Category: Drink

With Halloween around the corner and a host of sports moms and PTA dads waiting to humble-brag about the amazing handcrafted costumes and treats they’ve whipped up in their copious spare time, here is a bonus food-craft-y idea. It has the candy hat-trick of (1) looking very impressive, (2) being actually extremely easy to make, and (3) really showing up those snooty car-pool parents.

Ingredients
Whoppers
chocolate chips
pretzel sticks
chocolate sprinkles (optional)

Equipment
wax paper
small paintbrush (You don’t actually need-need this, but it might make it easier to work on small details)
tweezers (ditto)

Fill a small microwave-safe bowl halfway with chocolate chips.
Heat for 20 seconds, then stir with a spoon or a craft stick.
Heat again for 10 seconds at a time, until the stirred chocolate is melted.

Dip the mini-pretzel sticks in chocolate, and lay them out on wax paper.

Use the melted chocolate to glue the Whoppers together to make a body, then glue the legs together and then to the body with more chocolate. If it still looks too much like pretzels glued to Whoppers, drizzle some more chocolate onto your choco-spider. If you’re feeling particularly ambitious, you could sprinkle some chocolate sprinkles onto the body to look like hair.

The good news about this project is that the rougher your spider looks, the creepier it looks. If you completely mess up and it looks really bad, pretend one of your children made it and brag like heck about it, which makes you look like a better parent than that dad who always wins the Pinewood Derby. This’ll show him. And Sharon from ballet class will eat. her. heart. out.

John Fladd is a veteran Hippo writer, a father, writer and cocktail enthusiast, living in New Hampshire.

Featured photo: Chocolate spider. Photo courtesy of John Fladd.

Some people are remembered by History and become household names, sometimes for silly reasons. Other, more worthy men and women are washed away in the River of Time and are undeservedly forgotten.

Nobody has been cheated out of a legacy more cruelly than Antoine-Augustin Parmentier (1737-1813), one of the advisors to doomed king Louis XVI of France.Very few historians would make the case that Louis was a wise and competent king, but by the 1780s even he could see that things were going badly. France was overpopulated and underfed. The People, seeing the example set by the American colonists, were talking about overthrowing their ruler. (The irony that the American Revolution had been largely financed by Louis himself was not lost on him.)

The upshot was that the French people were as angry as they were hungry, which is to say, very.

There was actually a partial solution available, however: potatoes. The Spanish had brought potatoes back to Europe from South America a century or more previously, but most European peasants could not be enticed to eat them. Even though they would have provided a welcome boost of calories and carbohydrates, most peasants were convinced that they were deadly poisonous. (To be fair, the actual fruit of the potato is; only the tuber is edible.)

Louis asked his smartest advisor, Parmentier, to try to convince the French peasants to plant potatoes.

Parmentier had his own formal gardens dug up and planted with potatoes, then announced to the locals that nobody was to touch his potatoes under pain of terrible, unspecified punishment. Potatoes were too good for the likes of them; only aristocrats could properly appreciate them. Then, to ensure the security of his potatoes, he placed armed guards around his potato patch for 12 or more hours per day.

Within weeks all the potatoes had been stolen and planted across the French countryside.

The irony of this is that if the French peasantry had not been well-fed on potatoes, they might not have had strength enough to revolt a couple of years later.

Parmentier never got famous, but he did get to keep his head, so he was probably not too bitter about the slight.

In his honor, I have renamed a classic cocktail — The Forbidden Fruit — the Parmentier.

Parmentier
1½ ounces apple brandy – I like Laird’s Applejack
1 ounce Pimm’s No. 1
½ ounce fresh squeezed lemon juice
¼ ounce simple syrup
2 dashes each of two different bitters – this recipe traditionally calls for Angostura and Peychaud’s, which is what I’ve used here
3-4 ounces ginger beer to top
Combine all ingredients except the ginger beer with ice in a cocktail shaker. Shake until bitterly cold.
Strain into a tall glass, over fresh ice, and top with ginger beer.
Stir, and drink wistfully, while listening to Maurice Chevalier sing “C’est Magnifique.”

