A midday call between my boss in London and someone in Budapest runs over, causing my early morning call from New York with the same manager to start and finish late. This causes me to miss my intended train from New York to Philadelphia. The next train is delayed by 5 minutes, which results in my taxi arriving in the car park at the office in Philadelphia at precisely the same moment that a woman named Rosemary, on her way to her great aunt's funeral, eases her new Honda out of its parking spot and directly into the passenger door of my cab.
One cannot help but wonder at the staggering number of minor events around the world (and these are just the ones I know of) which conspired to leave poor Rosemary with a shredded bumper and airbags scrotal and shriveled. Due to the split-second timing of events like this, given sufficient time, I could enumerate an endless number of factors that affected the timing of my journey and therefore contributed to this minor incident, from the number of vehicles on the Schuylkill Expressway to the friction caused by the specific configuration of the atoms on the rails over which my train passed. Surely you can think of any number of similar situations in your own life - seemingly minor events which, aggregated, give rise to a significant event. How did you meet your partner, for example?
But one must also realize that these coincidences did not actually cause the event; they merely acted as inputs to an incredibly complex system, producing a specific reality in which Rosemary's car is damaged. This event itself probably had unknown knock on effects.
And this, I suppose, is how life really happens. Every action produces a small change in a complex system, this change gives rise a specific reality immediately around it. This reality combines with other realities produced by other small changes, giving rise to a broader reality which, in turn, combines with other broad realities which have been influenced by events elsewhere, and on and on and on, an endless dance of molecules and phone calls and automobile accidents. If Rosemary's car is single pebble thrown into a pond, we live in a rain-rippled ocean.
Chaos theorists call this the "butterfly effect," positing that in a system as complex as weather, the flap of a butterfly's wing in one part of the world can, when combined with other specific small incidents, give rise to dramatic shifts in the overall weather. This is commonly misrepresented as a butterfly in Brazil "causing" a tornado in Texas. That is, of course, an absurd oversimplification; but if one considers how small events are contributing factors to significant ones, one cannot but conclude that absolutely everything is interconnected in a way that we cannot understand, let alone predict.
The children are both in our bed, displaced by visiting grandparents. I have been awake since two this morning, the jetlag playing its usual tricks with sleep and appetite. I have moved downstairs to the couch to avoid waking the kids. It's now four o'clock, and it's hot and sticky and I have opened the windows. The sky is brightening and the birds are just warming up their morning cacophony. I've spent some time writing this, you've just spent a few minutes reading it. Our lives have both been altered in ways that we cannot comprehend.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Long Walk
On Saturday, my mate Clive and I went for a walk. This phrase has a different meaning here - we didn't just go for a little stroll in the park, we hiked. We slogged through a vile, squidgy mixture of mud and cow shit. We panted our way up long, steep inclines. We stopped at a few pubs, as you do, for refreshment and sustenance.
We have, by sections, been walking a trail called the North Downs Way, which runs about 150 miles from Farnham, west of London, out to Dover on the east coast. While passing through a number of towns is unavoidable over such a long distance, much of it has been out in the open countryside, and it has provided me a view of this country which I'd never have acquired living in London. On this section, we passed the 79 mile marker, a not insignificant accomplishment for an aging fattie like me.
Once outside of London, people are generally friendlier, the pace of life is generally a bit slower, and the landscape becomes almost unimaginably varied. Deep silent pine forests end without warning on open, gently rolling fields, which in turn suddenly become steep slopes, the chalk rock slick underfoot at the first sign of damp. The beauty of walking is that you never know what's around the next corner. Sometimes, it's a 3,000 year old stone monument, sometimes a Norman church or a tiny pretty village. A 13th century pub called the 'Dirty Habit'. Eventually, this walk will bring us a glimpse of the sea and Dover's famous chalk cliffs. Other times, it shows us the back of a petrol station, or an overgrown car lot, or a back street in a dirty little town populated by drunken chavs. But regardless of what it brings, the road ahead always brings something new, something different from where you are now.
It was about midway through this 18km walk that we got to talking about birthdays, and it was at that point that I realized that I'm about 4 months shy of my 40th. This should hardly have been a revelation; I know when my birthday is, I know in what year I was born, I can do math, albeit with that certain lack of precision common to those who spend their time thinking in shades of grey. (Odd - in writing that, I remembered that I had a dream about slide rules last night. I wonder what that means?).
I'm shocked. How can I be almost 40? When did this happen? I can remember my grandparents in their 40's (I have a very young family).
