Garden Rant

Drunken Botanist: The Website

 

It'll be at least a year-possibly more--before my new book is actually printed and in my hands.  But it's never too soon for a website, right?  So here it is:  TheDrunkenBotanist.com, named after my forthcoming book of the same title, which is due out in 2013, probably in spring.

I do hope you'll bookmark the site, subscribe to the RSS feed, give it a link-back now and then, etc.  And if you've got any booze + plant news, ideas, questions, recipes, etc you'd like to share--well, you'll know where to find me.

Cheers!

You Deserve a Toddy. Maybe.

Here's the latest in a series of columns I'm writing for the North Coast Journal. The column is called The Drunken Botanist; my book of the same title will be out next year.

A friend of mine has been on a grueling book tour to promote her new novel. One night in early December, after she’d been on the road for weeks, she posted a note on Facebook that she’d developed a scratchy throat on the road and had done the only sensible thing: called room service and asked them to send up a pot of hot water, lemons, honey, and a shot of Jack Daniel’s.

For just a minute, I think we were all jealous of the many comforts her slight discomfort entitled her to. Room service. Hot toddy. The other luxuries of hotel living: an enormous clean bed, an unrestricted thermostat, a tub that fills endlessly with hot water, and a telephone that will be answered, at any hour, by a person whose only job is to ensure that you have a pleasant evening.

This is why hot toddies were invented: as a consolation prize to life’s small, wintery difficulties. They cure nothing—they certainly don’t cure colds—but they offer such warm solace that you almost want to suffer through something so that you might deserve one. For instance, it would be worth getting lost on a mountain ridge (for, say, half an hour), or trudging (a few blocks) through the snow, or having to run out in a storm to throw a tarp over that thing you were hoping wouldn’t get rained on, just to get something hot and boozy at the end of it.

And that is why, after a warm, sunny December that made Eureka look like Santa Barbara, it’s almost a relief to finally descend into the gloom and misery of a winter on the North Coast. Now, at last, we have earned our hot toddies. Just living in Humboldt during January and February entitles you to one of these. (Those of you who are escaping to Mexico or Hawaii this month don’t get one. Go drink your daiquiris, send us one of your cheery postcards, and post those blurry sunset cell phone photos to Facebook, which we will obligingly “like”—but leave the toddies to us. It’s all we have.)

A toddy is a very old drink; cocktail historian David Wondrich, in his wonderful book Punch: The Delights and Dangers of the Flowing Bowl, finds evidence that Scottish and Irish drinkers were dipping into hot bowls of whiskey and water and sugar and lemon in the mid-1700s and calling it a toddy. Our first recipe—the classic hot toddy—is just that.  

Hot Toddy  

1.5 oz whiskey

1 sugar cube or dollop of honey

1 lemon wedge

5 cloves  

Fill a heat-proof glass or mug with boiling hot water to warm it; set it aside while you gather your ingredients. Cut a generous wedge of lemon and push the cloves into the rind. (Punching holes with a toothpick helps.) Pour out the water, drop in your whiskey and sweetener, and fill the glass with more hot water. Stir well. Squeeze a little lemon juice on top and drop the wedge in the glass.

Warning: Some members of my tasting panel thought this drink tasted like Theraflu. There is no point in explaining that Theraflu is intended to taste like a hot toddy. The bottom line is that if this is too medicine-like for you, drink something else.

Using an orange instead of a lemon is a nice variation, and a splash of honey liqueur, such as the delightful German Barenjager, will dress it up a little. Jack Daniel’s makes a whiskey blended with honey liqueur called Tennessee Honey. I haven’t tried it yet, but you could. You might also try maple syrup for the sweetener, or perhaps even a maple syrup liqueur. (Yes, Virginia, there is a maple syrup liqueur. The one I have comes from Quebec and is called Sortilege. If it is your lifelong dream to combine your love of maple syrup with your love of booze, look no further.)  

So a basic hot toddy is easy enough, right? But somehow, it is not universally available in this form. Don’t ever walk into a bar and simply order a hot toddy. You risk wasting eight bucks on a beastly concoction of artificial syrups and instant flavorings in little packets. Instead, ask your server how the bartender makes a hot toddy. If you don’t get a satisfactory answer, just lean over the bar, issue the above instructions quietly and pleasantly, and get something worth drinking.

That’s not all there is to a hot toddy, though. We live in apple country, so you owe it to yourself to make at least one nice, warm apple toddy this winter.    

Hot Apple Toddy  

1.5 oz applejack, apple brandy, or calvados

1 cup hot apple cider (unfiltered apple juice)

1 orange wedge

1 cinnamon stick

1 apple slice for garnish  

Fill a heat-proof glass with hot water. Empty it and refill it with brandy and cider. Squeeze the orange over the drink, drop it in, and stir with the cinnamon stick. Garnish with an apple slice.

This, too, could be dressed up with a spicy liqueur like Domaine de Canton ginger liqueur, or St. Elizabeth’s Allspice Dram.  

