In an Instant Watch

All of this family time has admittedly gotten in the way of my own self exploration and meditation. Which is why when things slowed down on Monday, I took to my instant watch Netflix account and finished the show I had been marathoning before the holidays took their liquid toll. See, part of my praying regiment includes spending ample time alone, headphones on, watching Glenn Close kick some serious ass in Damages (side bar, Your Honor. I hesitated to watch Damages because I was still traumatized by Glenn Close's crazy from 101 Dalmations...)

Like all good things, however, Damages came to end. At least the episodes I'm allowed to access at the drop of a dime came to an end. My instant watch queue was empty. An empty instant watch queue is a very stressful thing for me. 1. I have a morbid fear of trying new things-- it isn't that uncommon. It's why so many people order the same meal from restaurants. 2. Deciding what show to marathon next is one of the most stressful things in the world. Sometimes you pick gems (10 Items of Less) and sometimes you pick duds (The Adventures of Lewis and Clark-- Superman!). I wasn't about to get hustled into watching another three episodes of Teri Hatcher having a bad hair season, so I took this selection process a little bit more seriously.

You see, I looked inwards, and over a glass of Manzanita Sol and whiskey, decided that I wanted to watch a show that wasn't going to end on me, lest I find myself in this same position in a couple of weeks. I needed to pick something that I could become addicted to and watch for years and years to come. There was really only one option, and I am proud to announce that my drinking, praying and loving has finally paid off into my first adult decision. My next Netflix marathon is Law & Order. The show has been on since the dawn of time, I'm sure God himself created it on the third or fourth day. The show has so many spinoffs, I will never run out of things to watch. I mean, SVU, CI, CMI, TMI, STD, you name it and there is a Law & Order spinoff about it. Lastly, Mariska Hargitay is the closest thing television has to a Meryl Streep.

This decision is proof that a little soul searching and a lot of Manzanita Sol can help solve any of life's problems. Until next time... drink.pray.love.

...Shame On You

Every home cook knows that there is that recipe that always plagues you. For me, it used to be Coq au Vin. And then I cooked Coq au Vin over and over using different varieties of vin until I mastered the recipe. (It turns out the problem with my coq au vin was that I ended up drinking too much of vin and not putting enough with my coq. Once I put the bottle down, my aged bird cooked up nicely and it was the hit of the potluck.

Then came Egg Nog. If you've been following this blog, you know how stressful cooking egg nog has been for me since that fateful Christmas Eve six years ago when our Egg Nog resembled sweet scrambled eggs in warm nutmeg sauce. The undrinkable putrid mess was so foul even our neighborhood scoundrel dogs left our trash cans alone for a solid two weeks.

Yesterday, I redeemed myself. Following a simpler, harder to screw up recipe, I whisked my eggs and whiskey into a tasty, delectable treat. In fact, the night cap only got better with each glass. The frothy goodness truly put me into a state of euphoria untasted since my first Round Up Margarita. Fool me once, Egg Nog, shame on you. Fool me twice... well time has told that you can't fool me twice. Have a happy holiday drinkers, prayers and lovers. I'll pour one out to you, my homies.

Fool Me Once...

Last night I returned to Aspen Creek. Why? You might ask. Why go to the same place you went to for last week's Thirsty Thursday? Why rinse and repeat those oh so delicious margaritas? The answer is simple... if ain't broken, don't fix it.

But sometimes it is broken and sometimes you must fix it. For example, Egg Nog-gate 2005. Yes folks, over a batch of two buck tasties, my sister and I decided that we were going to tread down those familiar pastures yet again. Tonight marks the fifth anniversary of our infamously undrinkable egg nog and tonight, we will attempt to set things right. We're making a new batch.

I found a simple enough recipe online (its a miracle, that Google search) and I will return here tomorrow morning to let you know how we did (if we are successful, I may not return until tomorrow afternoon). Happy Holidays, drinkers, prayers and lovers... this one goes out to you.

