Vintage Cocktails: the Bronx Cocktail

Ok, so I'm not doing the best job at this whole "blogging regularly" thing. I mean, I'm not awful or anything, but I'd hoped to be blogging at least once a week, which hasn't happened...yet. Still gonna plug away at that goal, though!

This week's cocktail is the Bronx Cocktail. I had a soft spot for this drink before I'd even tried it, mostly because both Robert and I work in the Bronx. We also nearly moved to the Bronx, but at the last minute the family from whom we'd arranged to rent a house changed their mind and decided to sell it instead. That was pretty frustrating at the time, but it's also what brought us to our current home, so it ended up being fantastic!

A few things I've learned about my taste in mixed drinks so far:

1. I really like brandy
2. I do not really like vermouth (dry or sweet)

And now, without further ado, I present: The Bronx Cocktail!

Robert styled the drink with the best Yankees gear we could come up with, which is to say: none.

Bronx Cocktail

1/2 dry gin
1/4 dry vermouth
1/4 sweet vermouth
1/2 orange juice

Shake well with cracked ice, strain into cocktail glass and serve.

Thoughts- I like this drink. I like it, but I don't love it. I think it's the vermouth (see above). It is quite strong, as you might guess from the ingredients list, and has a flavor that is kind of like a really alcoholic creamsicle or orange julius. In my mind the Bronx Cocktail is like a bridge between the old school drinks that should remain in the past (Fibber McGee, I'm lookin' at you!) and those that are so delightful they should be revived immediately. It's a curiosity drink. It's worth trying-- after all, you might really enjoy it! and even if you don't you probably won't regret it-- but won't be in my regular cocktail rotation.

Pie, baseball and family

See what I'm doing? I'm combining all kinds of things that've been on my mind and in my posts lately. But they really did converge most pleasingly this evening.

First of all, Robert and Zion played catch after dinner. It was Zion's first time playing baseball catch (he's been playing catch with a football since he was 2 or 3), and at first he wasn't very good at it. I was cheering when his glove touched a ball, you know? But after 20 minutes are so he was catching more and more of them, and he and Robert were just tossing the ball back and forth and we were all chatting and it was awesome. And then I looked over and Liel was busily emptying one of the pots on the deck of dirt. But she put it back when I asked her to, so that was OK too.

Then I used the leftovers of yesterday's pie and made pie milkshakes and they were, if possible, even more delicious. In fact, they were so delicious that I announced my intentions to email my sister-in-law and tell her about them, in case she wanted to meet us at her apartment this weekend for some blueberry pie milkshake (otherwise she's just getting plain blueberry pie).

"You know", Zion said, "the great thing about family is, someone can not be in your family and then someone who IS in your family can marry that person...like, a boy in your family can marry a girl..."

"Or a boy", Robert and I said.

"Or a boy could marry a girl", Zion continued.

"Or a boy could marry another boy", we said. "Or a girl could marry another girl."

"Yes", Zion said, "It doesn't really matter. But someone who isn't in your family can BECOME part of your family. And that's a nice thing about family".

And it is.

Baseball

My dad likes baseball. Not professional baseball (I've never known him to watch a game), not minor league baseball, nor even Little League. Just casual baseball out in the park with friends. At least, I assume this is the case because my dad taught both Kenny and me to hit, catch, and throw when we were pretty little. Here's me, age 3 1/2.

Dad pitched balls to us pretty regularly throughout my childhood. Sometimes, because I was surely an ungrateful wretch, I hated it and complained, and refused to put any effort into making contact with that ball. At such times my father would bellow, "Sweetheart! Keep your eye on the G-d damned ball!" and then I'd become irritated with him and proceed to do an excellent job hitting for the rest of the session. Or so I hear ;) But really, I loved hitting the ball, and playing ball with my dad is one of my favorite childhood memories. I think the last time we played was shortly after I graduated from high school and was preparing to go to college across the country. I remember asking him to pitch for me and we went out and he threw the ball until it got dark.

Robert loved baseball as a kid too, even though his older brother once accidentally broke his nose with a ball when they were playing catch.

Yet somehow neither Robert nor I had done anything to teach the kids to hit or catch a baseball (they can both catch and throw a football; we haven't failed them totally. Yet). So yesterday we ordered them gloves, a bat, and a case of baseballs. The bat and balls arrived today, and when Zion's friend left we opened them and I suggested to Zion that he ask Robert to show him how to hit a ball. We only had a few minutes before they had to eat dinner so they could get to aikido on time, but they went out in the back yard and Robert showed him how to hold a bat, how to stand and how to swing. He threw a few pitches to him, some of which Zion even hit. And then it was time for food and aikido.

Liel said she didn't want to learn to hit a ball, so I dug out my old photo albums and showed her pictures of me at different ages playing baseball with my dad. When Zion and Robert got home from aikido Zion changed out of his gi and started begging Robert to pitch to him again. So we all went out back and Robert showed Liel how to bat, and pitched for both kids until bedtime.

I gotta tell you, standing there watching my  kids learn to hit a baseball, seeing the grin on Zion's face (and kid's got a good throwing arm on him!) and the look of determination on Liel's, I was filled with nachas. I mean, I know that learning to play baseball isn't exactly rocket science, but still. My kids! Pure nachas.