Best Of

Good Morning, Loungettes! Happy Saturday! The puppers and I had a lovely, lazy day yesterday. I treated myself to opening a bottle of wine that I brought back from the North Carolina trip last fall and lounged around with that and my favorite pub cheese and crackers watching old TV shows. The temp got all the way up over 32 degrees, so there was lots of dripping off the melting icicles on the eves, which was nice to see.

Carole--I'd like temps in the 70s, but will need to wait a couple more months for that. Still got a pretty good snow cover, but hopefully not for much longer.

mOmmy--If the aunt says flat out to let the local family handle Mom's needs, then that's final. God has spoken (through her!).

Tonight or Never Cocktail

Ingredients
• Gin: 1 ounce (3 cl, 1/4 gills)
• Dry Vermouth: 1 ounce (3 cl, 1/4 gills)
• Cognac: 1⁄2 ounce (1.5 cl, 1/8 gills)

Preparation
1. Chill Your Glass: Place a cocktail glass (approximately 4.5 ounces) in the freezer for at least 15 minutes before starting. A thoroughly chilled glass keeps the cocktail colder for longer, enhancing the drinking experience.
2. Combine Ingredients: In a cocktail shaker, combine the gin, dry vermouth, and cognac.
3. Add Ice: Fill the cocktail shaker with ice. Use large, solid ice cubes for optimal chilling and minimal dilution.
4. Shake Well: Close the shaker tightly and shake vigorously for 15-20 seconds. You should feel the shaker becoming very cold. Proper shaking is crucial for chilling the cocktail and achieving the right dilution.
5. Strain: Double strain into the chilled cocktail glass. Double straining involves using both the built-in strainer of the cocktail shaker and a fine-mesh strainer. This removes any small ice shards, resulting in a smoother, more elegant cocktail.
6. Serve Immediately: Ce Soir Ou Jamais is best enjoyed immediately. Garnish with a lemon twist, if desired.
From https://easygfrecipes.com/ce-soir-ou-jamais-tonight-or-never-cocktail-recipe/

For those who like my little stories, here's the latest:

The Great Walmart Migration: A Mother–Daughter Travelogue in Three Acts

Taking Mom shopping has begun to feel less like an errand and more like a pilgrimage—one of those ancient, multi‑day treks where travelers walked slowly, contemplated life, and occasionally got lost in the spice aisle. Mom, bless her determined little heart, still believes that every aisle contains a secret message meant just for her, and she must walk each one to discover whether she needs anything in it. This is charming in a Dollar Store, where the aisles are short and the stakes are low. In a Walmart Supercenter, however, it becomes a full‑scale expedition requiring hydration, a Sherpa, and possibly a base camp.

🛒 Act I: The Aisle‑by‑Aisle Reconnaissance
The moment we entered Walmart, Mom’s internal grocery‑shopping autopilot kicked in. Never mind that she has no stove, little fridge space, and no way to cook anything more complex than a cup of tea. She was ready to stock up for winter like a pioneer woman preparing for a blizzard.

“I could make a stew,” she said, reaching for a family‑size pack of raw carrots.
“What would you cook it in?” I asked.

“Well… I’ll get someone to help me get a pot out of storage. Where is the storage unit again? Don’t forget to leave me a key.”

This was the moment I realized we had entered the imaginary cooking portion of the outing. Talking her out of buying ingredients for meals she could neither store nor prepare required the kind of verbal gymnastics usually reserved for hostage negotiators and kindergarten teachers. I had to keep her from feeling deprived while also preventing her from purchasing a 10‑pound bag of potatoes she would have nowhere to store except her lap.

🛺 Act II: The Electric Cart Ballet
Because her walking pace has slowed to a gentle glacial drift—and because my knee was staging a protest—she used the electric cart. These carts are designed to be driven from on the cart, not beside it, which is where I found myself, trotting along like a nervous border collie trying to keep a toddler from wandering into traffic.

Mom’s driving style was… interpretive.

• She drifted left like a politician avoiding a question.
• She took corners as if she were piloting a barge.
• She backed up with the confidence of someone who had never once checked a mirror in her life.

Every few minutes I had to gently redirect her before she clipped a display, a worker stocking a shelf, or a shopper who had wandered too close. I’m fairly certain we left behind a wake of startled customers and at least one pyramid of canned goods that will never be the same. Somewhere in that store, a stock clerk is still muttering about “that rogue cart.”

🧾 Act III: The Grand Finale of Absurdity
After dinner, we got back to her place, and I began unloading the bags.
“Mom,” I said, “do you want me to hang up the new dress you bought?”

She looked at it, puzzled.
“I bought that?”
“Yes.”
“In Walmart?”
“Yes.”
“Today?”
“Yes.”
She studied the dress as if it had been smuggled in by a passing magician. Then she asked, “What else did I get in Walmart?”
“You got paper towels, microwave popcorn, this new purse, cream cheese, and rice cakes.”
She nodded with great authority. “The cream cheese goes in the fridge. I wish I’d gotten some popcorn to have in the evenings. Did you get a new purse?”
“The cream cheese is in the fridge,” I said, “and the popcorn is next to the microwave. The purse is one you picked out for yourself.”
“I did?” She examined it like a museum curator authenticating a rare artifact. “Well, I’ll have to look it over later. It looks like a nice purse.”

I lifted another bag. “This one has the calendar, lipstick, batteries, and a few other things you bought at the Dollar Store.”
She frowned. “Shoot, I forgot I wanted to stop at the Dollar Store. I need some kitchen things to cook with.”
“We did go to the Dollar Store, Mom. What you got there is in this bag. I’ll put it next to your chair so you can decide where you want to put things.”
She blinked at the bag as if it had been placed there by elves.

Then—and this is the part that deserves a drumroll—she said:

“Well, I didn’t get anything I went out for. I never got to go down the last aisle in the Dollar Store because we had to leave for my appointment. That’s why I didn’t get what I needed.”
“What did you need?” I asked.
She sighed. “I don’t know. I forgot to make a list.”

And there it was: the perfect, shimmering pearl of absurdity. After all the aisles, all the steering, all the negotiations, all the groceries she can’t cook and won’t remember—the only thing she remembered was the aisle she didn’t go down, for the things she couldn’t name, on the list she never made.