SPRING HAS SPRUNG!

Spring is in the air, and in our livers... plenty of delicious cocktails this weekend infused with the sweetness and lightness of Spring!

The Springtini
1/2 ounce creme de cassis
1 ounce jonge jenever
2 ounces oceanspray cran/blueberry
Shake
Pour into martini glass
Top with sparkling cider (cassis preferably)

The Lawnmower Delight (by Judith)
1 ounce vodka
1 ounce apple juice
1 ounce white wine
crushed lemon Popsicle in place of ice
garnish with chives (for long grass)

Enter the Keukenhoff Trio...

The Tulip (red)
The Pansy (purple)
The Bluebell (blue)

The Keukenhoff Trio

All made with gelatin
-prepare the gelatin according to the packet or box
-and then add the following (below) according to which of the trio you are making
note: one shot = 1 ounce of booze and 1 ounce of gelatin

The Tulip
-add 1 ounce oranjebitter

The Pansy
-add 1/2 ounce black vodka
-add 1/2 ounce regular vodka

The Bluebell
-add 1/2 ounce claude reine syrup
-add 1/2 ounce jonge jenever

And last but not least...

The Deep End
1/2 ounce curacao
1/2 ounce dry vermouth
1/2 ounce sour mix
2 ounces Bacardi citron
2 ounces pineapple juice
garnish with lemon zest

Astrid's tremendously tasty Lemon Tarte!

Blindfold Night!

The object of 'Blindfold Night' was for each of us to create an original cocktail with a special ingredient that was unknown. As the bartender prepared his or her drinks, the rest of us donned our blindfolds and prepared to taste the creation. Amazing how difficult it can be to out your finger on a specific taste with so many tastes and scents competing.
Here are some photos and recipes of the drinks we came up with...








Recipes:

Arjen's: The Margaraita

(special ingredient: cucumber)
1/2 cup crushed cucumber
4 pinches cilantro
1 oz. simple syrup (sugar)
(crush together)
2 oz. tequilla
1 oz. triple sec
Shake over ice

Remco's: The Devil is Red

(special ingredients: Tabasco and mint)
prepare a few hours before:
80 grams strawberry
1/2 lime squeezed
Few mint leaves
Puree the above and run through a sieve
Pour into shaker
Add ice
Add dash of Tabasco
2 oz. vodka
Shake & pour
Add oz of tonic

Judith's: Round Trip from the Hague to Jakarta

(special ingredients: all!)

Ingredients for the bottom half:
500 ml full-fat milk
1/2 cup of Cuarenta Y Tres (Spanish vanilla flavoured liqueur)
6 cloves
6 pieces of star anise
2 sticks of cinnamon
2 tablespoons of sugar

Ingredients for the top half:
2 egg-whites
2 tablespoons of icing sugar
30 ml unsweetened blueberry or blackberry-juice
10 ml lemon juice

Preparation:
1. boil the milk, sugar and the three spices for about half an hour at the lowest possible heat. Let it cool, pass through a sieve and transfer to the fridge to chill for 6 hours.
2. separate two egg whites, mix with the icing sugar and whisk until you get stiff peaks. Then gently fold in the blackberry and lemon juice with a spoon.
3. just before serving mix the milk with half a cup of chilled Cuarenta Y Tres and pour into a glass spoon some of the egg-white mixture on top.
4. serve with a straw and a spoon, enjoy!

The place names of the cocktail refer to the top and the bottom half. The bottom half is flavoured with spices The Netherlands used to import from their former colony Indonesia, hence Jakarta (capitol of Indonesia) and the top half is an old fashioned desert topping from the Netherlands, known as Haagse Bluf, or Hagueish Bluff.

Jan Willem's: Reactor #3

(special ingredients: orange and whiskey)
30 mill. triple sec
60 mill. tequila
20 mill. lime juice
10 mill. orange juice
1 teaspoon scotch

Deana's: Honey, I Drank the Kids

(special ingredient: honey)
2 oz. gin
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 tablespoon orange juice
1 tablespoon honey
Stir
Add ice
Shake
Pour and top with tonic

St. Patrick's Day Cocktail... The Pot of Gold!

Inspired by our trip to Ireland last Spring...






