a traditional Negroni except that it replaces the Campari with another bitter Italian liqueur, Amaro Lucano, which uses different herbs and is less flamboyantly colored. The resulting cocktail is less frivolous-looking and doesn’t need the extra soda.

Is it bitter? Yes. Is it delicious? Yes. Is it pink? Not even a little. Would the mother from the antique photograph drink one out of a teacup? Probably.

Featured photo. Negroni. Photo by John Fladd.

Long, long ago, when I was a child in the Late Cretaceous, late September was one of the low-key best times of the year. That’s when the new cartoons premiered on Saturday mornings. I’m at the age when strong feelings of joy and anticipation are largely a pale memory, but at the time, the prospect of new episodes of Jonny Quest filled my world with a sparkle and wonder that I miss dearly.

For adults, weeks crawl by, seasons bleed unremarked into each other, and the next thing you know, you’re having earnest conversations with strangers about dental plans and snow tires.

So — what to do about it?

Another fall has rotated into place. Perhaps, the key to being more alive and in-the-moment might be to look to the past and do what our ancestors did to mark the change of seasons.

The ancient Celts believed that grain spirits were trapped in the last grain to be harvested and needed to be set free, so they would weave the stalks of the last of their harvests into a Wicker Man, then symbolically burn that and scatter the ashes across their fields.

My fear of confrontation is such that I think I’d have trouble murdering even a piece of glorified deck furniture.

Perhaps the best plan is to lean into our own fall tradition — Pumpkin Spice.

Pumpkin Spice Simple Syrup

• 7 grams whole cinnamon sticks, broken
• 5 grams fresh ginger, chopped
• 3 grams allspice berries
• 3 grams whole cloves
• 5 grams whole nutmeg
• 1 cup/200 grams sugar
• 1 cup/225 gram (ml) water

Lightly crush the allspice, nutmeg and cloves in a mortar and pestle. You might want to start with the nutmeg, because it is probably in one big chunk. You’re not trying to grind these spices down to powder, just to crack them all open to allow more surface area contact with the boiling syrup.

Put all ingredients into a small saucepan and bring to a boil. Let the mixture boil for 15 to 20 seconds to make sure that the sugar is completely dissolved.

Set aside and allow to steep for an hour.

Strain with a fine-meshed strainer, then filter with a coffee filter to take out all the bits of spices.

Bottle and label. Store in your refrigerator.

Because this recipe measures the spices by mass, not by volume, theoretically, it should work just as well with ground spices, but the end result will probably be a cloudier syrup.

An easy cocktail to make with this:

[Your Name] Special

• ¾ oz. pumpkin spice syrup (see above)
• 2 oz. applejack
• ¾ oz. fresh squeezed lemon juice

Shake over ice.

Pour into a coupé glass.

Drink with a glad heart, full of good will.

Is this a glorified daiquiri? Possibly.

A brandy sour? Well, yes, that, too.

Lemon juice and simple syrup are a classic combination, because the lemon brings a bright acidity, without too much baggage, flavor-wise. In this case, the heavy lifting is done by the pumpkin-spice syrup, which reminds you of hay rides and stuff, while the applejack, an apple brandy, gives the whole enterprise some boozy authority.

This is one of those drinks that you can make for a friend, and when they sip it and ask what it is, you can call it a “[Their Name] Special.” When they ask what’s in it, you reply, “Trust.”

Then you sit on the deck together and make fun of the squirrels.

Featured photo. Pumpkin Spice Simple Syrup. Photo by John Fladd.

I called an Über a couple of months ago. My driver got right back to me and said she would pick me up in just a few minutes.

I was enjoying watching the little cartoon of her car drive along the little map to where I was, when my new friend Shanikqua texted me:

“I’m pretty much there. What do you look like?”

I thought about how I should explain what I look like — my choice of jaunty tropical shirt, my gray beard, the twinkle in my eye — then decided to give her a more concise description:

“Hipster Santa Claus”

“Yup, OK. I see you….”

