A distorted sense of place

It's been cool here lately, and cloudy. Downright weird for this part of the world and this time of year.

So I took a walk on the ditch thinking there was nothing better to do. Once up there, away from the people and the streets and all the rest, it was still cool. I wore a sweater. A breeze. Clouds, dark up the North Fork, a curtain of rain obscuring the mountains.

The temperature, the clouds. It felt like being up in the mountains this time of year. In Silverton, perhaps, 4,000 feet higher than here. Yet along the gurgling water of the ditch, the place was so full of life just like it's supposed to be this time of year, only it wasn't wilting under the heat. Apricots hung from the trees, still green and stone hard but with silver fuzz and a cleft slightly erotic. Plums, too, shiny green. Wild roses pale pink and waxy green leaves. Above, a hawk sailed effortlessly, pestered by a tiny swallow. Milkweed flower like an explosion of stars. I picked it for Wendy, though she's not here. The air felt moist, as though the sky would soon open wide.

I felt the same way. Just the slight change in expected weather had turned the utterly familiar into something novel, and full of possibility. It's like being married to someone for a long time; so many nights spent at the altar of her flesh, exploring every inch. Then, one day, you look at her from a different angle, and see a freckle right there above her clavicle that you had never noticed before from that angle or in that light.

And suddenly, it's all new.

Rura'sexual wristwarmers

These here are my rura'sexual wristwarmers. What's a ruralsexual, you ask? It's like a metrosexual, only in a rural area. We like nice clothes, and nice food, and good wine (and really good gin), and sometimes comb our hair, just like our urban counterparts. Only we're a bit more pragmatic about things. Like, we're not afraid to crawl around in the mud under a crappy old car in order to save some money on an oil change. And it's sometimes hard to find our grade of clothes or food or culture (or conversation) in rural areas, leaving us perpetually frustrated.

Luckily, we're usually able to find someone special to connect with. And if we're really lucky, they'll help us out in the clothes department. My talented wife Wendy just picked me up a lovely silk and cashmere Banana Republic sweater from a local (rural) consignment store. And, better yet, she made these wristwarmers that no self-respecting, PBR-drinkin' rural guy would wear, but a rura'sexual would love. They're not only fashionable, but they also keep my hands warm when I'm typing.

That's rura'sexual. (roora sek sh ooel). And I'd bet Wendy would knit a pair for you, too, for the right price.

After the beeting

Alamos dos: Street food vs. ....

It's a lesson I've learned nearly every time I've traveled to foreign lands. And yet. With each new journey, I seem to lose the lesson, only to repeat the same mistake. I'm sure you've done the same.

Imagine the scene: After two days of driving, we arrive at our destination, a small town in northern Mexico. We pull the deerslayer -- our trusty but stinky minivan -- up to our friend John's humble casita. As soon as we drag our stiff bodies out of the car (followed by the wrappers from the only fast food place open in the Tucson region on Christmas Day), and into the distant clatter of ranchero music and John's dusty yard, which has been plagued by the neighbors' chickens, we are overpowered by the scent of guavas and limes and an undercurrent of smoke.

Something's always burning in Mexico.

Naturally, we eat street food. Carne asada, mostly, the kind you can get from a little nicho off the alameda from the young and unusually lithe woman with short hair died golden blonde almost orange and the big sunglasses. For five bucks we get a container of carne, a dozen tortillas, salsa, grilled onions, guacamole -- enough for four people.

What's not to like? But here's the age old dilemma: One day, we go to a small town in the hills. After a hike, our judgment impaired somewhat by sun, we stumble upon a restaurant that promises "gourmet international food." John says it's a five star establishment (judged by whom, I wonder, but don't ask). We look at the menu: twenty bucks a person, plus. Looks nice and quiet inside, with the promise of sophisticated conversation over wine. Just outside the restaurant, in the plaza, sits our alternative for dinner: A long, white table holding only several large jugs of red sauce with three bare lightbulbs strung overhead. Flames leap from a grill, black with many many uses. Two men cook something over the fire.

After a bit of back and forth and counting of pesos, we decide that the five star restaurant might be kinda nice. There is a logic to this decision that goes like this: If we can pay five bucks for a great meal on the street, then shouldn't a meal costing ten times as much be ten times better? It's based loosely on the axiom: You get what you pay for.

We sit down. We are immediately assaulted by the proprietor, who tells us how great his food is, how great his restaurant is, how everything is made by hand right there in that tiny little town. This is red flag number one (why's he blabbing to us instead of slaving away over masterpieces in the kitchen?). Still, the margarita is exquisite, the Chilean wine decent. Then the food comes: The garlic-saffron soup tastes suspiciously like french onion. The bread has a tight, bleached crumb (passable with a big coating of butter). The salad is fresh, but not remarkable. The chicken is chicken, no mas, no menos. Then dessert. The proprietor had promised that his chocolate gelato was "killer." So we ordered it. Or we thought we ordered it. Instead, we got vanilla ice cream (store bought, I'm sure), smothered with more talk from the proprietor, and then the bill, smothered with an obvious gringo tax that John and I paid just to get away from the guy's incessant, arrogant, blather. You get what you pay for.

