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Every evening at 5 p.m. it begins: the cacophony of blenders, shakers, stirrers, along with the clinking of ice. It signals the end of the workday like the closing bell, pulling us from our screens and into the living room, where my husband Daniel is waiting, eager to introduce us to his latest concoction. Maybe it will be “The Bishop" tonight or the “Smoky Robinson,” or the "Godfather.” We gather round, eagerly anticipating what he has come up with this time. But now it is our turn to wait. First, he styles it with thematic props. Then he photographs it for his Facebook and Instagram feeds. Both require patience from our palate, particularly if the shot requires a ladder or his lying on the ground as he did recently for “The Tulip,” placing the orange drink in a tulip-shaped glass among a bed of, yes, tulips.
My husband’s promise to make us a new cocktail each day during quarantine (we are now on day 70), began as a stiff drink in plain stemware and has now taken on a life of its own. He has gathered hundreds of social media followers. Friends mail us cocktail glasses and gift us their old dusty bottles of booze. Our once modest liquor cabinet is now filled with a dizzying array of niche liqueurs: Sour Apple Pucker, Drambuie, Nocello. Searching for my favorite Campari is now akin to finding Waldo in a crowd of Curacao, Cassis, Chartreuse, and Cynar.
On Friday, March 14, my husband and I did what we always do after work: grabbed a martini at our favorite watering hole where everybody knows our names. Within 48 hours, life changed with an abrupt suddenness: That watering hole had closed, we were no longer seeing our friends and two of our twenty-something children had hastily arrived from their apartments on the East Coast cities to shelter-in-place with us at our Michigan home As our new quarantine family-- which includes my mother and older brother -- sat watching the nightly news and our weirdly changing world, one thing became abundantly clear: we would need a drink. Every single day.
That first night, not yet knowing that this quarantine would stretch on for months, not weeks, Daniel whipped up the trendy vodka “quarantini” with a lemon twist and posted it on social media. He proceeded to move through the standard cocktail menu, mixing up everything from Manhattans and Moscow Mules to Margaritas and Mojitos, not to mention the incendiary Molotov Cocktail (vodka, kahlua, parfait d'amour, lemon juice).
But as time went on, our anxieties persisted and our thirst for distraction increased, the recipes grew in complexity and ingenuity: from the Earl Grey Herbal Cocktail (gin, lavender, lemon, and Earl Grey tea) to the Far Eastsider (St-Germain, tequila, sake, yuzu, shiso). Our content-deprived friends cheered him on virtually. For “The American Pie” (bourbon, apple liqueur, cranberry juice), he dug out my mother’s vintage etched coup glasses, which proved the perfect size for a floating horizontal Granny Smith slice. When a box of Nick-and-Nora glasses arrived from my D.C. cousins, the choice was obvious: Brandy Alexanders all around, complete with a topping of heavy cream, waistlines be dammed. When a set of old-fashioned illustrated glasses arrived, Daniel made a classic Gibson, complete with a cocktail onion. When April 15th came, and the government had decreed no taxes had to be paid because of the pandemic, we celebrated with martinis: Vodka for some, gin for others; a twist for him, olives and dirty for me.
His styling turned each nightly concoction into a photographic still-life worthy of Georgia O'Keefe. From teacups to beer steins, from the front hall to the back yard, every vessel in every cupboard has been utilized in pursuit of the most Insta-worthy photographs.
His cocktail project has also become an eclectic diary of this mind-numbing time, a narrative on the quotidian. When a windstorm threatened our power, Dan whipped up a “Dark and Stormy” (Plantation Pineapple Rum, Ginger Beer) recalling our Caribbean vacation decades ago, well before we were married. The following day—when the storm had passed without incident, but the dry ice purchased to keep the fridge cold still lay in a cooler—he cooked up a "Death Eater" (gin, Campari, sweet vermouth, and pomegranate juice topped off with the smoldering ice). Note to reader: Don’t drink until it stops smoking.
Dan served “The Last Word" (a popular pre-Prohibition drink; see below) when Trump attacked our Michigan governor and secretary of state, giving our state's female political leaders “the last word.” When it appeared that Michael Flynn’s case might be dismissed by the Justice Department, he stirred up a combination cocktail of his own design—the "Flynn Guilty Verdict" mixing the “Guilty Verdict” (orange juice and rum) with the “Flynn” (Citrus Vodka, pineapple juice, cranberry juice, triple sec) and shooting it next to our copy of the Meuller Report.
Some have been more personal: “The Highlander” (Scotch, sweet vermouth, orange bitters) was served the day our West Highland Terrier had a small, unexpected surgery. Some have just celebrated the small moments of spring: “The Purple Haze” (vodka, cranberry juice, blueberry liqueur) was chosen to match the buds that bloom in our backyard garden for one week a year.
While the social media element can feel at times superficial as we quarantine during this serious time, it has also been a powerful reminder that we can share drinks and our lives, even at a distance. And in a time when it is so easy for one day to blend into the next, it is comforting to take the time, to appreciate what made today special, even if just for a few fluid ounces.
"The Last Word"
Ingredients
3/4 ounce gin, 3/4 ounce green Chartreuse, 3/4 ounce maraschino liqueur, 3/4 ounce fresh lime juice.
Steps
Add all ingredients into a shaker with ice and shake. Double-strain into a chilled coupe glass and garnish with a maraschino cherry.