Pick of Potions

Last night many people got their drink on. It made me wonder what would be my signature drink if I drank. I haven't been to a club in years and I don't think I had a drink then. The time before that, my classmates and I went to Applebee's thinking we were hip and cool. Or that Applebee's was a hip and cool spot for a group of fresh-out-of-high-school girls. When asked what we were drinking, Paulette explained that we wanted to look sophisticated but some of us weren't of drinking age (she wasn't). The host suggested virgin daiquiris. I thoroughly enjoyed mine. It was strawberry and looked like a smoothie. That was my first and last daiquiri but it was good stuff.

I tried beer. Sips of my mom's when I was little. Not good stuff. Taste like the aftertaste you get when you drink a Sprite -- only with none of the sweetness. Maybe it's the hops, which for the longest time I thought were bugs or bee parts. I gotta get out more. Anyway, nasty stuff.

Coolers were an option for a while. I felt, well, cool when people saw me with a long-necked bottle. They would ask if I of all people were really drinking wine. (I always took and still take pride in saying I don't drink.) And I told the truth. If wine were truly in those bottles, it was a minute amount. See, I just like to stay in control of my body and faculties. Can't really do that if you are inebriated, now can you?

I have been hearing a lot lately of White Russians. Don't begin to know what that is about. And I like the Dos Equis commercials. But no. My signature drink would be lemonade. Yellow. Pink. Strawberry. Raspberry. You name it. Country Time used to do it for me. Then in my infinite research for all things non-soy, I discovered it was a culprit. Who knew? Like why? Thank goodness for the Kool-Aid Man. Now I can safely get my lemonade on. I even make tea with it.

But wait. Maybe there's another. Hot chocolate and I have history. We almost burned down the house when I was, oh, five or six.

My cousin Lynn and I asked for some on a hot summer afternoon. The answer was no. My mother was working the night shift and it was time for her nap. To this day, my mother is all about naps. So we had to take one too. The three of us climbed into bed. It wasn't long before my mom was snoring. I'm going to go ahead and take credit for the idea of sneaking out of bed. But Lynn went along.

We tiptoed to the kitchen, pulled a chair to the stove and went to work. We grabbed the Nestle cocoa powder -- blame it on that rabbit on the container. We grabbed the milk. (Note: Hot chocolate made with anything other than milk is sludge. I'm just saying.) And for some reason we grabbed eggs. Maybe we confused cakes with hot chocolate. Now Lynn and I are two months apart in age. We had everything alike. Bikes. Easter dresses. And plastic mugs with Disney characters. She had the blue Daffy Duck. Mine was the pink Bugs Bunny. Daffy was the vessel we chose for our ingredients. We spun the temperature switch around and placed Daffy on the burner, oozing eggs and all. The burner quickly turned red and the kitchen turned foggy. Daffy started warping, drawing inside himself. Fear set in. Lynn urged me to move him. You do it, I said. We carried on that conversation a bit longer. Meanwhile Daffy was melting like the Wicked Witch of the West.

When my mom tells the story she says it was the grace of God that woke her up in time. The fire department came and assessed the situation. But no real harm was done. Just hurt feelings from Mama yelling at us and resentment from Lynn for still having a Bugs Bunny mug while Daffy Duck had given up the ghost.

So my signature drink is . . . lemonade. I can have it year round if I want. Hot chocolate . . . well, there's a time and a place for it.

This post was written in response to the Daily Post Pick Your Potion.