The Pot of Gold:
2 oz Irish Whiskey (Tullamore Dew)
1 oz dry vermouth
Shake over ice
Pour into martini glass
Fill to the rim with hard cider...

Poetry in Motion... (Sloshing Motion)

Cocktail Night has COME AND GONE! And we drank quite a few REALLY lovely poems in the process.

This first one was is called 'Frances in Lavender', written by Helen David (my most talented momma!)

This is a WONDERFUL pantoun that also turned out to be a wonderful cocktail-- pretty to look at and with a subtle, flowery kick. Very fragrant!

Frances in Lavender

 

Upon a cloud of lavender she floats

High on heels, aloof and unengaged

Sheltering her Betty Davis eyes

Beneath the wide brim of her lavender hat.

 

High on heels, aloof and unengaged

Avoiding smiles and nods of fellow passengers

Beneath the wide brim of her lavender hat

Violet eyes slide sideways to capture mine.

 

Avoiding smiles and nods of fellow passengers

She stands with stately chip on middle-aged shoulders

Violet eyes slide sideways to capture mine

In challenge to my youthful, curious stare.

 

She stands with stately chip on middle-aged shoulders

Peering o’re lavender walls in stern reproach

In challenge to my youthful curious stare

Why does this middle-aged woman fascinate so?

 

Peering o’re lavender walls in stern reproach

Cool lavender eyes gaze sadly in remembrance

Why does this middle-aged woman fascinate so?

T’would take another forty years to know.

 

Cool lavender eyes gaze sadly in remembrance

Blissful youth once known lived out too quickly

T’would take another 40 years to know

How does the river of youth bleed from a soul.

 

Blissful youth once known lived out too quickly

Young Frances peers beyond those aging walls

And reaches for a face, a memory fading, while

Upon a cloud of lavender she floats.

Frances in Lavender

splash of black vodka (makes it lavender-colored)

2 ounces normal vodka

top with tonic

add ice cubes

The Next drink was taken from a poem a wrote a few years ago-- another pantoun. It's named after a house on Turtleback Road in Marston's Mills Cape Cod, one of the many family homes I lived in, filled with happy memories:

Turtleback

Mint and fizzy like an old-fashioned cocktail

A museum of memories reaching far back

Fanned out and breezy as a swallow’s tail

Potholed and textured, our stories, like brail

Are crooked and crumbling as a chimney stack

Mint and fizzy like an old-fashioned cocktail

Passed on by the cricket and the nightingale

From hearth to treetop to some old almanac

Fanned out and breezy as a swallow’s tail

Our tales, wound tight, like a nautilus or snail

Hidden in a nutshell or a seashell, or a spice rack

Mint and fizzy like an old-fashioned cocktail

Foggy photos of faces, some sunburned, some pale

Not framed in gold plaster and likely to crack

Fanned out and breezy as a swallow’s tail

Remembered, rekindled, our stories, our trail

As rounded and toasted as a turtle’s back

Mint and fizzy like an old-fashioned cocktail

Fanned out and breezy as a swallow’s tail

  

Turtleback
Crush mint leaves in a cocktail shaker

Add ice

2 ounces of gin

1 ounce dry vermouth

1 ounce mojito syrup

Use martini glass

Fill to the rim with seltzer

Add a squeeze of lime

Garnish with a mint leave

The next one is a poem called 'Scrabble' I wrote at a writer's retreat, years ago. The pressure is always on at those kinds of workshops, but I was pleased with the product. 

Scrabble

Children are building a sandcastle with a pink pail

Don’t they know it will be gone before they’ve added the turrets?

Didn’t they see the paw prints of the dog disappear?

And the yellow Frisbee drifting away on the tide?

 I’m playing Scrabble on the sand, in the sun

The pitcher of sangria is already empty

Not even the cubes of apple of the slices of peach are left

And there’s not enough room on the board to spell ‘temporary’.

I’m wondering, worrying about when this will end

The sun’s already slipping behind a row of houses

The moat around the sandcastle has flooded

Now there’s not enough room on the board to spell ‘later’.

