"Some people claim that there's a woman to blame, but I know...
It's my own damn fault." Margaritaville, Jimmy Buffett (1977).
Father's Day, 2016.
Ribs on the Traeger. Bike ride in the AM, writing "Karen 3" and sipping a margarita. Of course.
Many readers of Bikecopblog will not be astonished. While a cold glass of white wine is de rigueure, when it's time to have a mixed drink out comes the tequila bottle. A good friend once commented that the best margs are made with a splash of "Grandma." The next question is - "What is the best margarita?" I've had several.
I had a best one just yesterday. Daughter Katy, husband Steve and children Graham and Greta moved from Perry Hall, MD to Aurora, CO about two weeks ago. I thought to visit, settled on a time and, in about half an hour, arrived at their front door. I came bearing gifts - among them a bottle of pre-mixed "Stinky Gringo" margarita. Katy and I sipped, got caught up. Greta decided to make a game of throwing a sock on my lap, running the length of the living room and then accepting it back. Another trip around the living room and...rinse, repeat. She giggled, we laughed and enjoyed the no-pressure afternoon. That was a perfect margarita.
I love the Rio Grande restaurant - Blake Street, downtown Denver. They have among the best margs in town. Limit: three. I've hit that a couple of times, always the same reason. I'm sitting with one of my friends. We haven't seen each other in a while. We exchange stories, laugh, remember the days we spent being cops together. Proud of ourselves, and each other. Thankful we are still in one piece. Perfect.
For several years I met Katy at the Rio for lunch about once a week. Often, lunch ran a little long and we hustled back to her office. She was an admin person for an oil company, and one day attended a briefing on the BP mess in the Gulf of Mexico. She had taken notes. For the next ninety minutes this extraordinarily bright young woman ran me through the whole situation. We sipped perfect margaritas.
Daughter Beth used to live in Ft. Myers, and worked for Rick Scott in Naples, before he became Governor of Florida. We made the 45 minute drive in the morning, and then I would prowl the beach until afternoon. Much of the novel "The Heart of the Matter" was written in waterside cafes. restaurants, bars and pavilions along the Gulf shore. At night, we'd stop at a fish store, cook in her kitchen and have a few drinks. Tequila, triple sec and mixer. The results were always perfect.
Son Matt is more of a wine drinker, but one night we met him, his new girlfriend and her parents in Ft. Collins. Of course, we did not know it at the time, but the young woman with whom we shared margs would be his wife. Together, they have two adorable children. Dinner had been a perfect start.
We had set sail from Port Canaveral on Freedom of the Seas. Our week-long cruise stopped for a day in Cozumel, Mexico. We had booked a shore excursion, to "Salsa, Salsa and Margaritas." We learned to make authentic salsa, danced a few steps ("Wax on, wax off) and made margaritas the local way. The cruise got us away from hectic lives pulled in every direction but together. We had "unplugged" from the net. It was just lovely Pat, the fresh Carib breeze and a brief immersion into a culture I've come to love. How could that not be perfect?