You’re getting the idea, right? Okay, now check this out. It’s a recipe I adapted from Imbibe magazine, a fine publication celebrating the art of drinking that you should all subscribe to.  

Chai Rum Toddy  

1.5 oz dark rum

1 cup hot chai tea

1-2 sugar cubes or 1-2 tsp honey

1 wedge of orange or tangerine

Star anise or cinnamon stick for garnish  

You know what to do.  

So there you have it: the warm and rewarding toddy. A serving of liquor, a cupful of a nice hot beverage, some sugar, some spice, some citrus. A splash of sweet or spicy liqueur if you want to jazz it up. Use these recipes as a template and invent your own combinations.

Now, just remember: you have to deserve a toddy. Let’s all hope for a big, dramatic storm, the kind you get caught in but not for too long, the kind that makes the lights flicker but not quite go out, the kind that makes the windows rattle and the cats run under the couch. If we have one of those, congratulations. You get a toddy.  

Apple Season

Here's another in my ongoing series of "Drunken Botanist" cocktail articles for the North Coast Journal, loosely based on my forthcoming book of the same name. Forgive the Humboldt references, which are, of course, of interest only to people in Humboldt.

Seems like everyone in these parts has an opinion about what Humboldt needs to make it truly great.  A railroad.  A trail around the bay.  A general plan.  A Wal-Mart. A Trader Joe’s.  One grand, vitally important addition or improvement that would change everything.

I agree that Humboldt is lacking in one critical area, but it doesn’t involve railroads or general plans.  What Humboldt is missing is locally-made hard cider.

Think about it.  We are blessed with an extraordinarily long apple season, with the earliest varieties ripening in August and the last flush of ripe fruit still clinging to branches in January.  We are the inheritors of the pomological legacy of Albert Etter, who started growing and breeding apples here before the turn of the twentieth century.  (We have him to thank for Waltana, a crisp, dark-skinned apple that keeps all winter, and Pink Pearl, the pink-fleshed apple that makes unforgettable pies.) And cider is the perfect value-added crop.  Apples that aren’t cosmetically flawless still make great cider. Apples that taste weird or are oddly-shaped make great cider. Locavores and organic orchardists, rejoice! Imperfect, non-corporate apples are no problem for the cider-maker.

And with its crisp, dry flavor and modest alcohol content, hard cider is a real crowd-pleaser.   Beer, I was surprised to learn when I read the Journal a few weeks ago, is only appreciated by men.  (Note to said men:  My upcoming beer and beer-distilled whiskey party may have to be a female-only affair. Serves you right.) Cider, on the other hand, appeals to every palate, and is the perfect alternative for non-beer drinkers at barbeques, baseball games, and other such beery gatherings.

So.  Why every brewpub in Humboldt County doesn’t offer a locally-made cider on tap remains a mystery. To enjoy this month’s recipe, you’re going to have to find a friend with a backyard cider house, or turn to a non-local cider. I’ve worked my way through most of the widely available versions so you don’t have to, and here’s the deal:  Hornsby’s is actually owned by Gallo and it tastes like it.  Strongbow is the British Budweiser of ciders, which is all you need to know. Opinions vary on Woodchuck and Ace—I dislike both, but other tasters in this household disagree.  Fox Barrel is California-made, light, and not too bad. Olympia’s Spire Mountain is a brilliant example of the kind of pure, well-crafted artisanal cider we should be making here. Aspall, a British cider, is so crisp and bright and perfect that it will turn you into a cider alcoholic.  Like our founding fathers, you will drink so much cider morning, noon, and night that you will go stark raving mad or overthrow the monarchy, whichever comes first.

You’re also going to need some kind of apple brandy.  If you want something amazing, transformative, something that will give new meaning to your life, something that has the power to motivate you to get through a dreadful Monday, a Thanksgiving with the in-laws, or a long, miserable winter, you’re going to want a bottle of Leopold Bros. New York Apple Whiskey. Made in Denver, this blend of New York State apple juice and fine whiskey is barrel-aged and bottled at 40% alcohol. It is sweet in the way that an apple is sweet, but it’s not weird.  It’s just perfect and amazing in ways I can hardly describe.  (If you’ve ever had pommeau, a French blend of unfermented apple juice and Calvados, it’s like that.)  If you can’t find it at a local liquor store, ask them to special-order a case and keep it in stock. It sells for about thirty-five bucks, and trust me, you won’t regret it.

Failing that, maybe you’ve got a bottle of calvados (French apple brandy) around the house, or Clear Creek Distillery’s apple brandy, made with Golden Delicious apples grown on Mt. Hood. Another good choice would be Laird’s Applejack, a mixture of 35% apple brandy and 65% neutral spirits, or (even better) their straight apple brandy. I am deeply in love with Harvest Spirit’s Core Vodka and Cornelius Applejack from upstate New York, both of which are well worth seeking out, even though they are available only by mail order through DrinkUpNY.com. (Note to potential local distillers:  Please go visit Harvest Spirits and set up a similar operation here. Thank you.)

