I mean, I’m already depressed, so why the hell not?
They’re actually not as terrible as you’d expect. They’re not great, either, but considering that I am compelled to buy anything maple bacon-flavored no matter how awful my brain tells me it is, at least it was not an entirely wasted purchase. They’re weirdly tasty but most importantly, I am acutely aware of how awful they are for me and so I stopped shoving them in my mouth much sooner than I would some regular kind of chip (like salt and pepper, mmmmmm).
And in light of my recent news, I should point out that I really don’t eat like a disgusting monster pig all of the time. Now that I’m older, I’m aware that food is fuel, so when I don’t get enough vitamins from fruits and vegetables or enough calcium from milk or even enough water every day, I feel it. I’m not one of those shallow assholes who claims to hate fat people for health reasons (because you wouldn’t fuck a fat person, but I’m willing to bet you’ve fucked a skinny person who’s courting skin, lung, or liver cancer, haven’t you?), I just know that to keep me alive, I’ve got to fill my body with things that aren’t 100% poison.
Not including holidays, of course. Josh and Chris are having people over tomorrow, and ever since I brought my Sneaky As Fuck Margaritas to a beach party, I’ve been tasked with supplying the cocktails. I just named the margaritas, by the way. They didn’t have an official name before, but they’d been referred to as sneaky, deadly, awesome, and, by Chris once as he watched Josh throw up all night long after drinking about a million of them, “you know you brought this on yourself.”
They’re just really good, so good that you’d never know just how much alcohol is in them, which can be pretty dangerous if you’re not me and didn’t pour them yourself. To give you an idea of how good they are, I once worked in a bar so devoted to craft beers that beer geeks would make it a special point to visit during layovers or on their way through town. In that bar, I cultivated a small following of people who would come in only during my shift and only drink margaritas because I made the best they’d ever had. And since the bar was so intent on craft beers (which were very good and I definitely supported their consumption), I could charge whatever I wanted because they didn’t have anything like my version of a margarita on the menu.
And they’re not even that special or difficult. Without providing exact measurements (I don’t measure exactly; after bartending for a certain number of years, I know when to stop pouring when the bottle feels a certain way in my hand), the tricks are to use fresh lime juice, lemonade instead of sweet and sour mix, and add a pinch of salt to the pitcher instead of half a cup of it glopping up the rim of the glass. And for the love of god, do NOT put your margarita in a blender.
I’ve made margaritas for two Seattle get-togethers now; the first one at the beach was a standard recipe, and the one after that contained in-season Washington cherries and tequila I’d infused with jalapenos. I made a French 75 with gin-soaked apricots (also in season) for Memorial Day, and since Josh’s instructions were limited to “something patriotic” for the 4th of July, I’m thinking a tweaked Arnold Palmer? Well, a John Daly, actually, since you might as well name your tea-and-lemonade after a boorish drunk if you’re going to put vodka in it. Instead of lemonade I’d like to make a lemon-infused simple syrup and possibly also caramelize some lemons to toss into the pitcher, and I’ve got some mint sprigs in the freezer and a box full of black, British-blended tea. Because if you’re going to get drunk on the 4th of July, you should at least acknowledge the efforts of Boston’s finest.
Because I feel like totally wrecking my body, I’m also making some potato salad and I picked up some porksteaks for Graham (ha ha ha, here they call them “Pork Shoulder Blade Steak, Thin-Sliced” ha ha these idiots), and I’m looking forward to trying Brunswick Stew for the first time and whatever other garbage people bring to celebrate the fact that we live in a country where we can buy breakfast-flavored potato chips and then go blow some shit up.
Amurrica, fuck yeah!