I was not one of those kids who begged for more maraschino cherries in my shirley temple. I didn’t even eat the cherry in my shirley temple. That florescent, almost transparent red freaked me out but good. And so it was.

Then I made some spiced brandied cherries. And I ate one. I cannot imagine the person who would eat one of those and not think of making a manhattan with them. Well, I actually can imagine such a person. I even know several of them, but you get my point. To eat one of these delights is, for me, to think of a manhattan.

So I softened my position on cherries in drinks, if but lightly.

Then this past week I have twice – twice mind you – put cherries where I had never put cherries before. It was like I hardly knew myself.

First I put them in what would have been a gin and tonic but which, by muddling a few cherries before shaking the gin and a squirt of lime juice with them before straining that over ice and adding some tonic to the whole thing, became something else entirely. Neither particularly sweet nor fruity, since the bitter tonic canceled that out; nor bitter and a bit tart like a gin and tonic because, well, there were muddled cherries sweetening the proceedings up a bit. It really was a whole new drink and my dad and I enjoyed them thoroughly while my mom, who likes not cherries nor gin nor tonic, made a face at us.

Then – and given my family’s slavish devotion to my dad’s master margarita recipe and generations-long disdain of flavored or fruity margaritas I can hardly believe I did this – I made a cherry margarita. Again, I muddled some cherries, added one shot of tequila and half as much lime juice, shook it all together, and strained it over ice. I left out the triple sec I would normally use because I didn’t want it getting too sweet. It didn’t. It got cherry.

If I’d thought ahead I would have made a coconut drink and some kind of blueberry cocktail and had a real theme for the holiday weekend for you. Enjoy the fireworks – I’ll be watching them from a boat in northern Minnesota with, if experience tells me anything, my hands held tightly over my son’s ears as his little hands hold my hands firmly in place.

It’s five where I am. It’s officially cocktail hour. I’m going to go pour myself a gin and tonic. I’d like to say I’m going to sip it gracefully on a veranda, but the truth is I’ll probably suck it down and make a second one before I get outside and get my bare feet in that cool grass. It’s been that kind of week. Oh wait, it’s only Tuesday.

It was *hot* in a chilled-bone-warming way briefly this weekend and refreshments were in much demand. We hadn’t had tinto de verano since last summer, so I mixed a couple up for my dashing husband and myself (Ernest had just the sparkling lemonade) while the three of us played a rousing game of Monopolgy Junior.

What is tinto de verano, you ask? Well, it’s what many (most?) people think sangria is. People seem to think that sangria is light little mixture of wine and fruit juice/pieces of fruit. Which it sort of is except for the fact that – traditionally anyway – sangria is made with wine and fruit and booze. In short, sangria is more alcoholic than wine, which surprises a lot of people. Tinto de verano (summer wine!), on the other hand, is red wine and lemon soda. In Spain it is sometimes made with 7-Up or Sprite (like a spritzer! hello 1976!), but more often with the same stuff  I like to use: sparkling lemonade. I do about half red wine and half sparkling lemonade (both room temperature) over a glass chock full of ice. That way it gets diluted a bit because – and take this as the warning it is – this stuff goes down like Kool-Aid.

I have a bit of a quandry over this cocktail. I prefer a gin martini. Vastly prefer, in fact, since gin has, you know, actual flavor. And yet… I made some cucumber-infused vodka. So… I tried them both. One just a gin martini with cucumber slices shaken in the mix of gin and dry vermouth and fresh ones added in lieu of olives and the other with cucumber vodka, same process. Both very good. The cucumber vodka one was, as you might guess, more cucumbery. If you just feel like making a summery martini and don’t feel like messing around with infusing vodka, however, the gin version is mighty tasty.

If you need more of a recipe to make a martini than the hints I’ve given above, I wrote up Cucumber Martinis with you in mind.

A grind or two of black pepper is also an option (and was how the Tofino martini was served). I’m on the fence about it though. It’s good, definitely tasty, but it does distract from the cool, subtle flavor of cucumber. Give them both (all?) a try and let me know what you think.

I was once in West Virginia (for a food writing conference at the justly famed Greenbrier Resort) and ordered a mint julep. The bartender very kindly asked me if I was certain that I knew what that was. Yes, I assured him, I did indeed. “Miss,” he said gently, “it’s a strong drink.”

He had clearly had more than one Yankee girl order what sounded like a sweet and fluffy drink only to send it back after one powerful, boozy sip. And, in fairness to his assumptions about me, I am most definitely a Northerner and I was wearing a rather sweet and fluffy dress. The kind of creamy feminine concoction that might make a person think that I like my drinks sweet and fluffy.