This is a complex and slightly melancholy drink. Pimm’s is a slightly baroque-tasting base to build any drink on with its own collection of herbs and alcohol. Apple brandy brings its own sophistication with it. Throw in two competing flavors of bitters, and you have dropped yourself into a labyrinth of flavors before you even get to the ginger beer, which has a talent for throwing drinkers for a loop.

Which is not to say that this isn’t delicious, because it is. It’s just that normally, with more straightforward cocktails, you can spend the first half-minute or so making a flavor inventory. With Forbidden Fruit — as with History — you might be better off just surrendering yourself to the experience.

John Fladd is a veteran Hippo writer, a father, writer and cocktail enthusiast, living in New Hampshire.

Featured photo: Parmentier. Photo by John Fladd.

In the 1920s there seems to have been a vibrant analog online community of housewives in the Boston Globe’s cooking section. At first glance, it seems as if it was a simple exchange of recipes, but there was clearly a lot more than that going on under the surface. In this column, Winding Trails starts by thanking her virtual friend for a recipe, then offers one of her own. It seems straightforward enough. The last line is somewhat arresting, though; she doesn’t so much close out her small letter politely as plead for some form of human contact.

This was the 1920s. It had not been so many years since politicians and ministers had blasted an evil new invention, the bicycle. Without a (male) chaperone, they ranted, who knew what sorts of deviant mischief women could get up to, traveling all over the countryside? It’s easy to imagine Mrs. Trails almost trapped in an apartment in Southie or a triple-decker in Nashua, surrounded by crying children and dirty dishes, desperate for some form of adult companionship.

Some more research reveals that Skin Hincks (and wow, do I want to know the story behind her name) was a frequent, almost obsessive correspondent to the Globe’s cooking pages. It’s very easy to see her modern counterpart having a very active social media presence. There might be a very credible master’s or Ph.D. thesis comparing the two communities.

But for now, let’s look at Mrs. Trail’s Carrot Pie:

Carrot Pie
The purée of two large carrots – about 1½ cups, or 300 grams
½ teaspoon ground ginger
¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon kosher salt
½ cup (99 grams) sugar 2 whole eggs
½ cups (1 can) evaporated milk
zest of 1 large orange
1 pie crust

Preheat the oven to 450º F. Whisk all ingredients together in a medium-sized bowl. Pour into the pie crust. Much as with a pumpkin pie, the crust does not need to be blind-baked. Bake at 450º for 15 minutes, then lower the temperature to 325º and bake for a further 50 to 55 minutes, or until the blade of a knife comes out more or less clean.

At first glance, this seems like a bright orange pumpkin pie, and the taste is not completely dissimilar, but the sweetness of the carrot and the brightness of the orange zest lift the flavor to something different. The spices are more subdued than in a pumpkin pie, and the custard is not so much sweeter as fruitier. Carrots and ginger are a classic pairing, and the orange zest adds a zing that makes this more of a “Yes, please, another slice would be delightful” experience.

This is a good pie to eat with a cup of tea, while hand-writing a letter to an old friend.

John Fladd is a veteran Hippo writer, a father, writer and cocktail enthusiast, living in New Hampshire.

Featured photo: Carrot Pie. Photo by John Fladd.

Yes, you’d heard rumors about mint: “Be careful, or it will take over your garden.” “No, really, it’s surprisingly aggressive.” “Mint is the Tribble of the plant world.”

So you were careful. Once you put in a couple of raised beds — that’s where you planted the mint.

But the surprise was the basil. You like basil well enough, and who doesn’t like a nice pesto? The plants you picked up at the grocery store were pretty small, so seven or eight plants seemed like a reasonable number.

Ultimately, it turns out that the reason the mint stayed under control is that it was scared of the basil. It started off slowly, and everything seemed fine but then it started growing faster and faster and there’s only so much pesto a human family can eat and oh my god it’s taken over all the raised beds and now you’re scared of the basil and what in the name of Little Green Apples are are you going to do!?

First of all, take a deep breath, and maybe eat a popsicle.

Secondly, identify the problem: You have a lot of mint and too much basil and you don’t know what to do with it.

