"The writer is a mysterious figure, wandering lonely as a cloud, fired by inspiration, or perhaps a cocktail or two."
- S. Sheridan
It's no secret that I love a good cocktail. I like a variety of spirits, from vodka to rum. I love a dirty martini and I adore a rum manhattan. Sometimes, I love them too much. Usually, just the right amount. Last night was a "just the right amount" kinda night.
My friend Lindsay stopped by at the hour of cocktails, which is a generous window - somewhere before 4:00 to somewhere past 6:00. We approach cocktails like the cable company approaches repair appointments, an undefined span of time.
Lindsay sipped his way through a few variations of manhattan and martini. I stuck with the martini. Kim was matching pace with Lindsay for spirit varieties.
The evening moved from kitchen to deck, back to kitchen, and back to deck. We snacked on turkey leg confit and one of Kim's Spanish tortillas. I located a jar of Romesco sauce, which perfectly accented the egg and potato. I also foraged a tin of anchovies, which Lindsay and Kim seemed to love (I can not eat them).
Our cocktail hour spanned an undefined bit of time, undefined because we lost track. The conversation was too good. The topics too engaging. The spirits too tasty.
Sometimes a cocktail is necessary. I find that most nights a cocktail is welcome.
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