The Dh brought home his office Christmas gifts.
One of them was an empty plate. It seems he’d eaten all the homemade baklava, and brought home a plate with a snowman on it.
I’d much rather see the baklava than the snowman underneath, but hey. It was his gift, so I guess he’s entitled to eat it.
There’s a bottle of wine in the fridge, which he better not dare think of drinking alone. And an attractive gold organza bottle bag, which is in the “liquor cabinet” also known as the counter next to the stove.
He opened the bag up last night.
I was fascinated. I’d been watching a food network show, “The Secret Life of Cocktails,” and had watched some guy at Traders Vic’s pour float a half an orange peel in one of those multi-person tropical drinks, then fill it up with 151 and set it on fire.
Now I’m having fantasies about bananas Foster, and Vesuvius cocktails.
Then, Jim reads the label:
“Not to be used in flaming cocktails”?!
What the Hell, ladies and gentleman of the Bacardi company? I know you don’t want us setting our beards on fire, ala Grizzly Adams, But do you really expect us to drink this? That can’t be much more healthy than doing flaming shots. And it’s probably the combination of drinking and playing with matches that leads to the problem. We’ll be careful. Cross my heart.
However, I am a little worried that I’ve been storing the bottle next to the stove. Especially since the bottle has a “flame guard,” (something I’ve never seen before) which amounts to a shaker top. OK. we’ll use in moderation and I’ll move it away from the stove. I don’t want to explain to the gentlemen of our volunteer fire department, that they need to come to our house right away, because I’ve invented the Molotov cocktail.
Jim is brave and pours a shot. He tastes and passes is to me. “Try this. But don’t expect to taste anything.”
Let me say, first of all, that I am not intimidated by straight hooch. My drink of choice is brandy, with or without sour. No ice. Cognac if I can get it. But I will, within reason, take what’s handed to me, as long as I’m not buying.
My tongue doesn’t even get wet, as the rum turns immediately to vapor. several taste buds scream and die. My eyebrows curl, as does my liver.
On the other side of the room, candles flare.
I move the bottle further away from the stove.
When you see a mushroom cloud in the Midwest, I’m probably making mai tais.