From the standpoint of life and living, this milestone 14,610 days from the date of my birth is no more significant than any other day. Life, like a walk, is made up of a progression of individual moments, each coming on the heels of the last, and each of these moments, whether today or ten years from now, should be anticipated and celebrated equally.
Today is my 14,463rd day. Now where are my presents?
We have, by sections, been walking a trail called the North Downs Way, which runs about 150 miles from Farnham, west of London, out to Dover on the east coast. While passing through a number of towns is unavoidable over such a long distance, much of it has been out in the open countryside, and it has provided me a view of this country which I'd never have acquired living in London. On this section, we passed the 79 mile marker, a not insignificant accomplishment for an aging fattie like me.
Once outside of London, people are generally friendlier, the pace of life is generally a bit slower, and the landscape becomes almost unimaginably varied. Deep silent pine forests end without warning on open, gently rolling fields, which in turn suddenly become steep slopes, the chalk rock slick underfoot at the first sign of damp. The beauty of walking is that you never know what's around the next corner. Sometimes, it's a 3,000 year old stone monument, sometimes a Norman church or a tiny pretty village. A 13th century pub called the 'Dirty Habit'. Eventually, this walk will bring us a glimpse of the sea and Dover's famous chalk cliffs. Other times, it shows us the back of a petrol station, or an overgrown car lot, or a back street in a dirty little town populated by drunken chavs. But regardless of what it brings, the road ahead always brings something new, something different from where you are now.
It was about midway through this 18km walk that we got to talking about birthdays, and it was at that point that I realized that I'm about 4 months shy of my 40th. This should hardly have been a revelation; I know when my birthday is, I know in what year I was born, I can do math, albeit with that certain lack of precision common to those who spend their time thinking in shades of grey. (Odd - in writing that, I remembered that I had a dream about slide rules last night. I wonder what that means?).
I'm shocked. How can I be almost 40? When did this happen? I can remember my grandparents in their 40's (I have a very young family).
From the standpoint of life and living, this milestone 14,610 days from the date of my birth is no more significant than any other day. Life, like a walk, is made up of a progression of individual moments, each coming on the heels of the last, and each of these moments, whether today or ten years from now, should be anticipated and celebrated equally.
Today is my 14,463rd day. Now where are my presents?
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
How the Mighty Have Fallen
I did something tonight that I swore I'd never do. I watched a sporting event on television. With my daughter.
Broadly speaking, I've never liked sports. I don't enjoy playing them, I don't enjoy watching them, I don't enjoy talking about them. One of my earliest memories is of my grandfather watching the Giants on our 13" black and white TV in a tiny room under the roof on the third floor of their house. While the snowy grey blobs zigzagged around the screen, I made a fort of the couch cushions and fell asleep, lulled by the whitenoise of static and crowd. As an adult, most sports, televised or otherwise, still induce those same soporific tendencies, though I almost never build couch-cushion forts anymore.
This month, though, and in this year, is different. This month, every four years, I actually relish a major sporting event. This month sees the finals of the Fédération Internationale de Football Association World Cup being played in South Africa.
I enjoy this not because I'm a football fan, but rather because I am enamored with the concept of national teams competing for a single world-wide title, the qualification for which goes on literally for YEARS. I love the kind of nationalistic but (generally) good-natured fervor on display - the flags taped to people's monitors at work, the nation vs. nation banter, the national anthems slurred and vomited by intoxicated Antipodeans on my street at 2am. Well, maybe not that last one so much.
I've no head for sports. I can't remember team names (which, come to think of it, may be one reason I enjoy the World Cup so much - it's not hard to remember 'Australia' or 'USA'). I can't recall player names. I can't tell you who won the last one. I don't know all the rules (though football is mercifully uncomplicated). Fact is, I don't particularly care about any of the mechanics. I just enjoy watching a really well-played footie, and this month offers that in spades.
And so it was that tonight as I watched the North Korea-Brazil match (which I must admit I switched off after Brazil scored a second goal with about 10 minutes remaining), that Caroline, still in her Tuesday Brownies uniform, joined me.
"Are you watching the football?" she asked, her pitch rising on 'foot' and falling on 'ball' in the British way.
"Yes, North Korea is playing Brazil."
"Ooh! I want Brazil to win."
"Why?"
"I like their flag."
Her allegiance thus sworn, she snuggled up against me on the couch, my arm round her shoulders.
Her questions were fairly basic at first.
"Who's winning?" (No one, it's nil-nil).
