The Faux-Tropical Hootenanny Solitaire Pitcher - Deep South, Deep Cuts

It is, finally, the beginning of summer. For those like me, who are working indoors all day and fantasizing being outside in the sunlight where, in this particular dark fantasy, every single other person on the planet is sunbathing as we speak and recuperating in the light from the long barren winter of the utmost discontent: this is the alcohol beverage for you.

I was taking a power hike after a shift, briskly walking to the beat of my current favorite album and enjoying the gradual greening of nature and the fact that after months, one could feel sweat trickling down one’s spine instead of the freezing Northern gale blowdrying it in an instant. I was being good after neglecting my health for many months out of sheer exhaustion and lack of energy for it. 

Spiriting my soul in the luminosity that is Finnish early summer, I had a wonderful idea, and, for a ceremonial ending of my solitary selfcare date, walked straight into the liquor store.

For those who are new to the blog: yes, the spirits store is also what I consider selfcare of the most formidable value, especially since collecting the pros and simultaneously attempting to attract the smallest possible amount of cons from the most faithful of all artist’s friends, alcohol, is truly an exercise for the advanced. It is very easy to overdo spirits, and that is neither recommended nor very pretty, especially at my age. However, a real woman is never too divaesque or uptight to get seriously wasted if the situation calls for it, but this has to be done to the nines in order to get the gods’ approval. 

It is the season of non-domestic Beaujolais strawberries: I was one of those greedy berry lovers with the elbows trying to find the finest box amid other shoppers the Saturday before Mother’s Day. Blowing past my competitors to get to them, I discovered what I believed to be the crème de Spanish strawberry containers underneath a bunch of subpar would-be strawberries almost rancid with mildew already, huddled in the corner. After careful consideration and comparison, I ended up buying the large 500gr wooden crate. It was beautiful and smelled amazing, and even though I know it really isn’t exactly the same as eating domestic strawberries in the heart of summer straight out of the box, or from the ground if the snails have given it a rest that time, in late spring, it is sort of the same, and hauling the large amount home, disregarding hardships like arms tiring and pollen everywhere, the action reminded me of many wonderful evenings from recent past: buying similar containers to make lovely strawberry piña coladas or strawberry margaritas and getting the fun out of life drunk and exalted in the setting sun.

This time, the plan had been to assemble the Mother’s Day feast around the fresh berries, which we did, and it turned out magnificent. The number of strawberries in the crate, however, was humongous, and despite the fact that I gave them my all to prolong their use for as long as possible, come Monday it was starting to look like I would need to find ways to use the enormous rest soon, or it would be bye bye berry.

The pitcher I made from the large quantity of leftover strawberries was neither of the colada nor margarita family; I happened to have some lovely fruit nectar and some citrus fruit lying around, so here’s what I did after my sudden brainstorm during the final stretch of the late afternoon walk:

From the liquor store, I purchased a bottle of their finest Limoncello. From the grocery store, a can of pink rose soda just in case.

Shower fresh and elated from working out in the sun, I felt I was in total control of my life, and ordered my mother out of the kitchen; for here I still was, hanging out, lingering, the special day come and gone. I rummaged the cupboards for the very neglected top-of-the-line metallic-red blender, cursing at how if it was always on the counter, these lazy asses would use it more, but no, everything had to be neatly tucked away at the farthest reaches of mankind. Isn’t it delicious to critique one’s parents’ housekeeping skills as a grown woman? I sure got a kick doing so while busying myself cleaning up the strawberries and slicing them up for the blender.

While I was washing and sprucing the berries, my father appeared in the kitchen, asking my mother in an accusing tone why the dishwasher was still full. “Your daughter commanded me out of my own kitchen!” she replied from the livingroom sofa in pretend indignation, but really loving someone else taking charge of the food preparing process for once – although in this case the term should be used very loosely. My father, who is less flexible with household chores and cannot abide the dishwasher being either emptied or filled wrong or in untimely manner, uttered a pregnant sigh, but moved aside when I told him there was a glass with his name on it waiting if they just let me rule in the kitchen for ten minutes.

I used up all of the leftover berries for this drink, all of them, filling the blender to about half from its capacity, added the juice of one lime, then, the liquor. Since I was staying with the folks and needed to keep my chickens in order, I made the drink weak, but secretly decided to use twice the amount when hanging with my girl Willow the next time. 

After the alcohol, I added the nectar, not quite filling up the blender, but enough so that the berries were submerged. Onwards and upwards and blend away, and then, poured the smooth pink froth into one of my favorite dishes of mother’s, a round, very sympathetic transparent glass pitcher. To add spritz, I poured into the pitcher a can of dry apple cider, a leftover from sauna the previous week, and when the pitcher still wasn’t full, added a can of the pink rose soda. 

Fragrant and gorgeous, I poured this lovely thick liquid in some tumblers I had filled with ice cubes, and had to tell my mother to slow down when she downed the entire glass in one swoop, telling me I should really be a master bartender with these drinks – I had made something else for the entire family on the weekend.

And I have seen Cocktail enough times to know that that is exactly the sort of person I am. An intuitive yet very professional poem-reciting drink mixer. Someone to turn down the volume long enough for the crowd to hear themselves sing the chorus of the song playing and then immediately crank it back up again. Tom Cruise fresh off the mega success of Top Gun; my signature haircut, and one of my all-time favorite 80’s movies. A would-be hustler keeping an eye out for the ladies. Just kidding.

The drink was delicious. I poured more into glasses, and everyone went about their evening routine holding a sweet-smelling glass of something ravishing. Mother watched her favorite soap on TV, father read with diligence and extreme precision the TV guide and underlined what needed watching and alternated checking out the newspaper for some especially funny comics to clip into his collection. I disappeared into the guestroom and delved into a book. Nothing really special, but the exotic-looking drinks in our hands and the exquisite sun outside; it all made us feel like we were at some tropical mental image destination, beginning our rambunctious holiday in acidy pink and nerve-calming soft fun instead of hanging at my parents’ on a Monday evening. 

The thing is, losing control in life, losing sleep, perspective, physical health and then mental health, losing one’s feeling of lightness of being and one’s bearings, losing one’s beloved home and all semblance of a normal life sometimes gives one extreme x-ray vision on how to improve the little things right at this moment and make it feel like if a drink can taste this heavenly, the world cannot be all bad.

I could see the dark stains on an otherwise pristine white tabletop from the side of my left-hand palm as I had been writing there for many days in a row. Pencil stains my mother would be sure to wipe clean with product when I went back home, but for now they just stayed there, for every morning I landed back into the same space to stain the surface a little more.

My sneakers sat on the doormat and my Yankees cap hung at the top of the hatrack. I was there. I wasn’t invisible. It was just a few of my things, but I was there.

Rated R for mention of alcohol and insinuating cocktail hour is the most wonderful invention since grilled cheese.

I dedicate this piece to Matthew Quick, David O. Russell, Bradley Cooper, and Jennifer Lawrence.