You’ll also need some apple schnapps.  Berentzen Apple Korn is available locally. I confess that I don’t love this stuff on its own, but it mixes well. If you’d rather take this drink in another direction, you could experiment with tiny quantities of a spicy liqueur like St. Elizabeth Allspice Dram, Domaine de Canton ginger liqueur, Benedictine, or anything else warm and autumnal. 

This drink is a shooter or a bomber, which means that you’re going to drop a shot glass into a larger glass and drink the two together.  It’s a bit of a novelty, and somewhat tricky to sip, but you’ll get the hang of it.  It’s inspired by a version I tasted at Lab, a wonderfully clever little bar in Montreal, where they take their apple cider seriously.  I’m naming it after Albert Etter in hopes that it will someday be made with local brews from his apples.

 

 The Etter Bomb

 In a short, wide tumbler, pour:

 3 oz hard cider

 In a standard 1.5 oz shot glass, pour:

 1/2  oz Leopold Bros. New York Apple Whiskey

1/2  oz apple schnapps

Dash of Angostura bitters

 

Drop the shot glass into the tumbler.  The two liquids should be about level and will not mix until you start drinking.  If you’re going to make any of the substitutions I suggested, feel free to experiment with the ratio of apple brandy to other liqueurs.  Just make sure you end up with 1 ounce of liquid in the shot glass.

 

If There's An Easy Way to Juice a Pomegranate, I Don't Know What It Is.

This time last year, I made a little homemade grenadine during pomegranate season.  We had a party shortly after that in which we mixed up Pink Lady cocktails according to this recipe in Imbibe magazine. The drinks were a hit--and although we hadn't been using grenadine around the house before that, we definitely put it into heavy rotation after the party.

Then we ran out.

By that time, pomegranates were out of season.  We tried buying grenadine at the liquor store, and we tried making our own using bottled pomegranate juice.  Neither were remotely as good as the homemade variety.

So!  Pomegranates are back in season, and if you are so inclined, you can whip some up.  Here's how I did it:

First, you have to juice the pomegranate seeds.  This is not easy.  Lacking any other fancy fruit-squeezing equipment, we used a basic citrus press.  It took me about an hour to juice five or six pomegranates in this fashion--enough for about 2 cups of juice.  This may sound like way too much time to spend on the making of homemade grenadine, but it was really rather pleasant--I poured myself a nice drink, listened to NPR--really, it wasn't so bad.  But if anyone has a more efficient juice extraction method, I'm all ears.

Once you've got your juice, here's how the recipe goes.  Most recipes don't call for any water, but I've found that it helps to melt the sugar in a very small amount of water before adding the juice. Up to you.

Homemade Grenadine

2 cups freshly-squeezed pomegranate juice

2 cups sugar (less to taste)

1 oz vodka (as a preservative)

In a saucepan, bring half a cup of water to a boil, then add the sugar. (If you think you'd like your grenadine to be a little less sweet, hold back some sugar until after you've added the pomegranate juice.)  Stir until dissolved.  Add the pomegranate juice and stir well. Give it a taste and add more sugar (or more juice) if needed.  Once it's right, add an ounce of vodka and pour into a heatproof bottle or jar (a mason jar works well).

A homemade syrup like this will keep in the fridge for a few weeks, and it will stay fresh even longer in the freezer.  The vodka helps kill bacteria and keeps it from freezing solid. It will be syrupy in the freezer, but it's fairly easy to spoon some out to make a few drinks.  It "melts" quickly in the cocktail shaker.

There's the finished product.  It's a lovely rose color, and it plays well with gin and vodka in all kinds of cocktails, giving everything a lovely pinkish hue.  Imbibe has a number of cocktail recipes that involve grenadine; check them out here.

 

 

Weird Wonderfulness from Hendrick's Gin

As long as we're talking about booze today, here's a strange and marvelous thing:  the people at Hendrick's Gin are injecting their usual madcap absurdity into London Cocktail Week, an event it pains me greatly to miss.  Anyway, they've created an Umbrella Emporium to pay tribute to the cocktail umbrella.  Check this one out--the Mumbrella:  ‘A miniature umbrella made out of iridescent feathers is shielding a chicken egg sat on a nest. Is it waiting for the egg to hatch, or is it just shielding it from the morning rain before it gets eaten for breakfast? Only the Mumbrella knows...’ 

Well. There you have it.

 

The Wonders of Cassis

This is another in a series I'm writing for the North Coast Journal based on my book in progress, The Drunken Botanist.

(Your intrepid reporter at the Cassissium.  Notice the pen and notebook. This is work.  Really.)

After a week spent touring distilleries in France, Scott and I had come to suspect that anything called a museum must receive special benefits:  tax cuts, subsidies, an extra-long vacation every August.  It seemed like every distillery had created an official museum devoted to their product.  The museum was often nothing more than a few glass cases in the gift shop, but a smiling woman in a blazer and a badge stood nearby, ready to hand us a brochure in our choice of language and give us a guided tour of the glass cases. 

