Play Book

I have always argued that proper cocktail ice, preferably the tiny squares, make for a better dinking experience, clinking in the glass the way they do. It’s kind of like Joe Nichols insisting that tequila makes your clothes fall off.

These theories about alcohol shape our belief system. We become students of the drink, learning from experience and shared/sung knowledge. We compose our own standards for what we will drink or not drink, what we used to drink, but have grown our of. Bartles and James come to mind? We form opinions about whether highland or island malts are the peatiest, and we make rules about what to shy away from, hopefully preventing our clothes falling off at inopportune times.

The funny thing is $200 scotch and Screaming Eagle can still land you in the pool, naked in front of your co-workers. At the bottom of that clinking ice is the same stuff hiding in that crinkled 40 ounce brown bag.

I went and saw a therapist over the summer. I knew I was going to lose my mom and I wanted to have her in place to help me through it. At my session I told her I was thinking about giving up alcohol. After brief consideration, sizing me up for stability, she said I simply need to practice mindfulness. Instead of just quickly reaching for my 5 o’clock drink, I needed to slowly pour the wine into the vessel, swirl it around looking for viscous legs, appreciate the nose, the mouthful, and the finish. Sigh. I think to myself I must have taught her parents in my wine appreciation class 25 long years ago.

When you drink two glasses of Kendal Jackson chardonnay every night for eight years you do not give a shit what it smells like. It smells like 5 o’clock. There is nothing original or creative or worth noticing about this tired old routine. There is more nuance to water at this point. If I want to be mindful about something, I can go outside and try to identify all the different birdsongs. If I want to be mindful, I can follow a floating bubble that has made its way out of the Dawn soap bottle as I do dishes. If I want to be mindful I can look around, instead of have tunnel vision for the same glass of KJ that is making my brain sloshier by the day.

So when my uncle asks me “what’s the point of a mocktail?” I respond thus: A mocktail spurs my originality. It is a fresh process - this concocting. Making it requires thought. First, I cruise through the glistening bottles and artsy labels of the liquor shelves over to the rapidly growing N/A and mixer section. Fun new companies offer syrups and bitters and distilled zero-proof spirits. There is a New Orleans company called El Guapo and I grab their Feugo - a bitter with notes of habanero, jalapeño, tail chili, grapefruit and lime. I roll back over to the produce section to grab a jalapeño for garnish. While I’m at it, I get some fresh rosemary and strawberries. All of a sudden I’m feeling just as snobby as when I was picking out a mixed case of Cabs.

Snobby isn’t really the goal so much, as just finding something sophisticated to drink at the end of the day, or at a party, something besides coke or tap water to make ritual of, something to actually be mindful about. I can sniff and taste and appreciate the new beverage in my hand, and I am beyond happy that it will not leave me feeling bad. A drink that ONLY makes me feel good. Imagine that?!

My tired and cliched belief system regarding alcohol has changed, and mocktails are just one more chapter in a new rule book. Feel like joining me Joe Nichols?

**Sidenote - my computer keeps tying to spellcheck "mocktail" for" cocktail." Get with it computer. We don't drink and write any more.