In further attempt to fill the void in my heart and soul, left gaping by a lack of free pancakes, I stopped by at my local grocery store, which features a fine wine and liquor section, to assuage my desire for carbohydrates with something along the fermented variety. I decided to grab a bottle of syrah, to have on hand, and quickly found one for a reasonable quotidian price and with an endearing label design. I also picked up a cheaper white wine, from Germany, to use for cooking some more risotto later this week.
At this particular grocer establishment, probably to curb alcohol purchasing by unassuming minors, the wine section is partitioned from the rest of the store, complete with a separate register generally commanded by an older hound dog type of gentleman. After making my selection and budget wine purchases, I danced through the grocery aisles, grabbing more chicken stock for my risotto, and impulse grabbing some cookies.
As I approach the grocery check out, I breathe a sigh of relief: no line. I enter a non-express lane and place my two rather incongruous items onto the conveyor belt, smiling kindly at the young man-child-boy check out clerk, some gentleman floundering in the vortex of eternal physical prepubescence. Reaching into my over sized, briefcase-inspired leather work purse for my gold cigarette case turned wallet, which often causes me to falter since it does not shut properly, I placed my wine bottles on the counter ledge for better mobility.
"Hope you are saving those, you know, for Friday," man-child-boy remarks, his voice dripping with completely unwarranted judgment and disdain. When I stared, sort of confused, he repeated himself, in an even more obnoxious tone.
For his information, I had spent a rather long day in the office, the day prior, preparing for an important teleconference and completing four molasses-paced training modules on ethics and compliance for a client. I am not on my salary, at the moment, and am still not entirely sure about the status of my health care. On top of this, I am chasing wildly after recruiters and desperately trying to woo new potential employers. At the end of the day, however, if I want to enjoy a glass of relaxing, and anticarcinogenic, red wine with my handsome beau, I can and I will, with or without any one's approval. I swiped my card with an air of vehement surprise and scoffing, gathered my two bags, and clicked my heels out to my car with a hopeful superior swing of my hips.
The label, as I mentioned, is charming. Though I had contemplated opening this bottle for a night cap, the smirk on the man-boy's face compelled me to, instead, opt for a stiffer, more opulent late evening libation: a lemon drop. And no, I most likely will not be saving this bottle until Friday evening.
These vintage cocktail glasses have subtle polka dots etched within the bowl; adorable. I am fairly certain if I were some rampant wino, as some unimportant stranger suggested with his snide statement, I would not care about the aesthetics of my glass and the precise ingredients of my drink.
Freshly squeezed lemon juice is the best; I add about an ounce to my lemon drops.
My little green mermaid is hanging out and basking in revelry, with this grand and glamorous giraffe, while lemon peel garnishes float on in silent contemplation, beautifully bathed in gin.
No lemon drop is complete without a well sugared rim. The filmmaker dipped this cocktail glass austerely, ceremonially, making a perfect circle of sucrose, while I shook and shook my ice and drink in the shaker. Shaking needs to be vigorous and lively to ensure a well chilled drink.
Eat your heart out, under aged grocery employee. Earlier yesterday, while still toiling and sweating, earning my keep for classy traditional cocktails and more shoes, I heard a Carl Brisson rendition of "Cocktails for Two," from the 1930s. A sweet and lovely song, perfect for the wise and romantic soul.