Our effort to cut back discretionary spending started off small but boldly this year.  As a nod to the recession (well, more like a deep deferential bow) we quit our weekly habit of checking out new fun bars in the neighborhood which was racking up dizzying babysitting dollars and bar bills and started improvising with drinks at home.  To keep things lively, we decided to create fancy cocktails – trying new exotic creations every week.  We purchased the “bartender’s black book” – the seminal drink recipe collection – and vowed to work our way through all of the recipes alphabetically.  My husband appointed himself the grand Poo-bah of home bartenders – spear-heading the money-saving effort by replicating the entire cocktail guide drink by drink. It was going to be a grand adventure – reminiscent of what Julie did in the film “Julie and Julia” – except sans Julia Childs, any French food or a daily blog.

We didn’t delve too deeply into the “A” and “B” drink categories – moving swiftly through the “Angel’s Tit”, the “Ankle Breaker,” the “Blue Kamikaze” and the “Bog Fog.”  None of these drinks were terribly inspiring and my husband seemed to miss his mark in terms of flare. The Angel’s Tit was far too rich on the cream for my taste and the Ankle Breaker was too heavy on the rum.  The Blue Kamikaze was blindingly blue and the Bog Fog was just plain disgusting.  Honestly, none of the drinks tasted very good and they all lacked a certain sincerity and flourish.  Along with a rather sharp hangover, I found myself questioning our entire cost-saving mission within a matter of weeks, reasoning that it just wasn’t the same as going out to a local bar and that our cocktails were always going to be flat by comparison.  I was on the verge of throwing in the bar towel and insist on going back to our expensive bar-hopping habit when the hubby finally reached Chapter “C.”   There, we were re-introduced to the Cosmopolitan and suddenly, the heavens opened up.  Overnight, we went from dreary, drab drinks to colorfully cheerful concoctions.  The husband finally hit his bartending stride and made what was arguably the best Cosmo in town.  It had just the right amount of ruby redness and an alcoholic freshness that not even our favorite bartenders could replicate.  The chilled combination of fresh cranberries and iced vodka literally exploded onto one’s mouth and left you utterly happy and tipsy.  All of our friends agreed and gave us stellar reviews (with several getting quite sloshed along the way.) One friend ended up passing out on our couch after one particularly inspired night, her husband abandoning her in that state after she loudly refused to move.  The kids were thrilled to see her on the couch in the morning, although they didn’t quite understand why she moved rather slowly.

Our Cosmopolitans were simply sublime and I am ashamed to say we never moved on to another letter in the bartender’s black book.  Instead, I kept watching my husband as he refined the already perfect drink into something truly extraordinary.  With a tad more lime, a splash more cranberry juice, I merrily showed my support for my husband’s pursuit for perfection by sampling each one of his creations.  Week after week, after the kids were in bed, we would happily snuggle up and drink our cosmos from sugar rimmed glasses, toasting to our ingenuity and frugality while getting completely hammered. 

To share the cheer:  here is the all-important recipe:

Fill shaker 2/3 full of ice, then add:

2 oz of very chilled, mandarin orange-infused Absolut vodka

1 oz of Triple Sec

1/2 oz of fresh squeezed lime juice

1oz Cranberry Juice

splash of OJ

splash of grapefruit juice (if you like ‘em a little tart)

Shake vigorously over your head in front of friends

Strain into chilled glass of which the rim has been wiped with lime slice, then coated in organic sugar

Garnish with lime.

Makes two Cosmos

I can’t tell you how much money we saved with our new “stay-in” weekly cocktail nights.  It has to have been several hundreds of dollars at least over the course of this experiment – which lasted all of six months.  And then, it all went terribly wrong.  One evening, as my husband was gleefully preparing the chilled martini glasses and shaker, I noticed some rather pronounced blotches on his forearms.  When I questioned him he said that he noticed the rash developing a few weeks ago.  At the time, neither of us was too concerned, but over the course of the next few weeks his rash became more and more pronounced, spreading over to his torso and down his legs.  He went to the doctor, had a biopsy taken (for real! – still has the scar) and got a couple of expensive creams that ended up being totally useless.  Shortly thereafter, I noticed that I too was getting blotchy and started to panic.  What was up with my skin?  What was causing this? I immediately started to obsess and fret.  Through my fretting, I skipped a couple of “cocktail nights” and my skin miraculously cleared up.  My husband, who is not a worrier and did not skip a single Cosmo, continued to have his rash.  Finally, we put two and two together and figured out that we were having an allergic reaction to the cosmos and needed to stop before we turned into cranberries ourselves. 

We have been Cosmo free for several months now.  The first couple of weeks were hard on us as we really missed our little drinking ritual. We are now over the hump and take solace in the fact that we are saving a bucketload – both from not drinking and for not having to buy creams to fix our rashes.  The hubby is eager to start back up again and is lobbying hard for a foray into Chapter D.   But with drinks like “Death Mint,” “Dirty Ashtray,” and “Duck Fart,” I am less eager to start another round.  Cheers.