We took the tours seriously. I was doing actual research for a book, so I accepted the brochure, took notes, and snapped photographs.  We saw many sepia photos of handsome French men standing in front of barns—the founders of the distilleries, we were told, and proof that their now-legendary elixirs came from humble origins. There were also farm implements, strange twisted bits of copper distilling equipment, and tattered Art Deco posters of the sort that you now see adorning the walls at Applebee’s, except that these were the originals. And there were crusty old bottles filled with murky liquids that we would not be invited to taste.

Once we realized that every distillery possessed such a museum, we’d come to feel that participating in the so-called tour made us unwitting accomplices in a French tax evasion scheme.  It was like that feeling you get on Facebook when you “like” a post about a particular microbrew and realize that you’re participating in a giant marketing survey, spending your precious hours entering data free of charge that will be sold to corporations for an enormous profit, in exchange for the ability to share Daily Show clips with your friends—but then you push that realization away and you keep putting in those volunteer hours anyway.

So by the time we arrived in Nuits-St.Georges, just outside Dijon, we were quite jaded about the distillery museum. Imagine our surprise when we arrived at the Cassissium, France’s national museum of the black currant, and found ourselves in a slick, museum-like lobby being offered a headset and urged to join the short introductory film, which was just underway in a sizable auditorium down the hall.  There we watched an animated black fruit expound upon its historical significance and nutritional benefits, all of which was awkwardly translated to English subtitles for our benefit.  The French take their cassis seriously.

The tour that followed took us past several rooms filled with the usual glass cases, and then into a monstrous distillery where black currants were crushed by the ton and macerated in a clear and very boozy eau-de-vie, then watered down with sugar syrup until it reached about 20 percent alcohol and was ready to bottle.

This is creme de cassis.  I’m going to bet that many of you have never had it, or if you have, you didn’t make it part of your regular drinking routine.  I intend to change that.

Black currants (Ribes nigrum) are native to Europe and not widely grown or eaten here.  Currants (not to be mistaken for the very small, seedless raisins that Americans confusingly also refer to as currants) have an overpowering tartness and an indescribable—well, currantness—that doesn’t appeal to our palate.  This is a shame, because black currants are very high in vitamin C and antioxidants, and cassis is unambiguously delightful and perfect for these unexpectedly warm, bright fall afternoons we are enjoying right now.

A good liquor store probably has a couple of dusty bottles of French cassis in stock. Read the label carefully and make sure you’re not buying something artificial.  You want a bottle that contains nothing but fruit, sugar, water, and spirit.  Once you find it, do what the people at the Cassissium recommend and turn it over, then watch the cassis run down the inside of the bottle.  If it coats the glass and slides down in a slow, languorous, syrup-like fashion, you’ve got the right stuff. (Online options include K&L, DrinkUpNY, and Astor Wine & Spirits.)

An even better option is Clear Creek Distillery’s cassis, made in Portland from black currants grown in Scio, Oregon.  (Everything Clear Creek makes is worth drinking, and if you go to Portland, make time for a stop at their tasting room – minus the museum.)  A bottle costs just over twenty dollars and will certainly get you through the winter.

Now, what do you do with it?  You pour a dollop into a glass and then add white wine, sparkling wine, hard cider, or beer.  That’s right, beer. Here’s how this works:

Kir: A kir is a splash of cassis in white wine.  If you tell the people at the Cassissium that you are from California, they will lecture you very sternly about never, ever mixing their beautiful cassis with Chardonnay or Sauvignon Blanc. This is an atrocity, an epic clash of fruit in the glass, and an insult to all of French culture.  (At least, that’s what I think they said.)  They recommend a white Burgundy (of course they do), but I’d try it with any dry, mineraly white wine.  Actually, I think that what you’re going to do is buy whatever white wine you like, throw a little cassis in, and call it awesome.  That’s fine with me.  We’ve let the French have had their say, so now we can do as we please.

Kir Royal:  Do the same thing, only with sparkling wine.  One of the great benefits of cassis is that it will greatly improve a mediocre sparkling wine—but this is not to suggest that you should go out and buy the cheapest possible fizzy stuff. There’s a limit to how much alcohol (or calories) a person should reasonably consume in a day; don’t waste your allotment on junk.  I am very happy with the Segura Viudas Brut that the Co-op sells for eight bucks; try that if you’re on a budget.  And by all means, do not pollute a bottle of very fancy Champagne with cassis.  It will not make fancy Champagne any fancier; it will simply change a flavor that some winemaker worked very hard to perfect. So choose a middle-of-the-road bubbly.

Kir Normand or Kir Cidre:  Called a “cider and black” in the UK, this is hard cider with cassis. Yum.

And about that beer….In the UK, a “snakebite and black” is equal parts lager and cider with cassis. Some people add a little cassis to Guinness or another stout.  Beer drinkers, commence experimentation. Salúd!

