Le Mixeur a oublié...blush blush.
But if Le Mixeur wish to bring a recipe for a Mixed drink into the forum of things, then bring it we will, regardless of the day of the week. Le Mixeur has now successfully participated in one consecutive Mixology Monday, so a little glib arrogance and blatant disregard for the rules of conduct is certainly in order, is it not? How long must we toil, for what period must we pay dues, before finally we are free to express our fruity fancies when we feel so inclined?
Le Mixeur is replete with fruity fancies at the moment, as it is snowing on April 18th and T.Mixeur has not heating oil.
On with the cocktail...
On second thought, not yet.
Here is a poem T.Mixeur wrote, reminiscing on another cold time in life. It was the winter of 1990 in Boston, and T.Mixeur and roommates one day turned the dial on the wall only to find no warm air billowing in as a result. It was quickly decided that failure to pay the gas bill was the culprit, and that no money was available to undo the situation. Five friendly people in a three bedroom apartment plus frequent houseguests were able to produce plenty of body heat, the open stove helped, and T.Mixeur became quite well-acquainted with his union suit.
After a month of this situation, the happy yet chilled clan went down into the basement of the apartment building there at Mass Ave and Tremont to attempt to break through the brick wall that separated them from the storage room of the liquor store that resided on the first floor of the building. This attempt was unsuccessful, but whilst in the cellar the clan noticed a circuit breaker panel, investigated it as if it were an obelisk at the dawn of man, and calmly turned on the breaker switch controlling the electric heat upstairs in the apartment.
Heat returned to the merry homestead, but the group stopped sleeping all together in a warm pile, and bonds weakened, frayed, and eventually split.
Did we mention the prominent role alcohol played in each aspect? The failure to detect the source of no heat, the process of keeping warm, the lack of hesitation to cuddle to the nearest body for heat, and the trip to the basement...all alcohol related.
And thus T. Mixeur's reflections...
Drunk Descending Staircase
It tickle me: the coronuh smella the packie
driffin up inna my m-my daydream, that smell driffin
up LIKE THAT it…tickle me.
Remove a few bricks an chrismas
is EVERY day. they say Boston is a college town
but I don't see it.
cClunkin downstairs in Spsparkleglueboots and
oil paynid hair, a man on the st- the stairwell masdabates for us; our dissinnerest wounds him.
85 pound woman, with me, her escort
transact-t the d-deed and handOVERthebottle.
Between strangers on a train, I am swillsippin.
Fists thru winshields fisticuffs with
emmurgency roomdoctors fistfuls of cash
at a jazz at a jazz b-bar on the backada forty bucktip.
strikin a fightin posture,
we search for the bad guy,
and speculate him to be halfa worldaway.
When not descending staircases, T.Mixeur was reading Gandhi and Kant in an effort to develop a cohesive philosophy of pacifism that would bolster a conscientious objector plea should he be drafted to serve in Bush War I.
And now on with the cocktail...
On this cold heatless night in Seattle, this drink will be named after what really kept me warm all those January nights in Boston: my red Union Suit.
1 3/4 oz plymouth gin
1/2 oz orange muscat
1/2 oz Edmond Briottet Crème de Pêche de Vigne
1/2 oz campari
2 dashes Regan's Orange Bitters
stir and strain into chilled cocktail glass. Garnish with orange twist.
This drink is red and warming, like a union suit. Have one and cuddle with your roommates.