Thirdly, you need a drink.

So, in an act of service journalism, let’s compare and contrast two classic minty cocktails, and the same recipes with basil in place of the mint.

(It will be alright. The herb police are not going to come crashing through your window if you just throw some of this away.)

Southside Cocktail

6 mint leaves (1.5 grams) or 2 large basil leaves (2 grams)
2 ounces dry gin
½ ounce fresh squeezed lemon juice
½ ounce fresh squeezed lime juice
1 ounce simple syrup
more herbs for garnish
Thoroughly muddle the mint or basil in the bottom of a cocktail shaker.
No, more than that.
That’s about right. Now add the rest of the ingredients and some ice, and shake until it is blisteringly cold.
Strain into a chilled cocktail glass, and sip to Herb Alpert’s A Taste of Honey.

A classic Southside is only very slightly sweet, and I like it a little sweeter, so I’ve doubled the amount of simple syrup. (If that sounds like a lot, we’re only talking about an extra half ounce.) This is a grownup drink that lets the herb in question shine through. Winner: by a nose, the basil version. It’s refreshing and delicious, with just a hint of Italy.

Mojito

12 sprigs (3 grams) fresh mint or 4 large leaves (4 grams) fresh basil
1 lime, cut into 6 wedges
½ ounces simple syrup
lots (a technical term) of crushed ice
2 ounces white rum
3-4 ounces plain seltzer
In the bottom of a tall glass, muddle the herb of your choice, and four of the lime wedges. Be careful; the lime won’t like this and will spend its dying breath trying to squirt you in the eye.
Add the simple syrup and crushed ice. Stir.
Add the rum, and top off with seltzer. Stir again. Garnish with the two remaining lime wedges.
Sip while watching the waves from your cliffside cabaña (pending availability).

If you’ve never had a mojito, it’s a good thing you’re remedying that now. It is delicious and deceptively light. Lime and rum go well with all the ingredients and let the herbiness of your mint or basil shine through. This drink’s reputation for being dangerously drinkable is well-deserved.

Winner: the traditional mint; classics are classics for a reason. The basil version is fine, and if you weren’t drinking the two side by side, you would be perfectly happy with it, but the mint shines through in a way that makes the whole drink sparkle.

John Fladd is a veteran Hippo writer, a father, writer and cocktail enthusiast, living in New Hampshire.

Featured photo: Mojito. Photo by John Fladd.

A tale:
I work my way through the party, smiling, waving, shaking hands. I check with the bartender, who assures me that she has everything she needs.
I field a couple of compliments on my new jacket. I wanted to wear my velvet smoking jacket, but it’s still a bit too warm, so I went with a double-breasted silver lamé one that I have nicknamed “Charlie,” and he’s striking just the tone I wanted.

I pause briefly as the background music reaches the greatest improvised lyrics of all time:

“She loves that free, fine, wild, knocked-out, koo-koo … groovy wind in her hair,” Frank Sinatra assures me, and I close my eyes and stab the air with my finger as he gets to “groovy.” Man, he was good!

In an easy chair by the window, I see a pretty, sad-eyed woman sitting and staring at the peacocks on the lawn. She is a friend of a friend, who has recently moved here from Jalisco, and rumor has it that she is a bit homesick.

“Hi,” I say, and she nods politely.
“Are you Flora?” I ask, and she nods again, and she smiles, but her eyes are still sad.

“Robin,” I call to one of the caterers circulating through the party with a tray.

“Yes, Boss?” she asks, coming over.
“Did Susan make that thing we talked about?”

“I’ll bring it out.”
I thank her and make small talk with Flora until Robin returns with a dish of ice cream on her tray. She presents it to Flora with a small bow.

Looking confused, Flora takes it, then tentatively takes a very small spoonful of it.

Her smile only reaches the Mona Lisa stage, but her eyes sparkle.

Cornbread-Tres Leches Ice Cream

Small box corn muffin mix
12-ounce can evaporated milk
14-ounce can sweetened condensed milk
1 cup half and half
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

Make an 8×8” pan of cornbread, according to the instructions on the box.
Let it cool, then stab it all over with a fork. If you are feeling dramatic, use a pair of forks.

