Monday, February 23, 2009

The Cocktail Hour

My husband George makes the most amazing, blended Margaritas. As a matter of fact, I rarely need to consult the calendar to know when summer is upon us. Like Yosemite's grizzly bears, our Williams Sonoma blender suddenly emerges from it's winter hibernation - crammed in the cupboard of our butler's pantry to make it's much anticipated seasonal appearance on the wet bar by our swimming pool. Like a trusted friend, it will remain there all summer. Loyal and unwavering, our blender sees us through Memorial day weekend, the doggiest of summer's dog days, and even into Indian summer, which in LA lasts until Halloween. Now, I've had a TON of Margaritas in my life - but none can hold a candle to the magic Margarita turned out by my spouse. George is not a more-is-better Margarita type of guy. As gay as we are - we don't 'do' strawberry, peach, watermelon or chocolate (heaven forbid) Margaritas. We are old school - straight blended Margarita with our without salt - if any of our friends have the audacity to request fruit in their drinks, we kindly but firmly suggest they visit their nearest El Torito.

Many of our drunk and aggresive friends have pressed George for the recipe. Like a secret elixir - he guards the recipe jealously. I have been married to the man for 14 years, and have yet to learn the components. One night, shitfaced, George became unusually vocal regarding the origin of the magic Margarita recipe. While not disclosing the recipe itself, I came to learn that my husband's secret recipe wasn't actually his - but was gleaned from his nanny - a mysterious woman named Sylvia. This came as somewhat of a surprise to me, as I had heard Sylvia's name mentioned (in the hushest of hush tones) several times by my husband's family. When I innocently inquired after Sylvia's last name, country of origin, household duties and present whereabouts, nervous looks were exchanged and the subject was quickly changed. I concluded that Sylvia was either unceremoniously fired for some petty household pilfering, or George's family had strangled her for the magic Margarita recipe and had been haphazardly buried in the lush Avocado orchard that abutted their San Diego home. Not only did Sylvia bequeath (I intentionally use this term, as I'm relatively certain my in-laws murdered this woman) her magic Margarita recipe - but also passed along an outstanding recipe for Guacamole that my enterprising in-laws have turned into a successful avocado empire ironically named Holy Guacamole.

(To Be Continued)

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