Kiss Me, I'm Irish

Los Angeles, California

Actually, I'm not Irish. Not a drop of it. But, it is St. Patrick's Day, and when you are married to an Irish-American, St. Paddy's Day is one big deal. You don't have to remember why we celebrate him (something about snakes), you just have to fall in line. And best without the green beer, I would add.

And, here comes the disclaimer about alcohol abuse: There is a lot of booze to come in this post. So I guess I'm supposed to say something like, don't try this at home, kids. But truth is, I'm not going to say that. It's St. Patrick's Day, for the love of heaven. It's a holiday about drinking. You wouldn't tell people not to eat on Thanksgiving. And, anyway, is it my job to advise people to drink and eat responsibly? I don't think so. Regarding both the holidays mentioned above, I suppose if you dig deep enough you might find some other meaning besides drinking and eating. But . . . don't bother looking here! So, get over it, and let's go on.

St. Patrick's Day always falls into some portion of another more reverent observance. We are currently at the beginning of Lent, and it has become our tradition, in recent years, to abstain from all hard liquor during those forty days. Or thirty-nine, as we take a dispensation on March 17th and knock back some Bushmills both in honor of St. Patrick, and to celebrate Billy's Irish heritage. I suppose this could be viewed as a form of flexitarianism, if you wanted to take the secular view. Truthfully, it's a little bit of both. Since attending Mass in Carmel, the meaning of these holidays increasingly matter to me. But, even without that, it's not a bad idea to take a month off from the hard stuff (even if only one drink is imbibed daily, for as the old saying goes, we spill more than we drink).

Someone (you know who you are) said that giving up only the hard stuff throughout Lent was sort of skirting the issue. After all, she pointed out, you give something up for the forty days of Lent to be observant and to mindfully keep the meaning of this period of time that leads up to Easter. So you need it to be a hardship. She pointed out that by still drinking wine (and beer and sake) we were allowing ourselves a loophole. But I disagree. I can easily forego wine for forty days, and during this period of time there are many days when I don't have anything to drink at all. I mean, I like wine, especially wine paired with food. But I can easily adios it for a month and a half. Same with beer, unless I am going to a Dodger game. But cocktails . . . that's a tough one. It's not because of the kick (though I like the kick well enough, and, contrary to what Cole Porter wrote, trust me, you can get that kick from champagne). But, foregoing the social part, which is the best part (and, frankly, what I think is the whole point) of having a cocktail, does keep the forty days up front and personal for me. As it is the culture of cocktails I am hooked on. And that's what we abstain from (as well as the 80 proof) during Lent.

When I was in high school I had a friend whose parents always observed the cocktail hour when her dad got home from work. In the late afternoon, Debbie Clevenger's mom, Ginny, would go back to their master bedroom suite to bathe, dress, and apply make up. Unlike my mom, she always kept her nails manicured, and wore red lipstick in an era that, for us, was all about clear gloss. I thought she was glamorous, and thought this ritual was dandy.

When Debbie's dad, Chuck, got home from work, he and Ginny would take their places on opposite sides of the bar, and Chuck would shake up cocktails. Usually they drank gin martinis. But sometimes they drank Manhattans, or Rob Roys. I was impressed that they had all of the bar accoutrements -- hobnailed leather bar stools, a shaker and strainer, real martini glasses, and cool little glass sidecars. They were like Nick and Nora Charles. They even had a little dog, though her name was Variety, not Asta. And I was swept up by seeing this ritualistic cocktail culture that seemed to be left over from the old movies I watched. Even if they couldn't dance like Fred and Ginger, nor capture the witty banter of Hepburn and Tracy, when I saw them at their bar, they seemed awfully sophisticated to me.