Push away the moon

Splash away the tide

Sing a sunny song

I wanted to spell ‘soon’

But I couldn’t decide

Now I’ve waited too long

Will the sunlight, the Scrabble game, or the sandcastle die first?

Tell the children no more castles or chalk pavement pictures

There’s just enough room on the board to spell ‘now’.

Dump the letters in the box and let’s make some new words.

Push away the moon

Splash away the tide

Sing a lullaby

Check the beach for letters

Or a message in a bottle

I need new words

It always ends too soon

When the beach was wide

Like in the afternoon

I didn’t notice the sky

I know I can do better

I need new words

Scrabble

Prepare a pitcher (quart) of red wine with shopped-up fruits and 2 ounces or port & ice cubes)

Leave at least a few hours to chill

Take a tall glass

Add 2 ounces of white rum

Fill the rest of the glass with sangria

This next poem came as a great surprise to me! From an anonymous source no less. And it is a lovely masterpiece of a sonnet!

Crystalline

The warmth of touch seeps deep inside
to melt the frost on soul divine
To show what things within reside
A love with which the soul does shine
but if thy care does not prove true
and thy gaze wander far
the coat of ice shall grow anew
the tender soul shall scar
But scars do fade and ice does thaw
fortresses do fall.
For all things live, this is law
and it does govern all.
A heart turned to ice, if left too long
shall never in life, to another belong.

Crystalline
Fill a tumbler with crushed ice

Add one shot gin

Add a dash of Angostura bitters

Top with seltzer water

And lastly, a poem called 'Kites of the Poem'. This is a sestina I wrote, and was able to recite onstage at a concert by Canadian artist, Ferron. The sestina form is so, so challenging, but also such a hugely awarding exercise when it works out:

The Kites of the Poet

There’s a crowded road that leads to the edge of the city

If you follow it steep, it will end on a hill.

And there time stands still. Except for the man

Who must wheel his barrow where the streets are too narrow

The painters frown when they smell his fish. And the tolling bell

Makes them think of gargoyles and pirates, royals and poets.

Amongst the still-wet canvasses, you will find one poet.

He believes he lost his soul when he came to the city

Sees it drifting like a stray kite beyond the church bell.

There are few things that please him, two things he favors on that hill.

The flock of easels where the streets are most narrow

And the watercolor scenes of Siam by a mustached man.

Paris is too grey and blue for the mustached man.

He mixes cyan and turquoise while reciting poetry.

Few know he dines with the man with the barrow.

They meet and eat fish heads on the Champs Elysées, at the Vie de Cité.

‘An old grey man in a blue chapeau’ he says as they stroll down the hill,

‘That’s what Paris is to me… and the iron noise of the bells’.

In another square, you’ll see a strap of leather. Harness bells

Hanging on the door of a dusty bookseller. And that man,

Monsieur St. Onge, eats oranges, and stares at the hill.

He cranes his Willowy frame, straining to see shapes of painters and poets.

He bought some pastels near a loud carousel in his part of the city.

Now sketching, he’s crouched, like a gargoyle, leaning over his barrow.

A woman in a feathered hat flits past the old book barrow.

She knows she will be late when she hears the clanging of the bells.

Her rendezvous is all the way across the city-

The first time in years she will sit down with a strange man.

At night, she sings in a cabaret on the Rue de Thé. And he’s a painter.

She met him Wednesday painting wrens way up on the hill.

The people up there live in quiet despair way up on the hill

Crowded into cafés and milling through streets that are too narrow.

The painted feels plagued by the blasé gaze of the poet.

The poet feels bored by the spires and the bells.

The fish barrow rolls as the cathedral bell tolls. And the man

With the mustache dreams in turquoise of another city.

The café, the croissant, the steep hill, and the men

Of the city. With paintbrush, notebook, fish head, and barrow

All ache for what the bells can tell, and chase to the heights the drifting kites of the poet. 

The Kites of the Poet

Using a flute glass

1/2 ounce rose liqueur

1/2 once cointreau

Top up with Brut or champagne

And voila! 

Thanks to everyone who braved a foray into poetry this week! But because the event has come and gone doesn't mean you should stop writing! I'll be doing another poetry night again fairly soon!

Friday--- Final Poetry Practice!

