The waning gibbous moon sits frigidly over the snowed-in Talkeetnas that ridge down into the valley some miles in the distance. The world is possessed of a fairy tale beauty, an ethereality, the general mood that things, the physical world, rests on the precipice of destruction. Wind excoriates the valley floor, sending plumes and waves of snow particulate across sidewalks and streets, funneling into corners like vagabonds, a savagery beyond compare. To say that the weather is rawboned is insufficient. This is a wholly different plane of existence, one that wrings huge grins from my otherwise bellicose mouth.
We podcasted long into the night yesterday. We three - Nick with his screwcap bottle of vin blanc, me with boxed white in an unwashed tumbler, Dan with a bomber of something 9.5% - faced each other down, digitally, as we hashed out the analysis of our cast’s selection. We discussed -
FUCK THAT. HERE’S A RECIPE:
1 tablespoon of organic honey
½ oz. of lemon juice
4 oz. trash whiskey (current jam is Canadian Mist)
4 oz. hot water
Combine honey, lemon juice, and trash whiskey in a mason jar. Stir the sludgey mix delicately with your toddler-son’s soup spoon. Bring water almost to a boil. The water should be gently cavitating. NOT VIOLENTLY. Add hot water while stirring. Enjoy the smoking beverage at your leisure as you survey the internet’s wilds.
BACK ON TRACK:
Here’s something you guys probably don’t know: I refuse to kill spiders that I find in my house. A few years ago, I took a trip wherein the expedition’s party (navigator/first mate, second mate, third mate, and junior member) and I followed (roughly) the course of the Big Muddy as she carved the continent in twain and listened to The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn on audiobook as we went. There was a line in there where Huck (or maybe Jim) says that it’s bad luck to kill a spider in your house and ever since (especially since I now live in a place where there aren’t any nasty spiders afoot) I will not kill a spider-bro in my domicile. I just let them chill, wander about, do their own thing. It’s funny to me because I know that there are folks out there who freak at the appearance of our arachnid friends, but that ain’t me. I like watching them go about their business. Who knows what the hell they’re thinking as they traverse the giant stuccoed deserts of my ceilings and walls? Perhaps they impart some sort of goodwill to the place? Who knows?
My parents used to make this thing called “ambrosia” around this time of year. They only ever made one dish and only around Christmas time. I’ve never seen (although I’ve never looked) or heard of anyone else making this recipe, but it sprung up in my brain like an errant weed and so here it is.
3 apples, peeled, cubed
2 bananas, peeled, sliced
3 oranges, peeled, cubed
4 cups whole milk
½ cup sugar.
Combine all ingredients in a large, glass bowl (METAL BOWLS MAKE IT TASTE FUNKY). Ladle out into smaller bowls for serving. It was always weirdly good, until the bananas went all brown.
GET OUT THERE. SAY YES. MAKE THE RECIPES. GET OBLITERATED.