Mix the dairy ingredients and cinnamon together, then pour onto your pre-stabbed cornbread.

Chill for at least three hours.

Transfer the sopping wet cornbread and any unabsorbed dairy to a blender, and blend thoroughly for about a minute.

Churn in an ice cream maker, according to the manufacturer’s instructions. (If you do not have access to an ice cream maker, freeze the pan of cornbread solid, then blend. You will get similar results.)

Transfer the soft-serve-consistency ice cream to serving containers and freeze.

If you’ve ever had proper tres leches cake, you are aware that it is the king of cake, moister than moist, and silky smooth. Eating it is like getting a kiss from a cake. This ice cream is inspired by that, but with a chewy texture and the background flavor of yellow corn. The hint of cinnamon makes it taste a bit like Biscoff cookies. This is easy enough to make and delicious enough that it will quickly become a regular part of your dessert rotation.

Featured photo: Courtesy photo by John Fladd.

I have had to face the harsh reality recently that I have aged out of some of my travel-related bucket list items. As much as I would really, really like to be able to put an alligator wrestling certification on my resumé, I’m afraid that it’s not going to happen at this point.

Likewise, my dream of meeting the eyes of a dark-eyed stranger in a smoke-filled bar in Buenos Aires and shocking the room into awed silence with the skill of my interpretive tango.

In the aggregate, I’m reluctantly resigned to shelving some of these dreams. There are other, new dreams to replace them, after all. I hear good things about the SPAM Museum in Austin, Minnesota, and just today I learned that there are specialized rat tours in New York City, which I am fully committed to going on. Age can be worked around, and I am the master of my own destiny, right?
I may be in charge of my destiny, but my wife is in charge of me. I share some of these dreams with her, and on the surface she seems supportive, but over the years I have learned to read her micro-gestures, which generally say, “It’s so cute that you think you’re going to do that,” when I propose anything more adventurous than a trip to the hardware store, and even then she has learned the hard way to keep a close eye on me.

The Steamer Trunk
1½ ounces rye – I like Bulleit; it has a spicy sourness that plays well off fruity ingredients.
¾ ounce St. Germain elderflower liqueur
½ ounce simple syrup
¾ ounce fresh squeezed lemon juice
1 ounce cantaloupe juice (see below)
1 ounce sparkling wine
cantaloupe cubes for garnish

To make cantaloupe juice, slice a fresh cantaloupe into quarters. Scoop the flesh of one quarter into a small blender, or half the melon into a large one. Blend thoroughly, then strain through a fine-meshed strainer. One quarter of a medium cantaloupe will yield about half a cup of juice, the color of hibiscus blossoms in an Egyptian sunset.

Combine the rye, elderflower liqueur, simple syrup and the lemon and cantaloupe juices over ice in a cocktail shaker. Shake thoroughly, until the cold bites your hands like a rope on a tramp steamer to Macau and the ice rattles like the hooves of angry bulls in Pamplona.

Strain over fresh ice in a rocks glass, and top with sparkling wine, which will spray up a fine mist that reminds you of that semester you spent on the coast of Spain, and of the Vazquez Twins.

Stir gently, then drink while flipping through an atlas and listening to the collected works of Paolo Conte. This is a riff on a classic called a summer rye, but with a focus on fresh melon in place of the traditional apples, which brings a wistful quality to the experience. Melon and sparkling wine are a classic combination, and elderflower provides a hard-to-identify poetic element. The rye is the leader of this expedition, but this is definitely a collaborative project.
Much like a camel safari in Morocco, with a dedicated camel to carry ice and gin for the proper appreciation of a desert evening.

Pending spousal approval, of course.

John Fladd is a veteran Hippo writer, a father, writer and cocktail enthusiast, living in New Hampshire.

Featured photo: Steamer Trunk. Photo by John Fladd.

You promised your therapist that you would try to take better care of yourself. And you really meant to. But the kids had camp, and then your sister had a fight with her boyfriend and showed up at your house with three suitcases. And then the weekend you thought you might actually get away, the dog came down with food poisoning, and then all the water in the faucets turned rusty.