Last poetry-themed blog for the time being; the week is quickly coming to a close and tonight is already Cocktail Night!

The final theme is that of ‘I’ myself— always hard to write.  

We don't have much time, he said, so I'll just tell you about me. (Brian Andreas)

Hopefully the examples and exercises earlier in the week have given you confidence to attempt. I have two more practice exercises today that may make the task a little simpler.

Poet A.K. Ramanujan, (born 1929) native of India, grew up during the latter part of English rule in India, exposing him to the languages and cultures that would determine his life's work as a poet and translator. Because he lived in a British India, he struggled with cultural conflicts and was confused about his identity.  His poem ‘Self-Portrait’ represents his unrest:

I resemble everyone
but myself, and sometimes see
in shop-windows
 despite the well-known laws
 of optics,
the portrait of a stranger,
date unknown,
often signed in a corner
by my father.

What I love about this poem is that he successfully relays his feeling of barely recognizing himself—even when he sees his own reflection – but he manages to do it without sounding pitiful and martyred.  He doesn’t ‘I’, ‘I’, ‘I’—which can be nauseating for the reader. Ramanujan is a mystery and an object of interest even to himself.

In this next poem, ‘Freight’, poet Maura Dooley is defining herself according to the small freight she’s carrying – a child. Throughout history and literature, women have always rebelled against the idea of being termed a ‘vessel’. This poem is an extraordinary exception:

I am the ship in which you sail,

little dancing bones,

 your passage between the dream

and the waking dream,

 your sieve, your pea-green boat.

I’ll pay whatever toll your ferry needs.

And you, whose history’s already chartered

in a rope of cells, be tender to

those unnamed vessels

who will surprise you one day,

tug-tugging, irresistible,

and float you out beyond your depth,

where you’ll look down, puzzled, amazed.

And so, a poem about yourself needs an angle; otherwise it’s simply the beginning of a biography.

But where to start? What will you say about yourself? Only you know the million and ten experiences you’ve had, and fears, and dreams… and so it becomes a problem of where to start.

Here are a couple of exercises that may help; one very basic, and the other a little more thrilling.

First! The acrostic! Acrostic Poetry is where the first letter of each line spells a word. Very easy. But often very lovely.

I found this on about Edgar Allan Poe on a site called:  

http://home.earthlink.net/~jesmith/Acrostic1.html

It was written by Christina M. 

Eerie stories and poems
Decorate our imagination. Both
Good and evil
Are challanged along with
Reality.

Also,
Love and insanity
Lurk through the pages and
Anthologies. You will
Never know what is to happen next.

Problems of murder and mystery,
Oddities and wonderment are
Expressed with such peculiarity only he could achieve.

And this one was written BY Edgar Allan Poe in 1829. It’s called ‘An Acrostic’:

Elizabeth it is in vain you say
“Love not” — thou sayest it in so sweet a way:
 In vain those words from thee or L. E. L.
 Zantippe’s talents had enforced so well:
 Ah! if that language from thy heart arise,
 Breathe it less gently forth — and veil thine eyes.
 Endymion, recollect, when Luna tried
 To cure his love — was cured of all beside —
 His folly — pride — and passion — for he died.

People often joke and downplay the Acrostic form, but acrostic poems have been around for thousands of years. Acrostics were common among the Greeks of the Alexandrine period and with the Latin playwrights. In the bible, in the book of Psalms, if your Look up Psalm 119, you will find a special type of Acrostic poem in which each line begins with a letter of the alphabet, and then continues with each new line working through consecutive letters of the Hebrew alphabet. Medieval monks and poets also made this form of poetry popular during the Middle High German and Italian Renaissance periods.

The Dutch national anthem (The William) is an acrostic: the first letters of its fifteen stanzas spell WILLEM VAN NASSOV. This was one of the hereditary titles of William of Orange (William the Silent), who introduces himself in the poem to the Dutch people.

If you want to learn more about the history/ writing of acrostics, look at this site:

http://www.makeliterature.com/forums/your_writing/poetry/acrostic/acrostic-poems.html

And here’s another AMAZING exercise. A book called Six-Word Memoirs, edited by Smith Magazine, became a national bestseller. When Smith Magazine challenged its readers to write their life story in 6 words, the response was phenomenal.