Don't get me wrong, my parents also enjoyed cocktails. Each Christmas they bought a bottle of blended scotch -- J&B was my dad's favorite brand. They also bought a bottle of Bacardi rum. Mom drank daiquiris. And those bottles lasted most, if not all, of the year. But they did have cocktails more often than that would indicate. They went out to restaurants a lot, and had their cocktails there. My sister and I came along a good deal of the time. I well remember sitting in the bar section of restaurants where my mom and dad would have one cocktail each while we waited for a table. I miss this ritual, as there seem to be less and less bars which have tables in today's restaurants (though I also enjoy sitting at the bar, so what am I crabbing about?). I remember going to the old Luau in Beverly Hills when I was very young, as well as to The Sea Lion out at the beach. Later my parents moved down PCH to the Chart House at Malibu. I remember Lawry's Prime Rib, where we often went to celebrate birthdays. These were all favorites of my parents, and growing up I spent a lot of time in those bars. Once I got through my Shirley Temple phase, and realized, with some disappointment, that the paper umbrellas didn't hold up once you got them home, my older sister taught me to order a ginger ale. She said it looked more like a "real drink."

I still remember the first "real drink" I ever ordered. I was fifteen years old, and it was in Montego Bay, Jamaica. It was, of course, rum and coke, mon. During the week we were there, I ran through a litany of seven rum drinks including a Bacardi which was pink and pretty. It was a letdown to go home to those ginger ales after that. Luckily I went with my parents to Europe at seventeen, and got to order out again, though we mostly drank wine there, as I recall.

Once my sister and I were adults we began having cocktails with my parents, and/or wine with dinner. And as a result they seemed to drink more -- as if we had driven them to drink. You would have thought I would have accomplished this when I was a teenager, but that's a different post altogether. By this time, I had adopted a drink of choice. I was introduced to vodka martinis by my cousin, Lauren, when I was twenty. That year I got a fake I.D., courtesy of my old friend, Debbie, who turned twenty-one six months before me. She gave me her temporary I.D., and it worked beautifully for me for the six months until I turned twenty-one. At lunch one day with Debbie and my two cousins, Lauren ordered a vodka martini on the rocks with an olive. I took a sip and was smitten. It's been my go-to cocktail ever since, though it has evolved to stem up with a twist, rather than on the rocks with an olive. I look at this two ways: the olive causes displacement, and, the martini, with a twist instead of an olive, is a non-fat one. A skim martini! Anyway, my mom started drinking martinis shortly after I did. Dad went on to drink Chivas, and later, Bushmills. That may have been Billy's influence.

When I met Billy, he drank tequila and orange juice. Wait, I have to write that again, it seems so odd to me. Yep, tequila and orange juice. He didn't like martinis, though he learned to make them for me early on. He didn't like the taste of hard liquor, really. He liked beer, but wasn't big on wine (which he now collects -- who is this guy?). Somewhere along the line he began drinking gin and tonics. When we would go out, he would order a gin and tonic, and I would order my vodka martini. When they brought the drinks, they always put the gin and tonic in front of me. Why was that, I wonder?

Sometime in the late 80s, Billy began drinking vodka martinis when we were in Kona. Why it happened there, I don't know. I was drinking mai tais! I'm a firm believer that when in Rome . . . But, Billy's a true iconoclast when it comes to cocktails. Except on St. Patrick's Day when we drink Bushmills Irish whiskey. Maybe it's just that excuse to fall off of the Lent wagon -- hard to justify if you're having a Beefeater's martini on that day . . .

Meanwhile, I am not unaware that a whole post about cocktails may be outside of some people's comfort zone, even if the post is about St. Patrick's Day. No problem, that. Here's what you can do with your whiskey that will get around the drinking whiskey thing (should that be something which you need to avoid). And (adapted from March 2006 Bon Appetit), no surprise, it is:


Corned Beef with Irish-Whiskey Glaze

Vegetable oil spray
1/2      cup sweet orange marmalade
1/4      cup Irish whiskey
a pinch of ground nutmeg
1 1/2   teaspoons Dijon mustard plus more for serving
1           2 to 2 1/4-pound piece lean fully cooked corned beef
Fresh parsley sprigs

Preheat oven to 425 degrees. Coat a small roasting pan with nonstick spray. Boil next three ingredients in small saucepan until reduced to about one-third of a cup, stirring often. This will take about seven minutes. Mix in one and one-half teaspoons of dijon mustard.

Generously brush corned beef all over with glaze; place in center of roaster. Roast, brushing occasionally with more glaze, about 35 minutes. Transfer to platter, garnish with parsley and serve with the mustard.

