An Apple A Day

Tequila, that wicked spirit of agave...

It picks persistent, digging deep, wearing away at the veneer of personality and social propriety.

Warm in the belly, and hot on the lips, it is the ultimate excuse for bad behavior. It gets the party started. It does bad things.

I do not believe in a devil, nor do I fear his fictional hoary minions. But Tequila. Oh yes. Tequila!

In moderation, it is a warm elixir, a buttress against the gray of winter or the doldrums of a drab party. It can be shot, slurped or sipped and seems predetermined, preternaturally designed, to go down with lime. It conforms to the bawdiest desires to lick it from the human body like no other beverage known to man. It may prove the existence of God.

It simmers the passions. It leads to lust. It fuels anger. It leads to extraordinarily bad decision making.

It causes conservative skirts to hike, white men to dance and money to be spent.

It is the closest kin to witchcraft I have come across in this wide world.

And tonight, I chased my taste for it. I sipped while I sizzled sausage on the grill. I poured more during dinner. I took a quick shot in the dark, when the opportunity arose.

Then, at some point, I sought to sneak a little more down the gullet, and that required the assistance of the liquid panty remover known as the Margarita. Not that I was wearing panties... No, just roll with it...

Anyway.

Tequila tangos well with sweet; and Lime is sublime (and entirely required) when it come to the art of tequila mixology.

The holy trinity being, for purists of course, tequila, lime and Cointreau, but fruit of all manner have worked their way in to the lexicon of the fermented cactus language.

Being Fall in the wet Pacific Northwest, means one thing. Blackberry season is over and now, it is time for the apples.

Great trees, pregnant with ripe red and green fruit have begun to shed their tart treats. And when the apples fall, it is time to make cider. Dark brown, unfiltered, tasting of the orchard earth itself, Cider. If it is cloudy, if the apple sediment must be shaken from the floor of the jug, if it originated less than 10 miles from your Oregon home, you know it is going to be good.

So, a mostly-full bottle of respectable tequila in one hand and a cold jug of unfiltered cider in the other, I began to carefully combine. I licked at the drips and sucked up the excess. I added a little of this, and a dash of that. I shook. I stirred. I tested.

More of that, less of this, but I was close.

Then, I tried the lime, and voila, I had a bad-ass apple margarita. It was brown and cloudy, sweet and tart. The tequila was celebrated, rather than concealed. I sipped and sipped and slowly the sides of my head went numb.