With one thing or another, you never got to sit in a cabaña, sipping umbrella drinks and making small talk with attractive strangers.

And now summer is over. This is deeply unfortunate.

I hesitate to give you unsolicited advice, but your sister is still here and there are at least three movies that the kids want to see, so maybe:

1. Do what you have to do to grab two or three hours to yourself. Spring for movie theater popcorn, if you must.

2. Put on a playlist of Harry Belafonte and Don Ho.

3. Drink one — or both — of these Decadent Vacation Cocktails:

Rum Runner

• 1 ounce white or silver rum – Because this is a strongly flavored drink, you probably won’t want to use your best rum for this; any subtle nuances will be overwhelmed. Don’t use the ultra-discount-bottom-shelf stuff, but you don’t need to sweat finding really good rum for this. Captain Morgan or Bacardi would be fine.
• 1 ounce dark rum – Again, don’t let this stress you out; I like Myers’ Dark for tropical drinks.
• 1 ounce crème de banana
• ½ ounce blackberry brandy
• 2 ounces pineapple juice – I like to buy the little 6-ounce cans of juice for this; you don’t end up with a giant, half-empty can slowly going bad in your refrigerator.
• 1 ounce fresh squeezed lime juice
• ½ ounce grenadine

Pour all ingredients over ice in a cocktail shaker, then shake thoroughly. Strain over fresh ice in a large glass. Garnish or not, depending on your mood; too many cherries might be nice. Again though, the key here is to avoid stressing out over sub-crisis decisions.

This is a classic fruity, boozy Attitude Adjustment Tool. The rums play well with pineapple juice — why would they not? Pineapple juice gets along with everyone. The lime juice adds a touch of acid, and the grenadine — which is pomegranate syrup, if that’s weighing on your mind — adds color and rounds off the juices, keeping them from being too acidic.

Bahama Mama

• 1 ounce coconut rum – the sweet kind
• 1 ounce dark, overproof rum – the kind you remember from college as “151”
• ½ ounce coffee brandy
• 2½ ounces pineapple juice
• ¾ ounce fresh squeezed lemon juice

Again, pour all ingredients over ice in a cocktail shaker, shake, and strain into another large glass — or the same one; there’s no one around to make pointed comments — over fresh ice.

On the face of it, these ingredients do not seem like a great match. Pineapple juice and coffee? But I stand by my previous comment about pineapple juice going with anything. Rum — the friendliest alcohol — has already been making sustained eye contact with the lemon juice and trying to organize a limbo contest.

Either — or both — of these drinks will improve your attitude. When your children return from the movies, call them Lola and Sergio regardless of what their actual names are. This will freak them out enough that you will be able to demand that they bring you Cheetos®, and they might actually do it.

Featured photo: Rum Runner and Bahama Mama. Photo by John Fladd.

I think that it’s fair to say that Florida doesn’t have the best reputation.

Take, for example, the “Florida Man” game. If you’ve never tried this, your eyebrows are about to rise higher than you ever suspected was possible. Open an internet search engine, and enter the term “Florida man” and a date — your birthday is a good choice.

Feb. 9, for instance, when, according to the Florida Times-Union, a Florida man “was arrested … and charged with assault with a deadly weapon without intent to kill after Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation officials say he threw a 3.5-foot alligator through a Palm Beach County Wendy’s drive-thru window.”

But it wasn’t always like this. There was a time in the 1940s and ’50s when Florida was seen as a chic and even elegant place. Miami Beach was where the most beautiful and wealthy people went to be seen, to dance in the moonlight and to drink cocktails. Powerful, cigar-chomping men in good suits flashed their brightest smiles — and wads of cash — in an effort to catch the attention of beautiful women in floral dresses. White-jacketed waiters delivered drinks to wide-eyed tourists. Dance bands played, and everywhere there were flowers.

I feel like we need more of that — more white suits and fancy drinks, and fewer fast-food alligator attacks.