"Who's the man dressed in black?" (The referee).
"Why are those guys in red not going after the man with the ball?" (They're playing defense).
"Why does that sign say 'Coca-Cola'?" (It's an advert).
"What's an advert?"
And so forth. But then:
"Who pushed that Brazil guy down?"
"Um, I don't know."
"Is his name on his shirt?"
"Yes."
"Can you read it when they show him?"
"I don't know which player it was."
"It was the one in red who looks Chinese."
"Um, he's on the North Korean team. They're all wearing red, and they all look Chinese."
"Oh."
Fortunately, she didn't ask any complicated rules questions, so I was OK. But we celebrated Brazil's two goals, and we talked about football, and we shared a moment.
And then it was bedtime.
"I like watching the football with you, Caroline."
"I like watching the football with you as well."
Big grins all around.
Turns out she's in a football pool of sorts at school. She has Nigeria to win.
I can't wait to watch that one with her.
Broadly speaking, I've never liked sports. I don't enjoy playing them, I don't enjoy watching them, I don't enjoy talking about them. One of my earliest memories is of my grandfather watching the Giants on our 13" black and white TV in a tiny room under the roof on the third floor of their house. While the snowy grey blobs zigzagged around the screen, I made a fort of the couch cushions and fell asleep, lulled by the whitenoise of static and crowd. As an adult, most sports, televised or otherwise, still induce those same soporific tendencies, though I almost never build couch-cushion forts anymore.
This month, though, and in this year, is different. This month, every four years, I actually relish a major sporting event. This month sees the finals of the Fédération Internationale de Football Association World Cup being played in South Africa.
I enjoy this not because I'm a football fan, but rather because I am enamored with the concept of national teams competing for a single world-wide title, the qualification for which goes on literally for YEARS. I love the kind of nationalistic but (generally) good-natured fervor on display - the flags taped to people's monitors at work, the nation vs. nation banter, the national anthems slurred and vomited by intoxicated Antipodeans on my street at 2am. Well, maybe not that last one so much.
I've no head for sports. I can't remember team names (which, come to think of it, may be one reason I enjoy the World Cup so much - it's not hard to remember 'Australia' or 'USA'). I can't recall player names. I can't tell you who won the last one. I don't know all the rules (though football is mercifully uncomplicated). Fact is, I don't particularly care about any of the mechanics. I just enjoy watching a really well-played footie, and this month offers that in spades.
And so it was that tonight as I watched the North Korea-Brazil match (which I must admit I switched off after Brazil scored a second goal with about 10 minutes remaining), that Caroline, still in her Tuesday Brownies uniform, joined me.
"Are you watching the football?" she asked, her pitch rising on 'foot' and falling on 'ball' in the British way.
"Yes, North Korea is playing Brazil."
"Ooh! I want Brazil to win."
"Why?"
"I like their flag."
Her allegiance thus sworn, she snuggled up against me on the couch, my arm round her shoulders.
Her questions were fairly basic at first.
"Who's winning?" (No one, it's nil-nil).
"Who's the man dressed in black?" (The referee).
"Why are those guys in red not going after the man with the ball?" (They're playing defense).
"Why does that sign say 'Coca-Cola'?" (It's an advert).
"What's an advert?"
And so forth. But then:
"Who pushed that Brazil guy down?"
"Um, I don't know."
"Is his name on his shirt?"
"Yes."
"Can you read it when they show him?"
"I don't know which player it was."
"It was the one in red who looks Chinese."
"Um, he's on the North Korean team. They're all wearing red, and they all look Chinese."
"Oh."
Fortunately, she didn't ask any complicated rules questions, so I was OK. But we celebrated Brazil's two goals, and we talked about football, and we shared a moment.
And then it was bedtime.
"I like watching the football with you, Caroline."
"I like watching the football with you as well."
Big grins all around.
Turns out she's in a football pool of sorts at school. She has Nigeria to win.
I can't wait to watch that one with her.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Garden Wall
Behind old brick, trellised and ivy-softened, the sound of my children, pointless and idle at play. Their thin voices diluted with watery laughter, they revel in a new insect or a clump of dirt.
They wrestle in the shallow pool, my children and the neighbor's daughter, sunblocked arms and legs slide greasily against each other, a three-headed suburban octopus turning slowly pink in a shallow grassy ocean.
My son, shirtless and dirty, creates a shallow muddy lake in the flower bed. The girl makes people from old card and tissue, props them in the sodden earth. They are soon dirt-spattered and wet. The children spray each other by turns, shrieking, cold water on warm skin.