Nothing, of course, could be further from the truth. I like my drinks strong. Balanced, but boozy. Which was why I’d never had a mint julep before, precisely because I had thought they were sweet and fluffy. Word among the food writers at the conference, however, was that the bar was serving up some ass-kicking drinks, mint juleps in particular.

“It’s okay,” I told him, lying, “I’ve had them before.”

“You’ve had one here?” He asked.

“Yes,” I lied again, “they’re the best.” He nodded as he flashed me a smile and got to work. Out came the silver cup, in went the mint leaves and the muddling began. And then the muddling kept happening. And then he muddled that mint some more. I learned pretty much everything I know about muddling watching that man muddle, and the key is this: muddle way more than you think you need to. If you keep working at it those mint leaves will, eventually, give up all the minty-ness they have inside them to the drink.

Of course, some people prefer mint juleps made with sort of vaguely bruised mint leaves. And that’s cool. Whatever. To each their own, right? For that you just pour yourself a glass of bourbon on the rocks, scrunch up a mint leaf or two and throw them in. For a real cocktail, though, you’re going to need to work a bit. Don’t worry, I promise you’ll find it totally and completely worth the effort as soon as you take the first sip. And after a a few more sips you’ll quite happily forget all about the muddling because what happens after the muddling is this: you pour in a large amount of bourbon.

Then, if you’re a bartender at the Greenbrier, you add a large sprig of fresh mint and a faint dusting of powdered sugar and the whole thing which, remember, is served in a tall silver cup, looks about as sweet and fluffy and innocent as a drink could look. I’d never seen anything quite like it. He slid it across the bar and watched as I raised it to my lips and took a sip. Then I nodded as I flashed him a smile and got to work.

So whether you’re chomping at the bit to see who wins the Derby (sorry, but was I really supposed to resist?) or, like me, you would have to check, double-check, and triple-check when the race is because you can’t believe your luck that in randomly deciding to feature a State of the Week on your local foods website, Kentucky would fall during the week of the Kentucky Derby, I highly recommend you work a mint julep into your weekend. If you you are so fortunate to have silver or pewter cups, put them to good use. Can you see just that bit of frost that developed on the glass I used? Well, imagine what happens in a metal cup. That’s right: what happens is lots and lots of frost. It looks gorgeous and helps cool you down as the bourbon is heating you up. Specifics listed in this Mint Julep Recipe.

Marmalade bourbon sours

1/4 cup bourbon

1 Tbsp. orange marmalade

1 Tbsp. lemon juice

lots and lots of ice

Stir bourbon, marmalade, and lemon juice until marmalade dissolves. Pour over ice in a large glass (or two glasses if you’re being reasonable) and garnish with a slice of lemon.

I feel surprisingly chipper today. Perhaps it was all the salty snacks that go so very well (one may say perfectly?) with these sweet yet bitter yet boozy concoctions. Spooning out the bits of bourbon-soaked orange peel at the end is an extra treat – sort of a cocktail dessert, if you will.

The honoree seemed to enjoy them too:

My various companions’ drinks, however, made me laugh out loud. Yep, I laughed out loud as the server placed them on the table. I don’t know that I’ve ever witnessed a more ridiculous presentation. Well, here, see for yourself:

Then, to top it off, flatware arrived. This was odd, because we had declined food menus with the comment “we’re just having drinks,” so flatware seemed really unnecessary (unless it was to beat the lemongrass stalks into edibility?). But then the amuse bouche arrived. The spicy almonds and wasabi peas were, apparently, insufficiently grand for the Four Seasons, where even during cocktails one’s mouth must be offered additional amusement (hasn’t anyone shown them a picture of the drinks? I mean, come on, surely that is enough entertainment for one evening). A “polenta cake with sausage and summer tomatoes,” was placed in front of each of us. It tasted just like that sounds it would. Except the sausage was mixed into the polenta before all being made into a slightly gummy cake which gave me the notion that this whole amuse-bouche-with-cocktails thing was just a way for the kitchen to relieve itself of leftovers.

Can you see how it looks gummy and not polenta-like? Can you see the random mush?

Luckily, we had reservations at Camino. So dinner was delicious and fun, not funny. Despite others’ online complaints of small portions and short menu, I love the place. The portions are small, I guess, which just means I can eat my whole dinner. I’m into it, quite frankly. Everything we had was great. The roasted squid with potatoes and chiles was awesome. The wine list is easy and reasonable. And the lighting? It is so flattering.

Now, if only they has pink polka dotted martini glasses….

Afterwards, we tried to go to Suppenkuche, because we were feeling all 1995, but the kitchen had closed. So we headed to Absinthe. We left a few hours later happily sated with two rounds of fabulous cocktails and some remarkably pricey (!) pork rillettes. I forgot my camera or would have taken a shot of the Daedalus–whiskey, a teeny tiny bit of ginger syrup, and a twist. Yummers.