About six servings


We will enjoy this, with roasted potatoes and a cabbage-based salad this evening. But before that, we will belly up to the bar and hoist a glass of Irish whiskey. We do have the barstools, and the glasses, and all of the bells and whistles that go along with the cocktail culture, as I learned it. Though Chuck and Ginny are both gone, and I've lost touch with my friend, Debbie, their image remains in my mind. So, I'll take time that evening to dress nicely with at least a touch of green, and I will generally fix myself up. Billy will tend bar, measuring and pouring the whiskey into crystal glasses. We know how to pull this off. After all, I learned it from the best. Erin Go Bragh, and thank you for reading my blog.

What Can We Do For Sandra?

Los Angeles, California

Today is Ash Wednesday which begins the forty days of Lent. On Saturday night, we had our last martini, our last taste of hard liquor, before abstaining for the duration. This, with the exception of one night next week when we will hoist a glass of Irish whiskey. With St. Patrick's Day on approach, I am drawn to thinking about my Irish husband and our Irish friends like Brendan, and Curtis McCoy. And, last but not least, Sandra.

Sandra is our most beloved of friends, Irish or otherwise. Mostly because of her heart, and because she is so much fun to be with. I have pictures of Sandra (and me!) in funny hats, and wearing mardi gras masks, and in huge oversized sunglasses (I'm talking huge here). There are few crazy plans I can come up with that she won't go along with -- and vice versa. Case on point: in Kona last October, on my birthday, she talked me into having our faces painted a la Cirque du Soleil. It would take a hundred posts for me to adequately describe all the friendship, humor, and fun that Sandra and John have brought into our lives. So, instead of that, I'm going to post a photo of the two of us. I think, in this case, a picture is worth a trizillion words. Or more. This one taken a few years back on a small boat charter (ok, it was a yacht) near the San Blas Islands in Panama.

Sandra is currently undergoing a course of treatment which would be a daunting process for the best of us . . . which is, by the way, who she is. And which is why I named my blog after her. She always seems to know the right thing to do, but more importantly is always there to do the right thing for everyone in her circle of family and friends. And it's a big circle. So, what I know is that now is the time to do something for Sandra. And I ask you to throw whatever you've got her way -- positive thinking, good thoughts, prayers, or all of the above. She is going to be fine. But I'd like to think we might help to provide some wind beneath her wings right now, when she really needs it.

Thank you for your help. Thank you for reading my blog, and be well mi frister y amiga especial xxxooo.

The George Clooney Effect

Los Angeles, California

It's time for a recipe, so I thought I would mix you up one of Billy's martinis. My girlfriends say that Billy makes the best martinis, and here is his specialty.

Vodka Martini

2 ounces        Ketel One vodka
a dribble of  Cinzano dry vermouth
1                       jalapeno-stuffed green olive

Place vermouth in a small martini glass and swirl around. Pour out (or, as my dad did, drink) any excess. Place a handful of ice cubes and vodka in a small shaker. Wrap shaker with towel and shake about fifteen to twenty times. Set aside. Place olive in glass (I like to use a decorative pick stuck through the olive, especially since I've bagged these from hotels, restaurants and resorts around the world) but Billy considers this 'clutter'). Give the shaker about ten more shakes, then immediately pour over the olive. Makes one martini -- of the size that martinis are supposed to be, unlike the current supersized ones!

Note: I drink martinis with a twist of lemon. Billy uses a lemon zest "stripper" to remove about a two-inch strip of lemon zest. He runs it around the rim of the glass, then carefully ties in in a knot. Into the glass it goes in place of the olive. I prefer a martini with a twist, though sometimes I steal the olive out of his drink, just out of spite. He doesn't seem to mind.

Having just seen a movie with a lot of cocktails in it (though mostly whiskey in a crystal glass which can be fine on cold, rainy, or bluesy days), I thought I would provide the above recipe. I went with Lydia to see The King's Speech last Friday, even though I had already seen it. It was a cold (for Los Angeles) rainy day, and seemed the perfect time to be indoors at the movies (other appropriate times are when the temps soar over 100, but that's months and months away). Lydia doesn't see a lot of movies out at the theaters. She's a busy chica and her work entails a long commute. So time is of her essence, and these days with ads, interminable trailers, and the length of movies, going to see a film can tie up an entire afternoon or evening. Time that she doesn't always have to spare, or that she'd rather spend SHOPPING. But I knew I could get her out to see this because of one of the film's elements. And that element is Colin Firth.