A bee hovers near my ear, heavy-buzzing and languid in the heat. Golden drops of dappled sunshine cling dewily to the lawn. A leaf falls, a reminder of impermanence. The sun glides inexorably overhead. The young inevitably age. Another family, another spring. The endless river flows endlessly, but the wall remains.
They wrestle in the shallow pool, my children and the neighbor's daughter, sunblocked arms and legs slide greasily against each other, a three-headed suburban octopus turning slowly pink in a shallow grassy ocean.
My son, shirtless and dirty, creates a shallow muddy lake in the flower bed. The girl makes people from old card and tissue, props them in the sodden earth. They are soon dirt-spattered and wet. The children spray each other by turns, shrieking, cold water on warm skin.
A bee hovers near my ear, heavy-buzzing and languid in the heat. Golden drops of dappled sunshine cling dewily to the lawn. A leaf falls, a reminder of impermanence. The sun glides inexorably overhead. The young inevitably age. Another family, another spring. The endless river flows endlessly, but the wall remains.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Boot Sale
The children are having a boot sale. They are raising money for airplane tickets to America. Perhaps it's time for me to loosen the purse strings just a bit.
A 'boot', for the benefit of my American-speaking friends, is a car trunk. Thus, a 'boot sale' would imply that a certain amount of the stuff would actually be in a boot. Given that we do not own a car, however, this is simply not possible. They have moved their small play table and chairs out in front of the house, and Caroline's friend has made a 'Boot Sail' sign which they have hung on the table. Michael is the barker. "Roll up, roll up for the car boot sale," he hollers up and down the street, harassing the passers-by.
Their inventory consists of a number of items expropriated from their cupboards and toy chests and my bedroom. Four pairs of shoes. A hat belonging a moose on a keychain dressed as a Canadian Mountie. A dozen or so bunches of weeds liberated from Green Park earlier in the day, prices varying according to size. Several homemade aliens at 5p each. Last Friday's newspaper. My copy of The Mosquito Coast by Paul Theroux, later realized to have been a first edition for which I'd paid a premium.
Sales are, predictably, less than brisk, but I applaud their initiative. Yesterday, Caroline and Michael and Caroline's friend made us breakfast in bed. Caroline has learned to make scrambled eggs in the microwave; now she does so at every opportunity. These she made in one of her toy pans, a relic of an earlier life in which we had space for an entire toy kitchen. The pan is heart-shaped, the eggs are not exactly.
They have also folded the laundry, washed and dried and put away the dishes, hoovered (vacuumed) the carpet. Helpful little things, aren't they? Now, if only they would fold the clean clothes rather than the ones straight from the hamper, or rinse the dishes before drying them we'd be on easy street. We might not get out of bed, what with the heart-shaped eggs and all.
I feel vaguely guilty about allowing my children to be so feral. I should be playing with them, interacting, building forts, telling stories, shouldn't I? Instead, we're sitting in the sunshine with a bottle of white wine, having grown-up conversation with a friend while the children cook and clean and sell their belongings so they can live out their dream. Is that how it's supposed to be?
Thinking about it, I suppose that's kind of how life is. We do for our children, a lot. And sometimes they do for us in return. That's not a bad thing, I think. Maybe I'll remind them how to use the washer.
A 'boot', for the benefit of my American-speaking friends, is a car trunk. Thus, a 'boot sale' would imply that a certain amount of the stuff would actually be in a boot. Given that we do not own a car, however, this is simply not possible. They have moved their small play table and chairs out in front of the house, and Caroline's friend has made a 'Boot Sail' sign which they have hung on the table. Michael is the barker. "Roll up, roll up for the car boot sale," he hollers up and down the street, harassing the passers-by.
Their inventory consists of a number of items expropriated from their cupboards and toy chests and my bedroom. Four pairs of shoes. A hat belonging a moose on a keychain dressed as a Canadian Mountie. A dozen or so bunches of weeds liberated from Green Park earlier in the day, prices varying according to size. Several homemade aliens at 5p each. Last Friday's newspaper. My copy of The Mosquito Coast by Paul Theroux, later realized to have been a first edition for which I'd paid a premium.
Sales are, predictably, less than brisk, but I applaud their initiative. Yesterday, Caroline and Michael and Caroline's friend made us breakfast in bed. Caroline has learned to make scrambled eggs in the microwave; now she does so at every opportunity. These she made in one of her toy pans, a relic of an earlier life in which we had space for an entire toy kitchen. The pan is heart-shaped, the eggs are not exactly.