As legend has it, Ernest Hemingway was challenged to write a short story in six words. He wrote:

For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

Since then, famous and obscure writers have been writing six-word memoirs.

Here are some examples from the book:

Seventy years, few tears, hairy ears.

Watching quietly from every door frame.

I still make coffee for two.

Likes everything too much to choose.

Tragic childhood can lead to wisdom.

A sundress will solve life’s woes.

I sucked even the lobster legs.

Quiet guy; please pat closer attention.

I wrote it all down somewhere.

Afraid of everything. Did it anyway.

What the hell, might as well.

Glass half full’ pockets half empty.

My life is a beautiful accident.

Always used to wait for signs. (that’s mine)

SO! Between the acrostic and the 6-word memoir, you should have the time and tools to crank out a poem before the week is out.

I’m going to end with one of my favorite writers: Brian Andreas. I’ve been buying his books and prints for years, and am thrilled to be seeing his work in Amsterdam these days. He writes the most simple and profound snippets of poetry; you’ll find some wonderful examples just below:

I've always liked the time before dawn because there's no one around to remind me who I'm supposed to be, so it's easier to remember who I am.

I spent a long time trying to find my center until I looked closely one night & found it had wheels & moved easily in the slightest breeze, so now I spend less time sitting and more time sailing.

I remember once I went to my great-grandmother's house. It was a big white house & it always smelled like slightly burned toast & raspberry jam. She had a picture of Jesus on the wall in her living room. She told me his eyes would follow you around when you walked. I told a friend about it a while ago. He nodded & said he used to have a Chihuahua that did the same thing.

There are angels everywhere you can imagine. I saw one hiding in the closet in our bedroom once & I invited her out, but she said she was waiting for a friend thank you just the same & next time I looked she was gone.

I once had a garden filled with flowers that grew only on dark thoughts but they need constant attention & one day I decided I had better things to do.

The only thing that separates me from the animals is a lot of words, so when I'm not talking much, the gap closes really quick.

I was never good at hide & seek because I'd always make enough noise so my friends would be sure to find me. I don't have anyone to play those games with any more, but now & then I make enough noise just in case someone is still looking & hasn't found me yet.

I had a dream & I heard music & there were children standing around, but no one was dancing. I asked a little girl, why not? & she said they didn't know how, or maybe they used to but they forgot & so I started to hop up & down & the children asked me, Is that dancing? & I laughed & said, no, that's hopping, but at least it's a start & soon everyone was hopping & laughing & it didn't matter any more that no one was dancing.

I always wanted to invent something that would move around & make funny noises & would change the world as we know it & I forgot all about that until we had kids & now I see I came pretty close.

There are some days when no matter what I say it feels like I'm far away in another country & whoever is doing the translating has had far too much to drink

We used to go visit my grandma on the train & on the way my sister & I would talk to people we met & tell them we were from Hawaii & could speak Polynesian & I'd hold up a 7-Up & say this is called puka-puka-wanini on the Big Island & we'd make up longer and longer names until it took about 10 minutes to say one & about that time we would be there & we'd say aloha & go off to have lunch at my grandma's & my sister would hold up a Mrs. Paul's fish stick & say in Hawaii they call these molo-molo-pooey-pooey & I'd try not to choke on my fruit punch.

I sometimes wake in the early morning & listen to the soft breathing of my children & I think to myself, this is one thing I will never regret & I carry that quiet with me all day long.

I read once that the ancient Egyptians had fifty words for sand & the Eskimos had a hundred words for snow. I wish I had a thousand words for love, but all that comes to mind is the way you move against me while you sleep & there are no words for that.

In the end, I think that I will like that we were sitting on the bed, talking & wondering where the time had gone.

Someday, the light will shine like a sun through my skin & they will say, What have you done with your life? & though there are many moments I think I will remember, in the end, I will be proud to say, I was one of us.

Tomorrow, Saturday, I’ll be posting some of the books (wonderful books) I used to put together some of these exercises, and samples of poetry.

I’ll also be posting the cocktail blog on Sunday, and using a selection of poems and the inspiration! Stay tuned… and thirsty!