Peach and Bourbon Wonderfulness

This is the latest in a series I'm writing for the North Coast Journal loosely based on my next book, The Drunken Botanist, due out in 2013.  Read earlier cocktail-ish posts here.

 

 
Bess assisting with my photo shoot.

It is almost too late to write this column--almost.  Peach season is winding down, but as of this writing I’m still getting sweet, local summer peaches in the market.  So move quickly.  You might need to get this done tonight.

We begin, of course, with bourbon.  Maybe you’re not a big bourbon drinker; I never was, either.  I once made some sort of bourbon and baked brie appetizer for Thanksgiving and bought the smallest bottle I could, knowing I’d have no other use for the stuff.

I was crazy.  I was wrong.

Bourbon, if you’re not already acquainted with it, is a type of whiskey made mostly from corn.  By law it must come from at least 51 percent corn, and the remaining grains can be rye, barley, wheat, and so on. It must be aged in a new, never-before-used American oak barrel.  (That provision was put into the law to satisfy the barrel coopers’ union.  How I long for the days when the barrel-makers had clout in Congress.)  Bourbon does not, contrary to what certain Southerners will tell you, have to be made in Kentucky or Tennessee.  Bourbon could come from a distillery in San Francisco, New York City, or (please, oh please) Humboldt County.

The combination of the corn and the delicious vanilla notes from the American oak make bourbon an exceptionally sweet whiskey, and the only kind I’d mix with fruit and sugar, as we’re about to do.  While there are many fine bourbons on the market, you don’t need to spend a fortune. Maker’s Mark, at just about twenty bucks a bottle, is actually a highly-rated, award-winning, and very tasty bourbon. Every liquor store in town carries it.

If you want to get fancy, I’m going to suggest a variation that includes Domaine de Canton ginger liqueur. This is one of those luxurious liqueurs that I tend to use in small quantities, so a thirty-dollar bottle will go a long way.  If you don’t want to spring for that, but you’re really into ginger, just throw a few slices of fresh ginger under the muddler.  With enough bourbon, you can hardly go wrong.

Now, about those peaches.  Bourbon doesn’t play nice with just any kind of fruit.  It’s dreadful with berries and tropical fruit. It’s delightful with sour cherries (in an Old-Fashioned, which we’ll get to someday), and it’s heavenly with a little orange liqueur—but then again, citrus is a kind of all-purpose mixer that brightens up just about any cocktail.

But peaches?  Bourbon and peaches were made for each other.

So get the ripest, runniest peaches you can, and accept no substitutes.  (I wouldn’t disapprove of trying this with thawed frozen peaches if you can’t get fresh ones, but that’s between you and your cocktail.)  You’re also going to need some fresh spearmint, which I hope is thriving in your garden right about now.

And sugar.  Some Southerners insist on powdered sugar, but it generally contains cornstarch, which gets lumpy and weird in a cocktail.  Superfine or regular sugar will get the job done. If you’re making a batch of these, take the time to make simple syrup by combining equal parts sugar and water in the microwave or on the stove, bringing it to a boil to dissolve the sugar, and putting it in the freezer to cool down. It blends much more easily and helps avoid the not-altogether-too-terrible problem of all the sugar settling at the bottom of the glass. (Simple syrup doesn’t store well, so just make as much as you need for the evening.)

Peach Mint Julep

 2 oz bourbon

1 peach, quartered

1 sprig mint

1 tsp sugar or simple syrup

A splash (let’s call it .5 oz) Domaine de Canton, or one slice fresh ginger (optional)

In a cocktail shaker (or a mason jar, or any large, sturdy glass), combine a quarter to a half of the peach, most of the mint (save a few leaves for garnish), sugar, and the ginger liqueur or ginger slice. Gently crush them with a muddler or wooden spoon. 

At this point, you have a decision to make.  I like to mix this up in a mason jar, top it with crushed ice, fill it up with bourbon, and just drink the whole mess. I consider it a waste to toss out a booze-soaked, crushed-up peach. Isn’t that a fruit serving? But you might not like a bunch of mashed produce at the bottom of your drink, in which case you ought to add the bourbon, shake well with ice, and strain it into a glass over crushed ice at this point.

The crushed ice is really important.  If you don’t have an ice crusher (What?  No ice crusher?) wrap some ice in a dishtowel and whack it with a hammer.

In any case, taste it and adjust the proportions to your liking.  I generally add a little more bourbon at this stage, and would have written the recipe that way, but a serving of hard liquor is a paltry 1.5 ounces and I feel obligated to give you a recipe that doesn’t veer too far from that sanctimonious standard.

Run a slice of peach around the rim of the glass, garnish with mint and/or another slice of peach, and you’re good to go.