Holiday Cheer

Hello Drinkers, prayers and lovers. With the Holidays here, I know I've been slacking on the tracking of my life progress, but rest assured, I have drinking, praying and loving more than ever. Why, just the other day, I tried to be the life of the party by bringing a bottle of champagne for a midnight toast. Apparently midnight toasts don't mean as much to people when the following day is a casual Saturday and not a national holiday.
Still, speaking of champagne and Holiday cheer, I was asked earlier what punch I was going to concoct for the Tshuma family Holiday spread. With only a few days to plan, I meditated on it this afternoon and decided I would make a punch bowl full of French 75s.
This cocktail, folks, isn't for the weak, which is why I'm choosing this joyous occasion to spike my family's Christmas with it. The simple blend of gin, champagne, lemon juice and simple syrup is so delicate, even the slightest variation in the recipe can result in an undrinkable mess. My family is sure to be pleased with the outcome (and after eggnoggate of 2005, I need to redeem myself).
I'm sure by now you are asking yourself "Why this? Why now? Why this cocktail?" in your best Meredith Grey voice. The answer to those questions, ladies and gents, is that I'm raising the stakes. After a couple of weeks of finding myself, I'm no closer than I was when I began this journey. The me I'm looking for is still out there, and I'm thinking a little class in a glass will point me in the right direction.
Have a great Holiday week, and stay tuned for more Holiday recipes later in the week. J'arrive!

Thirsty Thursday

Last night was Thirsty Thursdays, a long standing tradition that dates back to the early 1700s when the first Continental Congress would meet at a pub outside of Philadelphia to get their pre-TGIF drink on. Gone are the days of Five O'clock Somewhere Fridays... the new start to the weekend is indeed Thursday night. Patience just simply isn't an American virtue.

Which led me to last nights drink. $3 margaritas at Aspen Creek. Yes, folks you heard that right. A bar modeled after a lodge in what might be Colorado's hoity-toitiest of spots was mixing up the devil's brew left and right for precisely 300 pennies. And so I drank and prayed in a fashion that reminded me of my days in college, running to Macado's five minutes before the end of happy hour and ordering three drinks at the discounted price of one (for fifteen glorious minutes last night, my $3 margs were actually $2... thank you Happy Hour). I can just imagine Benji Franklin and Sammy A. doing the same in the days of yore... and then waking up on Friday morning and phoning it in through the day... until five o'clock that is.

Drink. Pray. Love.

Adult Candy Stores

I've often referred to liquor stores as adult candy stores. The parallels are uncanny: going there releases an endorphin only found in the rarest of places. Gorging yourself with what you get there can often end in tummy aches or vomit. The plethora of headache inducing goodness stock the shelves in brightly colored rows that can simultaneously be exhilarating and overwhelming. For me, walking down the tequila aisle at Two Bucks reminds me so much of the Jelly Belly aisle at The Candy Store in Parks Mall, I sometimes think I'm twelve years old all over again. But no-- I'm 21.

Perhaps the most uncanny parallel is the effect that candy stores have on your wallet. When I was twelve, I used to shop till I dropped. I'd get dropped off at the mall before my mom went in to work and shop for eight full hours until she came to pick me back up. Along the way, I'd spend hours and hours at The Candy Store (that was the oh so creative name of the candy store, btw) using my hard earned allowance on Jolly Ranchers, Sour Patch Kids and diabetes until I'd reach into my pockets and find that there was nothing left.

And so is the case now my friends. Since that fateful 21st birthday, any spare change I could round up has gone straight into the cash register at Specs (or Riverside Liquor on classless days) in exchange for vodka, rum and puckers sour grape. Some call it excessive. I say I'm just trying to get in touch with my inner child without attracting Chris Hanson or neighborhood watch. And because of the soul searching that's been going on for the past week and half, I have to say... getting in touch with my inner child has never been more fun.

Recipe of the Week

Drinking, praying and loving isn't for the week. Why, just the other day I felt like it wasn't for me either. Then the weekend came and all was returned to perspective. It was one cocktail in particular that did for me and returned me to my drinking ways. The recipe is simple, so grab a glass and go for it.