They have also folded the laundry, washed and dried and put away the dishes, hoovered (vacuumed) the carpet. Helpful little things, aren't they? Now, if only they would fold the clean clothes rather than the ones straight from the hamper, or rinse the dishes before drying them we'd be on easy street. We might not get out of bed, what with the heart-shaped eggs and all.
I feel vaguely guilty about allowing my children to be so feral. I should be playing with them, interacting, building forts, telling stories, shouldn't I? Instead, we're sitting in the sunshine with a bottle of white wine, having grown-up conversation with a friend while the children cook and clean and sell their belongings so they can live out their dream. Is that how it's supposed to be?
Thinking about it, I suppose that's kind of how life is. We do for our children, a lot. And sometimes they do for us in return. That's not a bad thing, I think. Maybe I'll remind them how to use the washer.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Elephant Hunt
Today, we hunted elephants. In the rain, armed only with notebooks.
Desperate for something to do with the kids, I stumbled upon Elephant Parade, a city-wide art installation in which painted plastic elephants are displayed around the city and will be auctioned on 3rd July to raise funds for Asian elephant habitat preservation. I thought it would be fun to trek around the city and see how many elephants we could find. And it was, apart from the fact that a steady, soaking rain was falling, or more accurately, swirling around us when we arrived in town.
We'd brought one of Caroline's friends with us, a very sensible French girl, and it was a lot of fun watching the three of them hunting elephants and fastidiously writing the name and lot number of each one in their little notebooks. In all, we found 25 elephants - 7 on the South Bank, 5 on Embankment, 7 in Covent Garden and 6 in Trafalgar Square. To be honest, I cheated a bit - I had a map of the elephants' locations on my iPhone (a great little device which I absolutely love and wonder how I ever lived without). This seemed an impressive number until I met a woman who, with her daughter, had found 143 of the painted pachyderms over three weekends. Better get up earlier tomorrow.
It's also a lot of fun listening to the children's conversations. At one point, we were approaching two elephants situated under Cleopatra's Needle, an Egyptian obelisk on the Embankment flanked by two Sphinxes when Caroline gleefully pointed and squealed, "Hey, look, there's the Shrinks!"
It was an exhausting day. We ate both lunch and dinner out, which is always a little trying. Lunch was at Wagamama, a chain Japanese noodle joint that the kids all love. Unfortunately, every time Caroline eats there, she gets sick, so hopefully tonight will be the exception. Why, you ask, would we continue to go to a place where Caroline gets sick? Because it was raining, the kids were starving and cold, and everywhere had a 20 minute wait except the dim sum place, which didn't seem kid friendly. I'm sure a couple of custard buns and maybe some chicken feet would have been fine, but we chose Waggers instead. There's nothing like a nice bowl of ramen on a chilly London afternoon.
I ordered a bowl of edamame - steamed, salted soybean pods. These things are one of my favorite things about Japanese food. The kids enjoyed them, too; or rather, they enjoyed squeezing the little buggers until the beans popped out and flew across the room. I can see the appeal, but this very nearly killed a waitress when she slipped on one of the beans. We had to put a stop to the beanapulting at that point.
Now, I'm spent. Caroline's friend is sleeping over tonight, and they're all in their pyjamas watching some bug movie now. I may just fall asleep before them, dreaming of elephants and soybeans.
Desperate for something to do with the kids, I stumbled upon Elephant Parade, a city-wide art installation in which painted plastic elephants are displayed around the city and will be auctioned on 3rd July to raise funds for Asian elephant habitat preservation. I thought it would be fun to trek around the city and see how many elephants we could find. And it was, apart from the fact that a steady, soaking rain was falling, or more accurately, swirling around us when we arrived in town.
We'd brought one of Caroline's friends with us, a very sensible French girl, and it was a lot of fun watching the three of them hunting elephants and fastidiously writing the name and lot number of each one in their little notebooks. In all, we found 25 elephants - 7 on the South Bank, 5 on Embankment, 7 in Covent Garden and 6 in Trafalgar Square. To be honest, I cheated a bit - I had a map of the elephants' locations on my iPhone (a great little device which I absolutely love and wonder how I ever lived without). This seemed an impressive number until I met a woman who, with her daughter, had found 143 of the painted pachyderms over three weekends. Better get up earlier tomorrow.