I’d like to say that I’ve struggled with style for my entire life, but honestly, I haven’t put up much of a fight. My fashion icon has always been Billy Joel in the 1970s, with a loosened tie and rolled up sleeves. I spent the ’80s and early ’90s dressed almost exclusively in Hawaiian shirts and painter’s pants. A new century, marriage and fatherhood have not brought any form of sartorial enlightenment.

Two things have changed that: late middle age, and the internet.

I’m not sure when it happened, but a year or two ago the internet algorithms learned my taste in clothes. I would be up late at night, arguing with the L.A. Times crossword puzzle, trying to explain that not every puzzle needs to have “Oreos” as an answer, when a pop-up ad would, er, pop up, and show me a really cool bowling shirt covered with skulls and roses.

“How about this, Boss? Wouldn’t you like to own this? It’s on sale….”

And the next thing you know, I’d be the owner of a Dia de Los Muertos bowling shirt, which of course only encouraged the internet to show me the clothing that a more interesting version of myself would wear.

And since I’ve started looking more grandfatherly, I haven’t had to worry about anyone taking me seriously anyway, so here I am, at a point in life where I should probably be looking at cardigans, actually developing a personal sense of style.

Which is how I ended up in a hat shop in Wichita.

I was drawn in by a spirit of morbid curiosity.

“I’ll just look around for a minute or so,” I told myself. “This is Wichita; you know that it’s going to be all cowboy hats and stuff I couldn’t wear if I wanted to.”

Half an hour later I had tried on a dozen different hats and been fitted for a for-real, no-kidding-around bowler.

So now, apparently, I’m that guy.

All of which is beside the point, except to remind you that Thursday, Sept. 15, is National Felt Hat Day. But of course you knew that already.

The felt hat

Ingredients

• ½ ounce or so of absinthe, for rinsing a glass
• 1 ounce rye whiskey
• 1 ounce sweet vermouth
• 1 ounce crème de violette, a violet-colored and flavored liqueur
• 2 dashes orange bitters

Rinse the inside of a chilled cocktail glass with the absinthe. Roll the absinthe around in the glass, until it has left a layer on the entire inner surface.

Add the other ingredients and ice to a mixing glass, then stir until thoroughly chilled.

Strain into the cocktail glass. Drink while wearing a felt hat.

This is a riff on a drink called the trilby, which is traditionally made with Scotch and pastis. It is whiskey-forward but sweet enough to make you take a sip, tilt your head slightly and raise your eyebrows. The vermouth and crème de violette do a lot of the heavy lifting, and would probably make this a little too sweet, if not for the bitters. The absinthe hovers in the background, advising you not to let your guard down too much.

How good is it?

You’ll be filled to the brim with satisfaction.

Featured photo. The Felt Hat. Photo by John Fladd.

I remember the first time I drank a gin and tonic.

It was my first week at college. There was some sort of reception with an open bar. (The drinking age in Vermont was 18 at the time — a fact that led to a great many questionable decisions over the next few years.) Being 18, I had never actually ordered a cocktail from a bartender before, and I was flying blind. At some point, I had heard someone mention something called a gin and tonic, and it sounded like something a grownup would order, so that’s what I ordered.

It was cold and clean and tasted like pine needles and magic.

Gin is like that. It is so aromatic that it easily evokes sense memories:

That time you were invited to a party on a yacht. The sound of soft music and clever conversation.

The smell of cigarette smoke and your uncles accusing each other of cheating at poker every Christmas.

Sitting on the veranda of the officer’s club in the jungles of Burma after playing a few chukkers of polo in the tropical heat, hoping to stave off malaria.

Well, your memories will be specific to you, obviously.

But most gin and tonics taste pretty much the same, right? We all have our own individual memories, but they’re all centered on more or less the same taste, yes?

That would be true, if any two gins tasted the same. There are some that are close in flavor, but others are staggeringly different. Gin is a neutral grain spirit (vodka, in other words) that has been infused with botanical ingredients — think herbs, roots, flowers, etc. The most common of these is juniper berries — that’s where the pine taste comes from — but different recipes might have very different supporting botanicals, and a few omit the juniper altogether.