Miami Dancehall

• 2 ounces dry gin – I like Wiggly Bridge
• ½ ounce elderflower liqueur
• ½ ounce crème de violette – a violet-flavored liqueur
• 5 or 6 drops rose water – There is a razor’s edge between being floral and delicious, and tasting like your grandmother’s fancy soap. Err on the side of caution until you find the level of rosiness you like.
• ½ ounce fresh squeezed lemon juice
• ¼ ounce simple syrup

Combine all ingredients over ice in a cocktail shaker. Use a medicine dropper to measure out the rose water.

In the classic 1934 movie The Thin Man William Powell gives a master class on cocktail shaking to a group of bartenders and waiters. According to Nick Charles, Powell’s character, a well-made cocktail is all about timing: “Now, a Manhattan, you shake to a foxtrot. A Bronx, to a two-step time. But a dry martini, you always shake to waltz time.” He places his properly shaken martini on a waiting tray, held by one of the waiters, who serves it back to him. He takes the cocktail and drinks it gratefully, implying that making well-mixed drinks is thirsty work. In a similar vein, tell your digital assistant to play Miami Beach Rhumba by Xavier Cugat. Shake your cocktail to the rhythm. Given the time of year, and our climate, feel free to keep shaking until the outside of your shaker is wet with condensation.

Strain the cocktail into the fanciest cocktail glass you own.

Drink it as you dance around the kitchen.

Gin and lemon lead in this particular rhumba, followed by hints of violets and roses. This is one of those drinks that leave you searching for more of the floral finish, which leads to another sip, and then another, until you realize that you need (a) more excuses in your life to rhumba, and (b) another cocktail.

More rhumbas, fewer alligators.

Featured photo: Dancehall cocktail. Photo by John Fladd.

Days like this call for something cold, boozy and tropical, something with a lot of crushed ice.

Mango Rum

• Unsweetened dry mango
• White or silver rum

With a heavy knife, chop the dried mango into a small dice — very small pieces. Add the chopped mango to a large, wide-mouthed jar, one with a lid. It’s best to look around and find a lid to fit the jar you are using before you get up to your elbows in mangoes.

Add white rum to the same jar — three times (by weight) as much as the mango you just chopped. Could you use vodka, or even blanco tequila, instead of rum? You could, but you would be heading off on a different adventure than the one we are on today.

Seal the jar with a tight-fitting lid, shake it well, then store it someplace cool and dark — maybe in that cabinet above the refrigerator that you always forget about — and shake it once or twice per day, for a week.

Strain with a fine-mesh strainer. Bottle and label it. You will be surprised at how much rum has been absorbed by the dried fruit, but also how much color and flavor the rum has taken on. This rum should keep indefinitely.

Guava Syrup

• Fresh guava (Available in international markets, and at Walmart, guava is one of those fruits that you are probably pretty sure you’ve never had before, but you probably have. It’s one of the perfumy background flavors in “tropical” juice mixes.)
• White sugar
• Juice of half a lemon

Chop fresh guavas into medium-sized pieces, then freeze them for several hours. This is to let the ice crystals poke holes in all the fruit’s cell walls and make it oozier when it’s time to cook with it.

Cook the frozen guava over medium heat in a small saucepan, with an equal amount — by weight — of white sugar. Stir occasionally. As it thaws, the frozen guava will give off a surprising amount of liquid. If you wanted to help it along its way, you could encourage it with a potato masher.

Bring the mixture to a boil. Swirl it around the saucepan to make sure that all the sugar has been dissolved into the syrup.

Remove the mixture from heat, stir in the lemon juice, then strain the syrup with the same fine-mesh strainer that you used for the mango rum (see above). This syrup will keep for several weeks in your refrigerator.

Mango Daiquiri

• 3 ounces mango rum
• ½ ounce guava syrup
• 1 ounce fresh squeezed lime juice, which isn’t discussed above but you can probably figure out
• Lots of crushed ice

Wrap several handfuls of ice cubes in a kitchen towel, and beat viciously with a rolling pin or some sort of martial arts weapon that you find lying around, until well-crushed. I like to leave a mixture of different sizes of ice. Fill a large rocks glass with the crushed ice.

