The Margarita Incident
My parents are visiting. The lawn needed mowing. I mowed and they took it upon themselves to weed. I tried to stop them and that’s when we had The Margarita Incident.
Here in Colorado, we have these killer weeds that have tiny needles on their leaves and stems. The last thing I wanted was one of my parents to get those nasty things in their hands because they hurt like hell, are murder to get out and get infected pretty quickly. So my father took an ax to them. (Smart thinking on his part.)
In an effort to distract my mother from the weeds, I asked her to make some margaritas and told her where the tequila and margarita mix were. Little did I know my mother had never made a margarita that wasn’t frozen.
I finished mowing, put the mower back in the garage and was good and truly parched when I walked into the kitchen.
What I saw wasn’t pretty.
My mother was walking around the kitchen with my husband’s quart-sized Movie Tavern glass filled with what looked like margarita.
A quick survey of the kitchen showed an empty bottle of margarita mix and a counter that had been excessively splashed.
“That’s great, Mom, but what are me and Dad going to drink?”
“I didn’t know how much to put in. I started mixing and the tequila was really strong so I kept adding more mix. It’s good.” She took a drink from the huge glass. “That’s real good.”
“I know, Mom. It’s very good tequila. Rick sent it to me for Christmas.” The tequila wasn’t just some el crappo blanco. It was a Cabo Wabo Reposado. The kind of tequila that tastes like Mexican sunshine going down and warms your belly like an afternoon on the beaches of Cabo San Lucas. You can taste the oak barrel it was aged in and the limes that grew beside the agave plants that gave their sweet nectar to honor the tequila gods. It was the best Christmas present my brother had ever given me and I’m still wondering how to reciprocate properly.
I walked over to the splashed counter. My highly attuned sense of tequila smell told me what the liquid was. “Is this tequila on the counter? You wasted tequila?” I bent down, kissed the counter and took a slurp.
It was tequila.
Shame for the crime that had been committed in my kitchen overcame me. I slurped up the rest of it. “Mom, you will never mix a drink in my home again.”
She was still browsing the kitchen with a lost look. “What is it, Mom?”
“I never made these without a blender.”
I rubbed my face in frustration, took a deep breath and relieved my dear mother of the huge glass she was holding (and drinking from).
Three glasses full of ice and three pours later, we were enjoying margaritas in the newly trimmed backyard.
After a short Facebook conference with my brother, I understood –
I had taught my brother how to drink. (Yes, I remember that summer somewhat vaguely now.) Looking back, our mother was the one to buy a jug of something Gallo and just pour.
When my boys are old enough, I’ll teach them how to make a proper margarita.
We wouldn’t want another Margarita Incident.