 

Where should you go?  To your porch, of course.  Bourbon was made to be sipped on a porch, in good or not-so-good company, preferably with a guitar or at least a radio nearby. Experience has taught me not to set the glass down when the chickens are around, or they’ll pick the peaches out and run away with them.  So raise a glass with any non-feathered friend, and enjoy.

Mason Jar Cocktails

I'm pleased to share my new column, The Drunken Botanist, which runs here, on my blog, and in the North Coast Journal, an honest-to-goodness printed newspaper that is the amazing alternative weekly for California's North Coast.  The Drunken Botanist is the working title of my new book, which should be out in 2013 if I can stop mixing drinks long enough to get it written. What you're going to read in this column are all the little extras and asides that, for one reason or another, won't be in the book, at least not in this form.   Outtakes from the book-writing process, if you will.

And as I mentioned, I'm off to New Orleans now for Tales of the Cocktail, the most decadent industry gathering you can imagine.  Research!  It's all research!

Anyway, if you've got a cocktail related question or quandry, or just a recipe to share, feel free to post a comment and I'll try to work it in to a future column. 

 

 

“I hear you’ve got mojitos in there,” a friend said, looking down at my tote bag. We were in Blue Lake waiting in line for Mary Jane: The Musical.

“Shhhh.  Don’t say that so loud, or everybody will want one.”

I had more than mojitos in my bag.  I had three mason jars filled with the most exquisite combinations of summer fruit and booze imaginable. I figured I had enough for the six of us, plus a few hangers-on, but the last thing I wanted to do was to run out of drinks before intermission. 

Once we got settled on the lawn, I started to wish I had brought enough for the entire audience.  Some of the beverage choices I saw around me were, quite frankly, embarrassing.  The family in front of us dumped a pile of gas station cuisine on their blanket:  Whoppers, gummy worms, Cheetos, Sprite, and some horrid industrial beer in a can. A few blankets down I spotted a can of Mike’s Harder Lemonade, an abomination previously unknown to me. Of course, there was plenty of civilized wine and microbrew sipping going on as well, but come on, people!  This is a giant community picnic for grown-ups!  In July!  With all the fresh fruit available at the farmers market, there is no excuse not to be sipping the best adult beverage you’ll have all year while you’re out there on the grass, under the stars, wondering if life could possibly get any better. Scott made the rounds with two jars, whispering “Nectarine or watermelon?” and everybody got very, very happy.

So here’s what you’re going to do—quickly, while the fresh summer fruit is at its peak:

Drink This.

Gin.  (vodka if you must, but really--gin.  Hendrick's would be a fine choice.)

Basil and cucumber, muddled.

Squeeze of lime juice.

Splash of Dry Cucumber Soda

Happy Wednesday!

It Was Research--I Swear!

 

Because my next book involves plants and booze, I am required to spend a lot of money at liquor stores buying unusual spirits.  It's terrible, I know, but this is the sort of grueling research writers must put themselves through.  My husband is no help:  as a rare book dealer, he has that obsessive collector's mentality that makes him want to acquire one of everything so as to have a complete collection. 

So once he realized that we had vodka made of rye, wheat, barley, corn, and potato (Polish and Idaho), we had to get more!  What else is vodka made out of, he asked.  Grapes, as it turns out.  And apples.  And honey, and maple syrup, and milk.  Yes, milk!

So then we had to have a party.  We told people they could come and taste each vodka individually, or, if that was a bit too intense, we promised a few nice cocktails as well. 

Here's the complete lineup--with an example of the plant (or--uh--dairy product) each vodka is derived from:

As an afterthought, we also put out a few flavored vodkas we had hanging around.  Much to our surprise, one of those turned out to be everyone's favorite.  The winner?

Crop Vodka's organic tomato vodka.  People LOVED this stuff.  Now, it's distilled from grains and flavored with tomato, so it's not as if this is a pure tomato-distilled vodka.  And the tomato flavor is not overwhelming.  But it's surprisingly good on its own--people described it as smooth, and round, and soft--and you can definitely see how good it would be in any kind of tomato cocktail.  (and in case you're imagining a thick, awful Bloody Mary-type thing, imagine instead that you simply muddle a very overripe, perfect tomato in a cocktail shaker, along with some vodka and perhaps a little basil, then shake and strain. Mmmmmm.)

Oh, and here's the cocktail we served -- a very good variation on a Cosmopolitan:

2 parts Square One Cucumber Vodka (flavored only with real cukes, btw)

1 part Curacao or Triple Sec

2 parts pomegranate juice

.5 part lime juice

Shake with ice, pour.  Cheers!

 

When life gives you lemon verbena, make Chartreuse

Or at least use some of your lemons for limoncello. There’s something about limoncello. It’s not exactly a subtle or complex taste. But—for many of us, anyway—everything about a bottle of limoncello radiates a hot day in Amalfi, where you’re surrounded by jasmine, wisteria, lemon trees, and stores that are open ten minutes a day.

It's easy to make. As you’ll see in this video, Amy already has, along with a lot of other homemade potions. Leslie/Growing a Garden in Davis has advanced to orangecello. And Elizabeth has bought a lemon tree, which she doubts will survive.