Add the mango rum, guava syrup and lime juice to a cocktail shaker, and shake it over ice, until it is very cold. Feel free to shake it longer than you normally would; this is a strong, sweet drink that will benefit from the cold and the melted ice.

Strain the shaken daiquiri over the crushed ice. Call up footage of a beach view of Bora Bora on your laptop. Watch it through half-closed eyes as you drink this daiquiri. If small children try to disturb you while you do this, tell them that you are listening for secret messages that you have to be very, very quiet to hear.

It’s no secret that rum plays well with sweet fruit, which in turn plays well with acidic citrus like lime juice. The first sip of this daiquiri will be sweet, then a little sour, which will make your mouth water, which prepares you perfectly for another sip.

Featured photo: Mango daiquiri. Photo by John Fladd.

We had just come home from a long trip, and I’ll admit that I was a little out of it. Jet lag and a week of over-indulgence had definitely taken a toll on me. And yet I made a surprisingly good decision — there was still time to go to my usual exercise class at the gym and try to clear some of the fog from my brain.

A less good decision was eating two bowls of coleslaw before I left the house.

An hour later found me tripping over my feet and frustrating one of my workout friends.“You are really out of it tonight,” he said, not unkindly. “What’s the problem?”

“Six time zones and a bellyful of coleslaw,” I told him, which stopped us both in our tracks, because that is probably the best title for a blues album ever: Six Time Zones and a Belly Full of Coleslaw

Our theme this week is the blues.

Blueberry Syrup

• 1¾ cups (250 grams) frozen wild blueberries, the kind you have in your freezer to use for smoothies.
• 1¾ cups (250 grams) sugar
• Juice of half a lemon

In a small saucepan, heat the blueberries and sugar over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until the mixture comes to a boil. Let it boil for a few seconds, to make sure that the sugar has thoroughly dissolved. Because the blueberries started out frozen — Well, they didn’t start out that way. They were young once, and had hope and joy in their hearts, napping in the dappled sunshine, listening to birdsong. — At any rate, because the wild blueberries started today frozen, their cell walls have been pierced by large ice crystals, and they will give up a surprising amount of juice. During this syrup-making process, if you wanted to help things along with a potato masher, who could blame you?

Remove the blueberry pot from the heat, and place a fine-meshed strainer on top of it. Squeeze half a lemon into the mixture. You could use a hand-held, nut-cracker-looking juicer, or one of those reamers that look like a primitive medical device, or even the ends of some kitchen tongs to get all the juice out of the lemon. Because you remembered to put a strainer on top of the pot, you don’t have to worry about getting seeds or pulp into your blueberry mixture. Stir the lemon juice into the blueberry sauce.

Use your strainer to separate the cooked berries from the syrup. Squash the pile of berries with the back of a spoon — a little, a lot — it’s up to you. (Don’t throw them out, though. You have just made very nice blueberry compote to have on toast or stirred into yogurt.) After 15 minutes or so, transfer the syrup to a bottle. It will keep in your refrigerator for several weeks.

Blueberry Margarita

• 2 ounces blanco tequila – I’ve become very fond of Siete Miserios, lately.
• 1 ounce blueberry syrup – see above
• ¾ ounce fresh squeezed lime juice

Combine all three ingredients over ice in a cocktail shaker, then shake until very cold. At this time of year, it will be ready when a thin layer of frost forms on the shaker.

Strain into a cocktail or margarita glass. If you wanted even more ice, the Margarita Police would not stop you.

Sip, sitting in your garden or on your deck (or surreptitiously on a bench in the park), listening to Carlos Santana, who, unlike Life, never disappoints.

Unless you’re a purist, this is everything you want in a margarita at this time of year. It is sweet and sour and slightly smoky and utterly refreshing. Blueberries play extremely well with sour citrus fruit. We tend to pair them with lemons, but they are more than happy to dance with limes. Tequila too, has an affinity for citrus. Even the concept of this drink is refreshing.

Salud.

Featured photo: Blueberry Margarita. Photo by John Fladd.