It's also a lot of fun listening to the children's conversations. At one point, we were approaching two elephants situated under Cleopatra's Needle, an Egyptian obelisk on the Embankment flanked by two Sphinxes when Caroline gleefully pointed and squealed, "Hey, look, there's the Shrinks!"
It was an exhausting day. We ate both lunch and dinner out, which is always a little trying. Lunch was at Wagamama, a chain Japanese noodle joint that the kids all love. Unfortunately, every time Caroline eats there, she gets sick, so hopefully tonight will be the exception. Why, you ask, would we continue to go to a place where Caroline gets sick? Because it was raining, the kids were starving and cold, and everywhere had a 20 minute wait except the dim sum place, which didn't seem kid friendly. I'm sure a couple of custard buns and maybe some chicken feet would have been fine, but we chose Waggers instead. There's nothing like a nice bowl of ramen on a chilly London afternoon.
I ordered a bowl of edamame - steamed, salted soybean pods. These things are one of my favorite things about Japanese food. The kids enjoyed them, too; or rather, they enjoyed squeezing the little buggers until the beans popped out and flew across the room. I can see the appeal, but this very nearly killed a waitress when she slipped on one of the beans. We had to put a stop to the beanapulting at that point.
Now, I'm spent. Caroline's friend is sleeping over tonight, and they're all in their pyjamas watching some bug movie now. I may just fall asleep before them, dreaming of elephants and soybeans.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Garden Party
Broadly speaking, there are three things in my liquor cabinet: a very large bottle of neglected gin, a collection of rums from various sugar-producing parts of the world, and lots of vodka. It's this last that I attempted to push onto my friends at today's little garden party.
I find that almost any vodka can taste good when mixed with Crystal Light lemonade. Stoli Vanil. Yes. Stoli Strasberi (or some such ridiculously pretentious spelling of 'strawberry'). Yes. Somebody's raspberry or other. Yes. Stoli Citron, sure. Finlandia lime. Yup.
As you might have surmised by now, almost any vodka goes well with Crystal Light. But not the Finlandia mango. For some odd reason, Finlandia mango with lemonade is absolutely disgusting, even after a fair bit of other stuff. It tastes like a dentist's office mixed with feet.
Besides vodka, though, there's Pimm's. Pimm's is absolutely the cat's ass. (That's 'just totally super' for you Americans). I may or may not have provided a recipe for Pimms Lemonade yet. If not, please follow along in your hymnals.
Pimm's Lemonade
1 70cl btl Pimm's #1
3x 1L bottles of Sprite/7Up
1/2 cucumber
15 large strawberries
1 orange
1 apple
1 lemon
1 lime
a whole lot of mint
Cut up the fruit in small pieces. In a large container, pour the Pimms over the fruit. Let soak for as long as possible. To serve, pour 1/3 of a cup of Pimms and fruit over ice, then add 2/3 cup of lemonade (Sprit/7Up in the US). Stick in a big piece of mint and some cucumber and you're golden.
I strongly recommend this fantastic drink. It's Tops!
Hope you all enjoy your own garden parties etc.
Yours
Paul
I find that almost any vodka can taste good when mixed with Crystal Light lemonade. Stoli Vanil. Yes. Stoli Strasberi (or some such ridiculously pretentious spelling of 'strawberry'). Yes. Somebody's raspberry or other. Yes. Stoli Citron, sure. Finlandia lime. Yup.
As you might have surmised by now, almost any vodka goes well with Crystal Light. But not the Finlandia mango. For some odd reason, Finlandia mango with lemonade is absolutely disgusting, even after a fair bit of other stuff. It tastes like a dentist's office mixed with feet.
Besides vodka, though, there's Pimm's. Pimm's is absolutely the cat's ass. (That's 'just totally super' for you Americans). I may or may not have provided a recipe for Pimms Lemonade yet. If not, please follow along in your hymnals.
Pimm's Lemonade
1 70cl btl Pimm's #1
3x 1L bottles of Sprite/7Up
1/2 cucumber
15 large strawberries
1 orange
1 apple
1 lemon
1 lime
a whole lot of mint
Cut up the fruit in small pieces. In a large container, pour the Pimms over the fruit. Let soak for as long as possible. To serve, pour 1/3 of a cup of Pimms and fruit over ice, then add 2/3 cup of lemonade (Sprit/7Up in the US). Stick in a big piece of mint and some cucumber and you're golden.
I strongly recommend this fantastic drink. It's Tops!
Hope you all enjoy your own garden parties etc.
Yours
Paul
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