Cinco de Mayo may be holiday time in Mexico, but it really is just an excuse to murder our inner plumbing with alcohol in America. Not that I’m complaining, but have you actually counted the number of calendar days we use as a conduit to unleash our inner Oliver Reed? Let’s do some (loose) numbers and find out:
- Thanksgiving, because nothing brings the family together like toasting Native American subjugation.
- Christmas Eve, because momma prefers presents that uncork.
- Christmas Day, because didn’t I just see you assholes at Thanksgiving?
- New Years Eve, because I resolve to stay healthy and drink less.
- New Years Day, because my resolutions failed.
- My birthday, because I’m so rad sheep count me.
- Martin Luther King Jr. Day, because what do you mean, “you people?”
- Valentine’s Day, because you’re my silver medal.
- St. Patrick’s Day, because too easy.
- Easter, because JC will forgive me.
- Earth Day, because whatever comes out of me is biodegradable.
- Mother’s Day, because I got three freaking kids.
- Father’s Day, because you saddled me with three freaking kids.
- Memorial Day, because my granddad proudly served.
- Independence Day, because America is so rad, when other countries look at it, they turn gay (true fact).
- Columbus Day, because, again, Native American subjugation.
- Labor Day, because I work hard sober.
- Guy Fawkes Day, because it’s fun to mimic European behaviour.
- Halloween, because I can just go as a bad mom.
- Election Day, because my team never wins.
- Veteran’s Day, because my other granddad proudly served.
- Fifty-two Friday nights.
- Fifty-two Saturday nights.
- Fifteen vacation days.
- Eight sick days, because no one wishes Kim well better than Kim.
Note that the list doesn’t mention other (lamer) birthdays, miscellaneous parties, company functions and sure-why-nots. All in, there’s about two hundred days a year in which it’s socially acceptable for yours truly to be morally reprehensible. And that’s while being gainfully employed, having three wee ones and putting up with a sober Russell—I’m sure I’m on the lower end of the spectrum. Maybe some math is better left undone. Numbers like these just make it hard to look at your reflection in the porcelain.
Wasting Away Again – Margaritas Three Ways
- 2 cups (good) tequila
- 1 cup fresh-squeezed lime juice
- 1 cup orange liqueur
- 2/3 cup simple syrup
- 2 fresh jalapeno rings
- 10 sprigs cilantro
- 1/2 mango or 1/2 cup fresh raspberries or 3 oz peach nectar (the fruit is what separates each margarita)
I decided to make a theme, and base each drink on a fruit salsa. Mix tequila, lime juice, orange liqueur and simple syrup in a pitcher. For each individual drink, muddle the fruit (mango, raspberries or peach nectar), jalapeno and cilantro in the bottom of cocktail shaker. Top with crushed ice and 2/3 cup margarita base. Shake well and strain over crushed ice in a glass rimmed with chili salt (2 parts kosher salt and 1 part chili powder mixed together). Garnish with mango or lime slice and drink up (and up, and up).
The great thing about having a sober Russell is that I, in turn, have a permanent designated driver for my two hundred annual misadventures. The downside is that when running a food blog with copious amounts of drinking, it can be hard to pick up his slack. I mean, yeah, I could’ve polished off the myriad of margaritas I made yesterday, but that’s probably not the greatest idea on a school night. That’s where my salt shaker-sized friend, Autumn, comes in. Between the three of us is the perfect posse of responsibly drunken goodness. I’ve included a picture of my Autie so everyone can see how goddamn cute she is, and why (as I mentioned in Pretty/Painful) I love to hate her.
TWTG says, “I’m not going to kill you until I have you insured. Use your brain, Russell.”