Lyd and I have been friends for a long time, but only recently did we discover that we shared this Bridgette Jonesesque Colin Firth thing. Mine started back in 1987 after seeing him in a PBS series on Masterpiece Theatre which was, I believe, entitled Lost Empires. He was young (as was I, come to think of it). Lydia discovered him after seeing him in A&E's Pride and Prejudice. Think of that series as his version of Last of the Mohicans which put Daniel Day-Lewis on the map for a lot of American women. But I don't want to write too much about that because Daniel Day-Lewis could be a whole 'nother post or two or three.

So, back to Colin Firth. After seeing him in Los Empires back in the late '80s, I searched the video store in hope of finding him in movies. A couple of "country" movies came up, and I eagerly rented them. One was Another Country which also had a young Rupert Everett in it. The other was A Month in the Country, which, as I recall without checking here, also starred Kenneth Branagh. Billy called this our Colin Firth Film Festival. In truth, this became a contentious point in time which came to a head, if memory serves, after we rented A Handful of Dust (which Colin Firth was not in). After viewing that film, Billy put down a moritorium on Brit films. He was running a pint or so low on chase scenes, and had pretty much had it with World War I told from the British point of view. Luckily I had gotten a good fix of Firth movies before that point.

So where does George Clooney come in to all of this? Well, here's the thing. I really get the Colin Firth thing. I get the Daniel Day-Lewis thing.  Both of those in a BMW (big major way), in fact. But I must make a confession: I never really got the George Clooney thing. That is, until I experienced him in a movie where I really, really liked him. And that movie was, The Fantastic Mr. Fox. Now, if you're familiar with this movie at all, you know that he's not visually in it. It's animated. And if you saw the film, you know how good it was, and how good he was voicing the main character. And maybe that's where he got me. The voice. Like Colin Firth, for me, it's the voice. Cary Grant? Voice.

OK, now I've done it. I've simply got to digress and, at least briefly, write about Cary Grant. For a long time I have believed that Cary Grant movies are the best antidepressant on the market (with no harmful side-effects, plus affordable!). I don't love them all. Some are decidedly better than others. And I own most of those better ones. I started collecting them some time back and have a pretty good DVD library of them. Don't know why this is, but they always work for me. Bad mood? The blues? Mean reds (which is worse than the blues, as Holly Golightly pointed out)? Try Cary Grant movies -- especially my favorite, The Awful Truth. It will do much to uplift and pull you right out of it. You must trust me about this.

Perhaps some day, I'll collect George Clooney films to yankify this thing that I have with British actors. Don't know why I have that, but I am reminded that my late father, who was a first generation American raised by an English father (and in a very English way, it appeared) once dissed my affection for Greta Garbo films.

"Don't you like Greta Garbo, Dad?" I asked.

He shook his head. "She was a cold fish," he stated.

Cold fish, I thought? This from a conservative and proper father who was strict about manners, never cursed (wouldn't even let me use the word bitchen in our home), nor told an off-color joke. Had that thing which Freud called sex raised it's ubiquitous head in this conversation?

"Well, then, what actresses did you like better?" I questioned. I figured I'd cut straight to the chase. However, even with the cold fish comment, I expected him to come up with Greer Garson.

"Sophia Loren," he said, in a shot. No thinking about it. It was Sophia all the way.

I would love to say that this conversation finished on a witty note, but it was difficult for me to respond with my mouth hanging open. Dad?!?

Well, he had good taste and to prove it, next time you're feeling blue, try Houseboat. A lot of bang for your buck, as you get Sophia AND Cary. Antipasto and antidepressants, so to speak. And while you're Netflixing, do order The Fantastic Mr. Fox. If you're not getting the George Clooney effect yet, this may do it for you. If not, I hope, like Lydia and me, that you have Colin Firth to fall back on. Thanks for reading my blog, and le sigh . . .