Friday, March 31, 2006
"There are only two things worth anything in life -- poetry and drinking." Richard Burton
Years ago, I worked as a bartender at an old Vietnam Vet hang-out in Mineral Wells, Texas called the Blade and Wing. It was a hard-drinking place, with peanuts in bowls that were soaked in jalepeno juice to keep people drinking. I mostly served beer and boilermakers at my job, but I loved it and especially loved inventing recipes. And writing poetry! It's a weird combination, but it seems to work. Each day, I'll be posting a drink recipe and a poem. I'll start with an old standby, the Sanguination.
This drink is akin to a margarita, but has the punch of a martini with the color of blood. It's beautiful and packs a punch. To be served in a martini glass with a salt rim. Combine the following ingredients in a martini shaker and serve as cold as possible.
2 parts tequila (preferably Silver Herrudura)
2 parts Triple Sec
3 parts lime juice
and one of the following:
splash of chambord (for a darker blood color)
splash of grenadine (for a cheerier red)
This drink is pretty all-purpose -- great for parties or to take the edge off the end of the day. You want to use a pretty high-grade tequila given that it's not watered down with ice like a margarita. Put on some Herb Alpert or Reverend Horton Heat to listen to and enjoy!
Benedictions and Maledictions --
"But some people will tell you that suffering is good for the character/ You're free to believe anything." Raymond Carver
Poem for the day -- first published in New Zoo Poetry Review
Dollar Days at Wal-Mart
My brother and his friends smeared shit on dollar bills
and waited. A few people noticed the money and bent
down to pick it up while my brother laughed until he
couldn’t breathe. An old woman didn’t even realize
what she had and stuffed a couple in her purse without
a second thought. They kept setting them out until
the police came and put all of the boys into the car,
the huge Wal-Mart getting smaller and smaller until
it might as well have not been there. "You sons of
bitches," the policeman said, "How would you like
it if you thought you found something wonderful
and it turned out to be fouled with someone’s feces?
I should rub your noses in it." The boys tried not
to laugh, but couldn’t stop themselves. Years
later, my brother would find himself with a life
he’d never dreamed of, the trashed out existence
of a man who’d never left the place he’d been born
to, and he’d remember the policeman’s words, a malediction
on a day he thought he would never stop laughing.