We're coming to the end of a long dry spell. Billy and I both gave up all alcoholic beverages for Lent. I had my last drink on Monday February 11th, the day before Fat Tuesday. I was dancing on that Tuesday, and I rarely have a drink when I am out dancing. I can't remember what that last drink was on that long-ago Monday. Probably scotch, and most likely The Macallan Single Malt. An 18-year old; old enough to be out on its own, as was said about an even longer-aged scotch whiskey in the film Local Hero. We don't often drink that rather pricey scotch (we generally hang out with 12-year olds which better matches our maturity level), but to paraphrase Dorothy Parker, fornication like this there should be 18-year old highland single malt scotch. It was the last hurrah for forty-six long, and almost unsurvivable days--John Kerry (our new go-to term for Just Kidding).
Seriously, there is no drinking problem here. Like the old joke, we like to drink, we drink, what's the problem? We more or less adhere to the recommended quantity limits which, for women, is 50% of the limit recommended for men. I think we ladies can have about five to seven drinks a week with some health benefit and minimal, though currently-debatable, health hazard. What I feel about drinking is pretty much the same as I feel about eating butter, or dancing with Latino men. It's like that other old joke about the man who goes to the doctor and asks: Doctor, if I give up smoking and drinking and chasing women, will I live a much longer life? And the doctor replies: No, but it will feel like it. Trust me, Lent feels like a lot, lot longer than forty-six days.
But I have to report that the desire for a cocktail or beer or glass of wine (we are equal opportunity drinkers) lasts for about ninety minutes between around 4:30 and 6:00 pm. And my new drink of choice, Beck's non-alcoholic beer with a lime wedge, pretty much satisfies. I've always thought that my acquired taste for alcohol is rather equal to my desire for the buzz. So, it's been manageable. Although Billy reported that the first Saturday night when he was driving up our driveway at the end of his work week, he realized that he really wanted a martini. Evidently, that freaked him out a little, as he asked me if I thought that meant there was a problem. I told him that I would think so only if he had to give in to that. Like, a couple of Saturdays ago I really, really (really!) wanted McDonald's french fries. So much so, that I had to cave and buy a small bag of them. While there are times that I think I could use a 12-step program to get the french fry monkey off my back, I'm not overly concerned about it, and our Saturday night martinis while we are preparing dinner together are simply part of the routine. A very missed part of the routine...
The respite in all of this was St. Patrick's Day which passed this past Sunday. We always take a St. Patrick's Day gap day in our annual Lent observance. We are an irish home, and that day is not going to pass without observance, and observance means, amongst other things, Irish Whiskey--either Bushmills, or the more politically-correct Jameson. And I was looking forward to this. But it didn't quite turn out as expected.
First of all, we had rain-check plans with our friends, Todd and Christopher, and they are not meat-eaters. That got me off the hook of the corned beef thing, though I think I make pretty good corned beef which is glazed and roasted after being boiled, and turns into sortakinda Irish beef carnitas or pulled pork. I don't do the cooked cabbage, but I do those amazing roasted brussels sprouts which you can make by adapting a recipe in a previous post entitled Roasted Broccoli and Shrimp (available here all of the time mas o menos). Anyway, none of that this year. It turned out that we had neither Irish Whiskey nor martinis (the old standby). And that's ok. I started St. Patrick's Day off when I arrived home at 12:15 am after a night of salsa dancing and poured myself a half-shot of Cuervo Gold. I could have had more; I could have had better tequila. But the 3/4 ounce of cheap tequila served it's celebratory purpose in a weird sort of Carlos O'Brien's kind of way. I sipped it while I undid what I had done about four hours before (salsa requires suiting up like a matador), then turned off lights, and prepared myself and the house for bed. I brushed my teeth last thing, but I could still taste a bit of that sweet agave flavor as I drifted off.
