Barrett's Mixology
Thursday, September 22, 2005
The Daisy Duke
2 oz. Bourbon
1 oz. Sloe Gin
Maraschino Cherry
Fill a cocktail shaker halfway with crushed ice. Add bourbon and sloe gin. Shake and strain into a highball glass. Offer the cherry to a thirteen year-old girl.
Life among the literati in this haven of political dark arts grows wearisome on occasion, and I feel the urge to escape to somewhere characterized by the opposite. At these moments, I call my cousin Hootie. A home-grown product of rural Georgia, I often wonder if Hootie is even literate–
he graduated from Emory with fine marks, but you wouldn't know it by talking to him. And I always make it a point not to talk to him, save for my bi-annual excursions to his plantation when I just need out. With the exception of his house–
a restored Georgian-style mansion staffed by nearly a dozen retired sharecroppers–
Hootie hides his money well. The classic Mercedes stays in the barn, shielded by a rusting tractor. His garage boasts nothing but a twelve year old Suburban, a decrepit F-150, and a 1960-something El-Camino, complete with Astro-turf in the bed and a torn rag-top, which he passes as his luxury car.
I should clarify; he formerly had an El-Camino. One Sunday we were racing back from church–
Hootie's wife, children, and neighbors drove themselves in the F-150–
so that we might start the chicken frying before the football game began. Coming around a bend, Hootie saw a large, eight-point stag standing by the side of the road. Although hunting season was still a week away, Hootie wanted an early start; this one was too good to pass by. As I clasped the dashboard in horror, Hootie swerved the El-Cam, downshifted, and floored the accelerator, expertly taking out the deer by its hind legs. As the deer catapulted over the car, nearly landing on the Astro-turf, we found ourselves hurtling over a ditch and into the road-side field. We escaped unscathed, but it was clear the El-Camino was not going anywhere soon. As I took a long pull off the bottle of bourbon that I knew Hootie kept wedged into the rumble seat, I noticed the sloe berries growing all around us in the field. We looked at each other, nodded knowingly, and made off for the stand of liquor stores which demarcates the border between dry and wet counties in the South. We would return later to claim and clean the deer.
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