I’m not sure which was worse at the beginning of this school year, shopping for school supplies, getting sleep deprived kids out of bed at 6am, or accepting that my “It’s 5 o’clock Somewhere” margaritas must come to an end. I’m leaning towards that last one…it really hurts.
For me, drinking a margarita at 5pm on a warm summer evening says, “Look at me, all relaxed and living my best life” but a margarita at 5pm in September, between helping with homework and burning a casserole, well that just says “Look at me, my life’s a shitshow”. And while that’s true, I don’t need an out of season drink in my hand to really hammer the point home. That’s what 9pm red-wine-in-bed is for.
Brian doesn’t agree with my hard line in the seasonal drink sand, he thinks I’m being ridiculous. Last night, I caught him heading to the deck with a Moscow Mule in hand (clearly a summer drink, as it involves the use of limes), while I sat sharpening a 100-count box of No. 2 pencils.
“Come join me” he said all off-handishly, like he wasn’t violating an unspoken cocktail rule.
“Are you kidding me? Look around” I flailed my hands wildly, “Don’t you see these flash cards, permission slips, and that hand sanitizer dispenser over there?” pointing to the corner of the kitchen.
He looked at me blankly, “That’s our water cooler.”
“Not anymore. The point is, all of this signals the end of Happy Hours. Now it’s just 5pm Carb-y Hour from here until Memorial Day, buddy.” I reached for the bag of Sour Cream & Onion chips with my left hand and another pencil with my right. “Besides, it’s 70 degrees. Everyone knows you can’t enjoy a margarita when the heat index drops below 82.” Removing the pencil from the sharpener, I jotted that fact down on my ever growing “REASONS I WANT TO MOVE SOUTH” list that I keep in my pocket for such inspired moments. I wrote it under “23. Can wear white pants all year”. I love me some white pants.
“Just so you don’t continue to embarrass yourself, you might want to write this down: summer is for margaritas, Prosecco, and pale ales. Autumn has us moving towards red wines and lagers. Around November you can confidently introduce stout beers into your repertoire. Come December, Cosmopolitans start to make an appearance around the holidays. But only the red cranberry ones, don’t even try a pink grapefruit. And…um…what are those two weeks in the northeast between winter and summer called?”
“You mean spring?”
“Ah yes, spring. The season where you’re wearing shorts on the bottom and a wool sweater on top. I think we can all agree it’s a confusing time for everyone, hence, anything goes. Hot Toddy at happy hour? Sure. Gin Fizz before bed? Why not. It’s probably the only time I won’t judge you.”
“So you’re really not making yourself a margarita?”
“Nope”
He shrugged, “That’s dumb” and went outside and plopped down on his old outdoor recliner.
Not believing he could really enjoy a summer drink with a chill in the air, I got up to watch him from the kitchen window. Between my astigmatism and my refusal to wear contacts, because I’d rather be blind than have one more thing to do at night, I had to really press my face against the glass to read his expression when he took that first sip.
He must have seen me because he put on quite a show. Putting the copper mug under his nose, he took his hand and wafted the air above it, inhaling the lime and ginger scent, rolling his eyes back, presumably with mock pleasure. Then, slowly placing the mug to his lips, he took a nice long drawn out sip and orgasmed. I ran to make a margarita.
I looked at the lime sitting on the counter. It was shrunken, dim in color with a dry appearance to its skin. I couldn’t help but to think of the similarities between that lime and us. When our season of life is also coming to an end, our external vibrancy may diminish but, like the lime, most of us still have “zest” and are unchanged on the inside. I took a knife, deciding this is probably where the metaphor should end, and cut the lime open. It was as dry as a bone. So much for existentialism.
I grabbed 4 more dry limes and squeezed them for all they were worth, which was only about 2 ounces. It reminded me of my early days with a breast pump, the liquid just as precious and hard won.
It occurred to me that if I lived in Florida, I could have my very own lime trees that produced juicy limes year-round. Pulling out my list, I wrote “25. Lime Trees” and made a mental note to look up their care & maintenance, praying they’re considered a ‘Hardy & Drought Tolerant’ species. I somehow killed 3 air plants this summer, despite having an abundance of air in our home, so my confidence is a little shook.
Turning back to my drink, I added 2 ounces of Tequila, ½ ounce of Triple Sec, and a couple squirts of Agave syrup to the juice. Shook it and poured it into an ice filled glass rimmed with salt & chili powder. I walked onto the deck and prepared myself for disappointment.
Let’s just say my preparation was not in vain. There was no When Harry Met Sally performance coming from my chair. It sucked. I couldn’t decide if it was too limey, too sweet, too much triple sec, or just too out of season. I wanted to toss it, but that felt sacrilegious. Just like the conscientious hunter who attempts to use every part of the animal out of respect for its sacrifice, I couldn’t let the death of those limes be for nothing. Brian thought I was overreacting and told me to just pour it down the sink, but no, I honored their existence and drank that god-awful cocktail. Then I marched right back in the house and opened a bottle of 2015 Cabernet from the Napa region and, through tears, toasted to the official closing of Margarita Season…all while giving Brian and his Moscow Mule the side eye.
26. Margarita Season never closes in the South.