What had we done? Our lesson learned, we've indulged in street food three times a day ever since. Lots of carne asada, sure, but also tacos pescado (frito), with crispy fresh salsa and cucumbers and onions and avocados and yellow sauce and pink sauce out of squeeze bottles and a Coca-cola from the old glass bottles. Bare light bulbs hanging overhead just a few feet from the cars cruising the alameda and the man with a blue cloudy eye looking out from the darkness of his pickup truck and the men in the white cowboy hats and the women glittering from their eyelids to the sparkly studs on their black jeans sticking to every curve and fold and the competing ranchero music and a little brown bag of churros crispy and still hot, their grease seeping into the bag, and Negra Modelo in a bag of ice and lime and chiltepin hot sauce so hot "I can feel it my chest" says Wendy and the bus station across the street lit up and cold and, next to the Tecate store, in a sunken empty lot, a canopy with candles burning and people sitting solemnly and silently oblivious the the carnival on the street paying their respects to the man or the woman or the child in the coffin under a shawl bathed in the orange light of the fake candles under the canopy in the empty lot next to the store where they sell Tecate and only Tecate, ice cold.

Alamos Uno

Sometimes, Christmas is about snuggling up in a cozy place while snow falls outside and eating and drinking and spending time with extended family. Sometimes, it's about driving to Mexico.

This year, we chose the latter. After two days of driving through mountains and snow and saguaros and deserts, we landed in Alamos, in the state of Sonora. It's one of the northernmost colonial towns of Mexico, and sits where the desert and tropics collide. And, like much of Mexico, a feast for the senses. As soon as we arrived, and climbed out of the deerslayer (our car), Wendy was overcome by the scent of guavas falling from the trees. It just got better from there.

More on that later. For now, just pictures of the first couple of days, including from the opening at John Sheedy's gallery. John is working on a documentary -- the Tijuana Project -- about the Tijuana dump and the children living there. He gave the kids some cameras, and they documented their neighborhood; the Alamos gallery opening included those photos.

Whoa, whoa, Mexico!

The entire gin + gelato team (that would be my family and me) are headed south. To Alamos, Sonora, Mexico, a colonial mining town in the mountains about 8 hours south of the border. And we're driving. We will search for gelato on the way (this looks like a good bet in Tucson). We'll forsake gin for tequila and cerveza. Perhaps there will be a gin + gelato post or two from the road.

It promises, already, to be a harrowing adventure. Simply getting from here to Durango (where our children await), requires traveling the treacherous San Juan Mountain roads through a huge storm. Then, on Christmas day, we'll cross the border near Nogales, a place that has become a hotbed of narcotraficante violence of late.

Everyone says it's fine, as long as you drive during the day. And besides, it can't be any more dangerous than flying, when airplanes at Denver's airport are skidding off the runway at 400 miles per hour. Yikes.

Vesper: The James Bond Martini

We all know, or think we know, that James Bond drinks dry vodka martinis: shaken, not stirred. (Who the hell stirs their martinis these days, anyway?) Then, in the most recent movie, Quantum of Solace, the layman is introduced to a new drink. While flying across the Atlantic on a private plane, Bond pounds six, yes six, martini-looking drinks. And in one of the most awkward moments of that movie, Bond can't even articulate what he's drinking, so he leaves it to the bartender to give us the recipe: 3 measures Gordon's gin, 1 measure vodka, and 1/2 measure Lillet Blanc.

Now, from what I understand, 1 measure equals 1.5 ounces, or one shot. In other words, Bond had drunk 27 shots of alcohol during the flight. Yowzers.

It is my duty as a gin blogger to try to recreate this cocktail, and try it out (although in much smaller quantities). So I did. Turns out that the original recipe for the cocktail comes from Ian Fleming's 1953 novel Casino Royale. In it, Bond goes into a bar and orders a "dry martini. One, in a deep champagne goblet." Then he reconsiders and says:

Just a moment. Three measures of Gordon's, one of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet. Shake it very well until it's ice-cold, then add a large thin slice of lemon peel. Got it?'

Got it. Except no one makes Kina Lillet anymore, which was a wine based liquor with a heavy dose of quinine (the stuff that makes tonic water bitter). In the 1930s, the name was changed to Lillet Blanc, and in the 1980s, the quinine content was reduced. Today, Lillet Blanc is not easy to find, but I was able to order a bottle from Paonia's 133 Liquor; and I picked another bottle up at Corks in Montrose. It's a bit like vermouth, truth be told, but sweeter.

Then, I found a beautiful and seductive German spy (Wendy, my wife) to help me mix up and quaff a batch. We usually drink Bombay Sapphire, so we used that in the place of Gordon's. Absolut was the vodka. And Lillet Blanc. The big slice of lemon peel is crucial.

The verdict: Very nice. In spite of the orange hue to the Lillet Blanc, the resulting cocktail was clean and clear. So was the flavor -- the addition of a bit of vodka mellows the stronger gin flavors, which is not a bad thing. And by the last few sips, the lemon peel flavor has nicely infused itself into the alcohol.

Why such a big drink?

'Gosh that's certainly a drink,' said Leiter.

Bond laughed. 'When I'm ... er ... concentrating.' he explained, 'I never have more than one drink before dinner. But I do like that one to be large and very strong and very cold and very well-made. I hate small portions of anything, particularly when they taste bad. This drink's my own invention. I'm going to patent it when I can think of a good name.'

Later, he met the lovely Vesper, and thus, the name.