 

Here are the recipes

Amy likes Imbibe magazine’s recipes for Vin d'Orange:  (skip the vanilla bean) and limoncello.

And here’s the "Whatever's in Amy's Garden" version of a Chartreuse-like liqueur:

Lemon verbena

Angelica stems, chopped

Fennel stems, chopped

Pineapple sage

Lemon thyme

Rose-scented geranium

Mint

Lemon and orange zest

Wash, stuff in a mason jar, fill the jar with vodka.

Let it sit 2-3 days at MOST.  Open it, smell it, taste it, shake it regularly.  If you open it and it smells heavenly, it's DONE.  Time will not improve it!

Strain it and add simple syrup (equal parts sugar and water, brought to a boil and allowed to cool) to taste.  A good starting point might be 3 parts infused vodka to one part simple syrup.  Tinker from there.  If it gets too sweet, you can add some straight vodka to proof it back up.

Elizabeth's sparkling wine is the Bailly Lapierre Crémant de Bourgogne Reserve. Fancy name, but it costs under $20 and is well worth searching out.

GardenRant Cocktail Hour: British Invasion

In what has to be our all-time favorite Cocktail Hour to date, Amy invites Gen Schmidt of NorthCoastGardening for a celebrity guest appearance, and Elizabeth tries to set her newly-remodeled kitchen on fire.

First, the recipes:

Elizabeth's Dickensian punch, adapted from Splendid Table's adaptation. 

Do we really have to give one of those silly warnings explaining the obvious to anyone who attempts this recipe?  That lighting alcohol on fire in your kitchen will result in flames?  Which could, in theory, burn your kitchen down, taking you and your loved ones with it, and possibly spreading to the neighbors and sending you all up in a fiery confligration?

Well, anyway.  Here's the recipe:

In one heavy saucepan

1 cup rum

1/4 American Honey bourbon 

zest of 2 lemons

1/2 cup brown sugar

In a regular saucepan

juice of 2 lemons

2 cups water

Heat the rum mixture and then light it for a few seconds. Stop the flames by putting a cover over the pan. Add the lemon/water mixture and cook a bit more.

Serve in a heatproof punch glass with a slice of lemon. Makes 4 drinks. 

Amy's Pimm's cocktail:

In a Champagne flute, pour:

.75 oz (or more to taste) Pimm's.

Top with good (nonalcoholic) sparkling cider or Reed's Ginger Beer.

Garnish with half a crabapple.

And about those English gardening tools!  They come from Clarington Forge, and yes, we're going to give some away soon!  Stay tuned.

GardenRant Cocktail Hour: Hot Toddies

In which Elizabeth broadcasts live from her bulb bunker and Amy drinks from a Pyrex measuring cup for lack of more suitable barware.

Here's Elizabeth's hot toddy recipe:

Bourbon hot toddy

 2 parts hot lemon mix  (using 2 cups water, 1/4 cup sugar rubbed with lemon peel, juice of 2 lemons, boiled until dissolved)

 1 part American Honey (from makers of Wild Turkey bourbon)

 Pour into heavy rocks glass

(Ed:  Weirdly, there seems to be no website devoted to American Honey, so we send you to BevMo instead.)

And here's Amy's hot apple cider toddy:

Half a mug of hot, mulled apple cider

A jigger (1.5 oz) of apple brandy, applejack, or Calvados.  Amy used Harvest Spirits Hudson Valley Apple Brandy.

A pony (1 oz, or .75 oz will do) Drambuie.

A splash of something fabulous, like Domaine de Canton ginger liqueur or St. Elizabeth Allspice Dram.

Garnish with a slice of apple.

Okay, here's your cocktail hour!  (See more cocktail hours here.)

Garden Rant Cocktail Hour: Halloween Edition

Welcome to a special episode of the GRCH.

  

The Witch’s Jellybeantini

1 part vodka, ½ part each Black Sambuca and Cassis (or any berry liquor), 2 parts cranberry juice
Shake with ice, mutter an incantation, and enjoy.

Bulb forcing tips: All hyacinths force well, but Single Early and Triumph are the best tulip classes for home forcing. Do try other tazetta narcissus than the common Ziva for forcing. Old House Gardens and Brent and Becky’s have some great alternatives: Erlicheer, Grand Primo, Golden Rain, and Grand Soleil d'Or are some of the types. P.S. The witch is a bit optimistic—it takes hyacinths and tulips a good 8 weeks or better to come into bloom after they emerge from the chilling period.

Episode 4: Vodka, Gin, Tea; Barbara, Kathy, and Dee. And me.

Those of you reading this at 8 a.m. on a Sunday might not be quite ready for cocktails, but ready or not, here it is: another Garden Rant Cocktail Hour.