On Sunday afternoon, we shared a Guinness, then went off to meet our friends at their fab place in an industrial area of Downtown LA, where we shared a lovely bottle of Bollinger brut. We went to RD-40 for dinner (I had misread their text and thought we were going to R-23 for sushi--is it my eyes or attention span that is diminishing?), and shared a bottle of Viognier. It was all good. I thought we might each have a half-shot of Bushmills when we got home, but we were bushed in a different way. Yesterday morning the ordeal of deprivation began again. I'm really John Kerry. It's actually been a very positive experience for me in most ways, though I have also been making subtle changes in my diet so it's hard to know the benefit in a chicken-and-egg situation like this.
Will we do this again next year? Perhaps. But maybe it's not enough of a challenge. I think it would be a greater challenge for Billy to give up television. Not that we watch a lot of television together, but it is his go-to passive entertainment of choice when I am not around. And what about me? Well, I've been telling people that I'm going to give up irony and cynicism. In response to that, TWO(2) of my friends remarked that they don't think it that is a good idea as it will only pile up. After a beat (especially when the first one said it), I replied: I said irony not ironing! Truth be told, I gave up ironing, for the most part, a long time ago, along with that other heinous chore which is vacuuming. Though both might be less painless with a shot of tequila or irish whiskey to take the sting out of the endeavor. I'll give that a shot (or a half a shot) in about twelve days...Thanks for reading my blog, drinkers and ironers alike. And may the wind be always at your back...
The respite in all of this was St. Patrick's Day which passed this past Sunday. We always take a St. Patrick's Day gap day in our annual Lent observance. We are an irish home, and that day is not going to pass without observance, and observance means, amongst other things, Irish Whiskey--either Bushmills, or the more politically-correct Jameson. And I was looking forward to this. But it didn't quite turn out as expected.
First of all, we had rain-check plans with our friends, Todd and Christopher, and they are not meat-eaters. That got me off the hook of the corned beef thing, though I think I make pretty good corned beef which is glazed and roasted after being boiled, and turns into sortakinda Irish beef carnitas or pulled pork. I don't do the cooked cabbage, but I do those amazing roasted brussels sprouts which you can make by adapting a recipe in a previous post entitled Roasted Broccoli and Shrimp (available here all of the time mas o menos). Anyway, none of that this year. It turned out that we had neither Irish Whiskey nor martinis (the old standby). And that's ok. I started St. Patrick's Day off when I arrived home at 12:15 am after a night of salsa dancing and poured myself a half-shot of Cuervo Gold. I could have had more; I could have had better tequila. But the 3/4 ounce of cheap tequila served it's celebratory purpose in a weird sort of Carlos O'Brien's kind of way. I sipped it while I undid what I had done about four hours before (salsa requires suiting up like a matador), then turned off lights, and prepared myself and the house for bed. I brushed my teeth last thing, but I could still taste a bit of that sweet agave flavor as I drifted off.
On Sunday afternoon, we shared a Guinness, then went off to meet our friends at their fab place in an industrial area of Downtown LA, where we shared a lovely bottle of Bollinger brut. We went to RD-40 for dinner (I had misread their text and thought we were going to R-23 for sushi--is it my eyes or attention span that is diminishing?), and shared a bottle of Viognier. It was all good. I thought we might each have a half-shot of Bushmills when we got home, but we were bushed in a different way. Yesterday morning the ordeal of deprivation began again. I'm really John Kerry. It's actually been a very positive experience for me in most ways, though I have also been making subtle changes in my diet so it's hard to know the benefit in a chicken-and-egg situation like this.
Will we do this again next year? Perhaps. But maybe it's not enough of a challenge. I think it would be a greater challenge for Billy to give up television. Not that we watch a lot of television together, but it is his go-to passive entertainment of choice when I am not around. And what about me? Well, I've been telling people that I'm going to give up irony and cynicism. In response to that, TWO(2) of my friends remarked that they don't think it that is a good idea as it will only pile up. After a beat (especially when the first one said it), I replied: I said irony not ironing! Truth be told, I gave up ironing, for the most part, a long time ago, along with that other heinous chore which is vacuuming. Though both might be less painless with a shot of tequila or irish whiskey to take the sting out of the endeavor. I'll give that a shot (or a half a shot) in about twelve days...Thanks for reading my blog, drinkers and ironers alike. And may the wind be always at your back...
No comments:
Post a Comment