Oy!

 

 

I sometimes question whether or not I drink too much, that is until your grandma drinks me under the table on Christmas eve. 25 bottles of wine and a bottle of Ouzo. Who brought Ouzo? But no sooner do the words leave my lips, the guests divide, one by one, stepping back, making a small visual river of space, until only one person is left standing at the end of the divide, the sweet little old lady from New Hampshire. Your grandma.

 

Nothing can be used to chase Ouzo except maybe hellfire and brimstone. And after five glasses of wine you inform me the makings of Ouzo comes from the island of Lesbos. Lesbos? Go Greek independence!

 

I've drank American version of Absinthe. Not the same, I know. But I too hail from the land of ice and snow, I too can whisper songs of gore. If monks can hang with Ouzo, so can I.

 

Well,

 

Um,

 

One,

 

Once,

 

I can hang one time.

 

And though customary to eat a cheese plate when drinking Ouzo like we do with wine, after a shot of Ouzo you don't want to eat anything ever again!

Ever. Ever. Again.

 

I think grandma is wise to us. She knows we don't cook. She knows everything is pre-bought  from the grocery store. She knows the reason our ovens always look clean and unused, is because we don't use them. 

 

I can't be the one to explain to grandma that had she not arrived this year, we would have had cocktails at the house and wandered up to Casa Vega. They have a vegetarian black bean burrito that is amazing! And their bartenders rock!

 

And that's why grandma brought Ouzo to the party.

 

Well played, Grandma B. Well played.

 

Out of pure respect I am up, awake, about to shower, and meet you for breakfast, because nothing would make me happier than crawling back into bed and into the fetal position from whence I came.

 

Eggs.

 

Bloody Mary's.

 

Good morning Starshine!