I read a lot of travel books — mostly written by confused, bumbling Europeans trying to make sense of life in unfamiliar cultures. I think I like them because I generally feel confused, bumbling around in all cultures.
“Bon jour, mon frère,” someone says to the writer of one of the books. “‘Mon frère,’” he thinks. “Why frère? Why is he calling me his brother, instead of his friend? What’s going on? Am I in trouble?”
“Good morning,” the nice lady at the grocery store says to me, “have a good week.”
“What does she mean by that?” I wonder, for the next half hour.
At any rate, these travel writers say that one of the most frustrating, confusing and ultimately useful phrases that they run into is “Insh’Allah” — “God willing.”
“Will the work be done on time?” “Will I make it through this surgery?”
“Of course.”
Whew.
“Insh’Allah.”
Eek.
I mention this because my poor wife — and pretty much every wife, when it comes down to it, really — has to deal with a similar thing.
“Will you please do this simultaneously important and very easy task for me, please?”
“Of course.” Eventually.
Granted, the “Eventually” is unspoken, but it’s undeniably there.
Which is how we ended up with a basket of elderly blood oranges sitting on our counter, feeling their life force slowly flicker out and leak into the Universe. Nobody in the house remembers how we ended up with blood oranges in the first place. They are beautiful but not easy to do anything with. They aren’t great for out-of-hand eating. They aren’t very sweet. They have seeds. They have a nice flavor and could theoretically make a good marinade or something, but the blood-red color can be a bit off-putting. It really calls for being used in a cocktail.
So my wife was being more than reasonable when she asked me to please, for the sake of all that is good and decent, do something with the basket of blood oranges on the counter.
“Of course, my Delicate Persimmon Blossom.” *Eventually*
My wife sighed with tired resignation, an emotion that has come to characterize most of her interactions with me, her soulmate.
It speaks more to luck, rather than good timing on my part, that I caught the blood oranges minutes before they went bad.
Blood orange syrup
Zest some blood oranges, however many you have. Put the zest into a small saucepan.
Put the pan on your scale, zero it out and juice the oranges into it. Write down how much the juice weighs.
Tare the scale, then add an equal amount of sugar.
Heat the mixture over medium heat, until it comes to a boil and the sugar dissolves.
Remove it from the heat, let it sit for an hour, then strain it.
That’s great, but what do you actually do with blood orange syrup? Aside from adding it to your yogurt, which is great, by the way.
Blood orange tequila fizz
- 2 ounces blanco tequila – I like Hornitos
- 2 ounces fresh squeezed lime juice
- 1 ounces blood orange syrup (see above)
- 2 ounces ginger beer
Combine the tequila, lime juice and syrup over ice in a cocktail shaker. Shake ruthlessly.
Pour — ice and all — into a large rocks glass. Top with the ginger beer, and stir gently.
Sip cautiously — because let’s face it; you are deeply suspicious about this combination of flavors — and then feel relief and a tiny amount of trust in the Universe seep back into you.
The first thing you will notice about this cocktail is how beautiful it is. It is deep red and seems to make nonspecific but compelling promises to you. It tastes as good as it looks. The blood orange and lime work together to give you layers of citrus flavor. The tequila and ginger beer give it some backbone.
When you’ve had a hard week, when the kids are especially loud, when the other dance moms have gotten on your last nerve, when you find yourself wondering what the point of all of this *gesturing vaguely around* is, this drink will throw you a rope.
Featured photo: Blood Orange Tequila Fizz. Photo by John Fladd.