2 oz Grape Vodka (3 Olives)
Top with Champagne

Literally, all you have to do is pour a shot of vodka, top with champagne, stir and enjoy. When it comes to simple holiday magic, there is nothing as tasty as this little gem. Points for drinking it with a straw... it really takes those bubbles straight to the head. Feliz Monday, folks.

Nog, Nog, Who's Home?

It's been four days since I began drinking, praying and loving and I must say, I know more about myself than ever. Case in point: I learned just the other day that I will consume anything with the flavor of egg nog in it.

Just yesterday, I was at the local H.E.B. for a routine refill of lotion, deo and toothpaste when I took a trip to the dairy aisle to see if the classic holiday treat was in stock. I thought "Mark, you're here at the local H.E.B., why not make today's cocktail egg nog?" It seemed like a no brainer at the time.

Unfortunately, I was sidelined. On my way to the dairy section to pick up the egg nog, I was forced to pass the ice cream section. And there, to my left, was Bryers (or Dryers... I can never tell) slow-churn special edition egg nog flavored ice cream. Thinking to myself "Mark, you love egg nog... you love ice cream... why not try this sure to be delectable treat," I picked up the two-pinter and headed to the check out counter.

On the walk home, praying my ice cream wouldn't melt too much that I'd have to refreeze it before diving in with my spoon, I had some pretty sobering thoughts. Just because you like egg nog doesn't mean you'll like egg nog flavored things. I happen to have a good friend who loves cherries. She tells me all the time how much she loves cherries. But when it comes to cherry flavored anything, she can't stand the thought. From jolly ranchers, to limeades, add cherry flavoring to something and she'll punch you. Give her a cherry and she'll kiss you.

I must admit, I thought this all the way home. I was ready for the surefire disappointment that was sure to come. This egg nog ice cream that I had been so pumped about was destined to be my cherry jolly rancher... and it's not like I'd be able to return it when it failed to live up to the glory.

Refusing to be deterred, I returned home, took out my spoon and did, indeed, dive in. From the first bite, I knew... this wasn't a cherry jolly rancher. The creamy thickness of the ice cream took me back to the second time I ever tasted egg nog and all was right (The first time I tasted egg nog, my sister and I attempted to make our own brew. We substituted white rum for bourbon/whiskey and used twice the amount the recipe called for because we were convinced that rum had less alcohol content and therefore should be doubled in the recipe. Needless to say, the curdled watery mess didn't pass the taste bud inspection and all we were left with was a kitchen that could have passed for a meth lab circa 2002 and no eggs to cook breakfast the next morning.)

It was after I enjoyed two thirds of the two-pint in one sitting that I nodded off into day-dream land thinking of all of the wonderful things that would taste just a little bit better if they were infused by the flavor of egg nog: pudding mix, lattes, and of course jolly ranchers. Until next time.

Drink. Pray. Love.

Like Phoenix Trash

My first attempt into strategic meditating came last night as I was taking out the trash. To me, it was a metaphor of taking the trash out of my life. As I tried to dissect what that trash was as I walked down three flights of stairs to a trash box the size of a two-by-two trailer, I was overwhelmed at the thought of ridding my life of trash. Where do you start? Where do you trim? What if some of the trashiest things you do are also some of the funnest? Who decides? How do you choose?

So I decided to start simple. I would give up trash that I didn’t care too much about: smoking cigarettes during the daytime. You see, I don’t smoke during the daytime, so this is a piece of trash I am sure to successfully rid myself of. Starting with something that you know you can do is the key to a meditative decision, especially when you are a novice at making meditative decisions. After coming up with that genius plan, I went home and fixed myself a cocktail: boxed wine and Parrot Bay pineapple rum. It was a fruity, refreshing summery surprise and a reminder that it is time to go pick up some mixers from the HEB.

Drink. Pray. Love.

The Beginning

As I sit here in my apartment wondering what next to do with my life, I realize that all the trouble began because I'd never found myself. I'd always heard of people finding themselves... going on spiritual journey's to discover who they really are and what they really want to be. Now it's my turn. 365 days. 365 cocktails. 365 different ways to meditate, appreciate and learn to love myself, my drink and my life. This, my friends and family, is Drink. Pray. Love.