from
The New Yorker, September 14, 2009, page
54
EASY COCKTAILS FROM THE
CURSING MOMMY
BY IAN FRAZIER
Those high-priced
bartenders in their red vests and white shirts
who your caterers recommended to serve at your
last party may know a thing or two, but for
entertaining on a smaller scale—for parties
of seven people, four, or even just one—a
few simple steps to the perfect cocktail are all
you’ll ever need. Take, for example, this
drink I’m drinking right now. Where the hell
did I put it? I just set it down five minutes
ago. I had it when I was watching the news, I
know that. Now what in hell could I have done
with it? O.K.—I found it, thank heavens. I
must have set it here on the stairs when I went
to throw away the mail. Anyway, as I was saying,
making this particular drink, which happens to be
a vodka gimlet, is simplicity itself, once you
know how.
Plus, it’s so delicious! The tangy tartness
of the lime juice combined with the antiseptic
astringency of the icy-cold vodka—wonderful.
Now, normally in this column the Cursing Mommy
does not endorse any company, product, or
institution, but just this once I’m going to
make an exception, because, what the hell—I
use Rose’s Lime Juice. It’s perfect for
gimlets, so I always keep a few extra bottles in
reserve in case I run out, as in fact I did just
a few minutes ago when I mixed the drink I’m
finishing now. The backup bottles, which are down
here on the bottom shelf of the liquor
cabinet—don’t tell me they’re not
here. Please don’t fucking tell me the
Rose’s Lime Juice is not fucking here.
If Larry took my last spare bottle to use in his
fucking Sno-Kone machine, by Christ, I swear
I’ll—oh, thank God. Here it is, back
behind the Kahlúa and the walnut liqueur. Whew.
That was a close one.
Anyway, you take your Rose’s Lime Juice, you
take your favorite gimlet glass (which, for me,
is the one I was just using), and—fuck. I
have lost my drink again. Somebody please tell me
I have not lost my stupid goddam fucking drink
again! O.K., it has to be close by, because I had
it right before I was hunting around on all fours
in front of the liquor cabinet. Wait a
minute—can this be it? Here on the counter
behind the flour cannister? I don’t think
this is it. I’ll just take a sip
and—Phewww!! Gahhh! Disgusting! This must be
the drink I couldn’t find night before last.
Fucking ants in it. Drowned ants. Good Christ,
what was I thinking?
O.K., we have established that that was
definitely not the glass I was looking for. In
situations like this, the Cursing Mommy
recommends that you take three deep breaths,
concentrate inwardly on some attractive and
relaxing vacation scene, and scream
“Fuck!” at the top of your lungs.
There—I feel better. Don’t you?
Usually at about this time of the evening I must
begin making dinner. Larry and the kids will be
home soon. Fortunately, however, tonight is Make
Your Own Goddam Dinner Night, a recently
instituted family ritual I shared with you in
last week’s column. So basically I
don’t have to worry about that. Instead,
what I’m going to do is just close my eyes,
wait until I regain a sense of calm, and when I
open them again my missing gimlet glass is going
to be right in front of me.
Oh, fucking hell. Could I possibly have left it
down in the basement? Of course
not—that’s ridiculous. I haven’t
even been down in the basement, not since I vowed
I wouldn’t touch another piece of laundry
today even if it meant the clothes already in the
washer mildewed and rotted away. Regular
followers of this column know that at about this
point every week the Cursing Mommy flips out due
to one problem or another and begins cursing a
lot, throwing things, and giving people the
finger. Somehow, however, I don’t think
it’s quite appropriate to go to those
extremes over a problem as minor as a misplaced
cocktail glass. Instead, I will begin a
systematic search, accompanying myself meanwhile
with a sort of general, all-around cursing out of
various deserving individuals and things.
For starters, God damn to hell my father’s
fucking girlfriend, who expects me to do all the
food and the cleanup at his seventy-fifth
birthday party, and then she’ll take all the
credit for herself, such a fucking jerk. Fuck the
township, also, for changing fucking Bulky Waste
Day from Monday to Friday and now I have to haul
all that shit that I carried down this morning
back up from the curb or they’re going to
give us a ticket, the fucking bureaucratic
red-tape, petty, time-server assholes. And, just
in passing, fuck the fucking Bush
Administration—I know they’re not in
power anymore, but fuck them anyway, because
they’re such a bunch of fucks. And on the
subject of stupid fucks, fuck the—
FUUUUUUUCK! OW! JESUS CHRIST! FUCKING SHIT! I
STUBBED MY FUCKING TOE! OW OW OW! JESUS! FUCKING
LARRY LEFT THAT FUCKING BOX OF ADAPTERS IN THE
MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING DINING-ROOM FLOOR, THE
FUCKING IDIOT! WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT STUPID
FUCKING BOX DOING THERE! I TOLD HIM TO PUT THOSE
FUCKING ADAPTERS AWAY! FUCK! OW! FUCK!
(Pause.)
People say that when you misplace an object in
your home, instead of tearing the place apart
looking for it, you should just be patient, and
the object you are looking for will eventually
turn up. And now we see the accuracy of this
saying, because as I sit here on the dining-room
floor cursing and massaging my goddam stubbed
toe, I notice that over there on the floor, just
behind the door to the kitchen, is the stupid
fucking cocktail glass I was looking for. And,
thanks be to merciful God, there is still a fair
amount of drink remaining in it, so I’ll
down it now. What a fucking terrible day this has
been.
Next week the Cursing Mommy will show you how
to put up the decorations for a child’s
birthday party all by yourself with no help from
your fucking husband. Watch for her column,
entitled, “God Damn This Tape Dispenser to
Hell: Party Decorating Tips from the Cursing
Mommy.” |
|