January is Martini Month

So, I took a few weeks off from writing this thing.

I never said so out loud but my intention is to post every Sunday, and I hope to do so in the future, and yes, I know what you’re thinking: today is Monday. What can I tell you. January is the cruelest month.

My dad sent me some frozen Hatch green chiles as a Christmas gift, and I made a Colorado green chili on New Year’s Eve for some doe-eyed Easterners who had never encountered such a thing. It’s basically the best contribution that my people have ever made to global culture, unless you’re really into James Michener or Big Head Todd and the Monsters. We also like to take credit for legal weed.

I also made flour tortillas with some lard I got from the nice guys at Ends Meat, and have you ever done that? It takes half an hour and no special skill or equipment. This recipe is a good use of time. Maya made two desserts: a hazelnut panna cotta and a grapefruit pound cake. We put the leaf in the table and marked the occasion, and we didn’t make it to the house party we were supposed to go to, because we are elderly. I hope you had a good time, too.

Anna Wintour gets a 0.0

I am so god damned tired of news like this. Pitchfork has been my main source of music for as long as I can remember. As with Twitter- we used to think we hated it, and we spent a lot of time making fun of it, but in this grim new world with nothing to read, we are about to realize what we’ve lost.

Yawny Yawn Yawn

Have you read this? The author alleges that knowledge workers are exhausted by recent events, our great collective whatever the hell has been going on, as well as the new paradigm of being constantly available on Zoom and Slack and such. Managers have been concerned that our workplace efficiency may be suffering.

I bring this up for no particular reason, and would like to take this opportunity to assure any present or future employer that I am operating at peak efficiency, and not in any way zzzzzzzzz.

Wet January

I never write a novel in November, and I never experiment with sobriety in January. I’m a loner, Dottie. A rebel.

My thinking is, if you’re going to eliminate your vices, do it when it’s nice out. Never in frigid, salt-caked January, when the Christmas lights come down, and daytime is six hours long, and the whole city has seasonal affective disorder. January is the month for martinis.

The bad news is that I have never been able to make a decent martini, which makes no sense. The recipe as I understand it is: make some clear booze as cold as possible, put in a lemon rind or an olive, or both if that’s your deal, and then drink it before it warms up. I feel like I handily prepare more complex things pretty regularly, but for whatever reason, I suck at this very simple drink.

Maybe making them at home just feels sort of grotty: here I am, a man in an apartment, drinking a glass of chilly gin. Turn on the TV and we are halfway to a tragedy here. But do that in a bar, where other people doing the same thing, and somebody who maybe has a moustache or arm-garters made it, it seems almost sophisticated.

This month Maya and I have been, uncharacteristically, out, with people, in Manhattan even, and I’ve had a few notable martinis which may also have been salad recipes:

For instance, the San Sebastian Martini at Swan Room: Mahon gin, Tximista vermouth, bay leaf, basque pepper brine, anchovy olive.

Or the Hav & Martini from Hav & Mar: vodka & gin, pickled red onion, gentian, vermouth, blue cheese olive.

Going out also made me realize that I am still a socially damaged person. I’ve spent so much time in my little circle over the past few years, and I seem to have partially forgotten how to go out with adults and just have a regular time. I find myself hyper-aware of the expression on my face and the things I’m doing with my hands. I have a good time, but when we get home it’s a relief.

The pandemic was worst for the old and the young. Elders lost out on their cruises and trips to see grandkids, and were left to stultify in their drawing rooms, waiting for new episodes of TV to drop.

Meanwhile, the kids and teens went insane: forgetting how to do math, losing their best years, their proms, their first years of college, the things that they were supposed to remember and savor forever.

Those of us in the middle, at least those of us who weren’t dying, or caring for those who were, had the best of it. But we have also become weirdos. At least I did. I also keep wondering, how much of this feeling is post-pandemic PTSD, and how much of it is just getting old?

Murphy

He’s doing great, thanks for asking.