Our dear sistah in New Orleans, Cow Queen, sent us a wonderful new cookbook “Cooking Up a Storm.” It’s a collection put together by the New Orleans newspaper in response to Hurricane Katrina stricken readers who had lost recipes clipped out of the paper over the years. It’s a very clever idea; I think all cooks have a stack of clippings that they would hate to lose. I have a binder filled with them, some of them decades old that I’ve never made, but fully intend to one day, and others that I turn to time after time.
So we were leafing through the book and ran across a cocktail called The Bushwacker. Composed of ice cream and run and liqueurs, it sounded most enticing and it was. R Man and Urban Street Pirate and I ran up a blender full and then kept sending Pirate into the kitchen for another round. We finally stopped after four. The recipe had included a gay little caveat “Be careful, they go down easy!” How very true. Unfortunately, in my case, they also came up, perhaps not easily, but certainly spectacularly.
I threw up everything but my toenails. I was heaving things I had consumed during the Clinton administration. I puked things from another dimension, like a bad Star Trek episode.
I mentioned in my earlier post about drinking Cosmos with the boys that I had gotten tipsy after one potent cocktail. Now it appears that not only can I not hold my liquor, I can’t even hold it down.
Fine, fine. I don’t care. If you want me, I’ll be right over here, back on the wagon, attempting to memorize the Ladies’ Temperance League’s Oath.