If you’ve never mixed a drink before, my recommendation to you is: Don’t. Don’t do it. Put everything back where you found it, don’t touch it again, and let the already proficient people clean up the remainder of your mess.
Last Friday we had a going away party for my friend Amelie, and we happened to hold it at the apartment of my friend Paul, my fellow Renaissance faire enthusiast. I’m not sure what Paul does for a living, but I want in on it, because his apartment is gloriously outfitted with every slightly nerdy luxury one could ever hope for.
Including, naturally, a fully-stocked bar. The little ship on top of the setup alone is worth more than I am.
Current market value: 2.3 Ludvigs.
This going-away party was attended by a number of Amelie’s friends, who are all older than I am, sometimes by as much as “being able to remember the ’90s” and “having enough years on me to comment often about how young I am”. This is the problem with skipping college, all of the people your age are too busy getting wasted in dorm rooms instead of getting wasted in Paul’s incredibly swanky apartment.
Because, you see, our good friend Cherry, the facilitator of the party, announced that we were going to play a game called “iron liver.” Believe it or not, this is not a game where you see how much alcohol your over-worked liver can take, but rather a game where you are presented with a random ingredient and given ten minutes to create a drink that features it.
Take, for instance, my friend Oliver’s “Ginger’s Lost Soul.” I’m fairly certain the ingredient was pineapple, but I can’t quite recall.
This whole affair was great fun for those people over the age of twenty-one (i.e. everyone else), because even the nerdiest among them had had some semblance of a history with drinking alcoholic things.
Sure, maybe I hadn’t had any alcohol, but my back problems were telling me I was only allowed to stand up straight or lie flat on the floor, so an impression of a drunkard it was.
I was having great fun watching the creation and judging process, up until the point that Cherry turned to me with her terrifying smile and announced that I was next up to create an alcoholic beverage. The ingredient: Candied oranges.
Now, I know as much about mixing drinks as the next underage homeschooled Christian farmgirl, so I was very prepared for this. I wasted my first five minutes under the bar, absently fondling mysterious bottles and wondering how many of them were worth more than the first eight years of my life. When the time was almost up, I panicked.
“What goes with oranges?” I thought frantically. “It’s… there’s… chocolate! Chocolate goes with oranges! Like those chocolate oranges you can buy around Christmas time. And… oranges! Oranges go with oranges! And hey, this ‘Rum Chata’ stuff smells all right.”
This is how I ended up with a drink consisting of Rum Chata, dark chocolate vodka, orange juice, and a candied orange stuffed in the middle.
And the thing was… it didn’t taste half bad.
Not that I would know because I’m underage and definitely wasn’t drinking.
It did, however, look absolutely hideous.
Mine’s the one on the far left. The one that’s like a milkshake left in the car on a hot day. It turns out creamy Rum Chata and vodka do not mix, and they don’t even associate with pulpy orange juice.
But I did garner one out of three of the judges’ votes, which I consider a rousing success, given that… well, given that everything. I don’t ever plan to touch a bar again, but it was a once in a lifetime opportunity to waste a great deal of expensive alcohol.
Not a bad night, despite the fact that I spent most of the time viewing it from the ground.