The recipe for a classic gin and tonic is deceptively simple: 2 ounces of gin, 4 or 5 ounces of tonic water, ice and a squeeze of lime. Boom! About as easy as it gets — no shaking, no mess, 30 seconds or so of concentration, and you’re ready to build some new neural pathways in your hippocampus.

But four different gins might give us four different pathways into the forests, deserts and Victorian lilac gardens of your mind.

Gin No. 1 – Uncle Val’s Botanical Gin

I don’t know who Uncle Val is, or even whose uncle he is, but he knows how to make a gin. There are two varieties of Uncle Val’s, a botanical one and a “restorative” one. I eagerly anticipate trying the restorative one — I could frankly use some restoration — but we are talking about the botanical variety right now.

Earlier this year I got to check off a bucket list item and went to an actual fancy speakeasy, where extremely talented bartenders will talk to you very earnestly about strange and exotic cocktails.

“What am I tasting?” I asked. “The rosemary? Is it the beets?”

“Well, I hope you can taste those, but it’s the gin.”

“No, I think it’s the rosemary.”

My new friend didn’t bother arguing but poured about a quarter of an ounce of Uncle Val’s into a cordial glass and slid it across the bar to me.

He was right. It was the gin. It is very good gin.

In a gin and tonic, Uncle Val’s has a round, floral taste. There are times when you get a G&T in your hands, it is gone in two or three minutes, and your wife has switched you over to diet soda. With this gin, you find yourself sipping enthusiastically but slowly. It is complex enough that even if you aren’t a gin snob you will spend a very long time trying to identify the background flavors.

Good luck with that.

Gin No. 2 – Drumshanbo Gunpowder Irish Gin

A few months ago I went to an event hosted by the Irish Whiskey Council that presented a bunch of New Hampshire liquor people with five or six Irish alcohols. While not a whiskey, this gin was far and away my favorite part of the presentation, with the possible exception of taking a morning off from work to drink Irish alcohol in the first place.

Drumshanbo has a sharper, slightly more medicinal flavor. There are definitely some background flavor notes, but it has a crisp, dry taste that plays really well with the lime. This is the gin and tonic to seal an important business deal.

Or maybe to propose to someone.

Gin No. 3 – Djinn Spirits Distilled Gin

I stumbled across this local gin — it’s made in Nashua — almost completely by accident. I was looking for a gin to pair with a really aggressive flavor — goat cheese, in this case — and this was recommended to me. The theory was that it had so many exotic ingredients that at least one or two of them would pair with whatever you might try to build a flavor bridge to.

It makes a truly excellent gin and tonic.

This is another one of those gins that you might find yourself sipping slowly and thoughtfully, as you try to identify the background flavors you are tasting. A friend and I put a solid half-hour into it and finally — after detouring into some increasingly bizarre stories (including one about Elias “Lucky” Baldwin, the man blamed with introducing peacocks as an invasive species to California. A fascinating man. Look him up.) — decided that maybe maybe we were tasting green apples. This isn’t to say that this gin actually has any green apples in it; that’s what we thought we tasted.

Gin No. 4 – Collective Arts Lavender and Juniper Gin

Let’s say you’ve had a rough week. Not terrible — no literal fires or death or actual hair pulling — but a real grind to get through. Let’s further say that you’ve decided that you would benefit from a little self-care — a small moment of grace and kindness to yourself.

This is the gin and tonic that will help center you before a weekend of mowing or back-to-school shopping or intramural lacrosse.

What makes it so special? The lavender.

I know: Lavender is tricky. Not enough of it, and it hides in the background and doesn’t bring anything to the party. Too much of it, and suddenly you’re at a fancy-soap-in-your-grandmother’s-bathroom party. This gin gets it just right. It’s soothing, civilized and — kind, if that makes any sense. It takes you by the hand and lets you know that you are strong and attractive enough to handle whatever is waiting for you after dinner.

Featured photo. Gin and Tonic. Photo by John Fladd.