This episode is a bit different: it is a combined Skype recording of discussions between Elizabeth and three other bloggers. It’s also different because not everyone is drinking alcohol. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

So watch and listen as Elizabeth, Kathy/Cold Climate Gardening, Barbara/Mr. McGregor’s Daughter, and Dee/Red Dirt Rambling discuss frost, flowers, and more. (Please excuse the varying quality; obviously, the internet connections varied and that made a difference.)

 

Here’s the Gnome’s Water recipe.

Barbara’s jellybean-tini includes equal parts vodka, Chambord, and cranberry/pomegranate, but she notes that Sambuca should have been used instead of vodka. And here's a link to Kathy's post on rose planting in a cold climate.

Stay tuned for future episodes discussing limoncello, orangecello, and how to make both.

Episode III: We booze it up in an historic greenhouse

There are no recipes this time. Amy and I drank our Esprit de June straight. But we do recommend a look at this post and this site and these pictures to learn more about the wonderful Sonnenberg Gardens. Here's the live experience:

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More to come! Look for future episodes of our adventures during Amy's Central NY speaking tour. And a cocktail hour with fellow bloggers Kathy/Cold Climate Gardening, Dee/Red Dirt Ramblings, and Leslie/Growing a Garden in Davis.

The GardenRant Cocktail Hour: Episode 2

In which Elizabeth gets all dressed up for a gala botanical garden event, while Amy drinks vodka straight out of a mason jar and talks to her chickens. Topics include Champagne, hibiscus flowers in syrup, raspberry-infused vodka, a certain Black & Decker home appliance, and--once again--hyacinths. Special guest appearance by Amy's Buff Orpington, Ladybird.

If you'd like to drink along with us, you'll need:

Champagne doesn't have to be fancy; one very nice option is a sparkling Spanish cava called Segura Viudas that retails for about eight bucks a bottle, making it dangerously affordable as an everyday wine. But Eliz also recommends the not-too-expensive but excellent Pierre Gimonnet & Fils, which is more interesting than many a higher-priced maker (Veuve Cliquot, etc.). She also paid considerably less than the price listed on this link.

Wild Hibiscus Flowers in Syrup, introduced to us by Friend of Rant Mary Ann Newcomer.

And if you'd like to make raspberry-infused vodka, or any sort of fruit-infused vodka, simply fill a clean Mason jar with fresh-picked fruit and pour in any inexpensive vodka. Let it steep for 2-3 days, then strain it and drink.  (The leftover vodka-soaked fruit can be frozen and used in drinks as well.)

Cheers!

GardenRant Cocktail Hour: The Pilot

When we (Elizabeth and Amy) get together, we rummage through our respective liquor cabinets to see if we have anything new and interesting to drink that we can try out on the other.  But seeing as how we live across the country from each other—Elizabeth in Buffalo, Amy in California—this doesn't actually happen very often.

Except on Skype.  It's actually very pleasant to sit down together with our laptops and our webcams, mix a drink, and have a chat.  There's always plenty to talk about when it comes to GardenRant, and most of it does call for a good stiff drink.

There's just one thing missing from our cyber-cocktail hour, and that's you!  If only you, our readers, could join us for a drink.  Just imagine how perfect that would be.

Well, imagine no longer.  Thanks to this groovy software called VodBurner, we're now recording our Skype drinking sessions so that you can enjoy them, too.  Now, we're still figuring out the technology, so don't get all film school on us.  We'll get it down—and we plan to get out in the garden once in a while. (And who knows!  If you're into Skype, maybe we'll invite you to join us on camera sometime!)

We hope you'll gather some ingredients, mix a drink, and settle in with us.  If you'd like to drink what we're drinking, you'll need:

Lavender-honey simple syrup (recipe below)

G'Vine gin

A lemon

In the case of Amy's drink, Lavender Dry Soda, a lovely, not-too-sweet soda with pure lavender flavor that works great in cocktails.

Lavender sprigs and/or yellow pansies to garnish

(recipes below)

Here, then, is our pilot episode.  In this installment:  Gin and lavender drinks, profanity, and hyacinths.

Recipes:

Amy's Lavender Gin & Tonic

Pour 1-2 oz gin over ice. (a botanical gin like G'vine, or any gin that contains some lavender, is ideal)

Squeeze lemon juice over ice and gin.

Fill glass with Lavender Dry Soda.

Garnish with lavender sprigs.

Sample restaurant's Honey Lavender martini (modified by Eliz)

1 part gin (I also like G'vine.)

1 part honey lavender simple syrup (boil sugar, honey, water (2-1 water to sweet stuff; add a bunch of lavender; let steep an hour; strain)

Juice of 2-3 lemons

Shake with ice, strain, pour into martini glass and garnish with lemon slice studded with a viola blossom. You don't really need a premium gin—Sample does not use one—but I like the way a botanical gin's flavor shines through whatever you blend it with. I have also included a sugar/honey mix, not all honey, which they use, and I find too strong.

Coming soon: drinks with wild hibiscus flowers, bison grass-infused vodka, and more. For the Ball comment we discuss in this video, check this post.