That is why I was so ridiculously happy when this new story was announced, and the moment it was published, I pounced! Not surprisingly, it's an editor's pick!
"I love this story. It's a good reminder that you are not done living until you are dead. And even then…"
Today I have Aletta here in the Lair to tell us about Hemingway's Daiquiri recipe; this deliciously sinful pink grapefruit concoction appears (temptingly) in the book, and it seems a wonderful drink to go with it!
Just
because she’s sixty-three, cynical, and a church musician, Emily Rauch
is hardly done with life—or love. Now that she’s traded in her old barn
of a place for a tiny house in the hills, Emily’s ready for a new start.
Throw in one enormous pipe organ, two ghosts, a pot dealer named Santa
Claus, the reappearance of Emily’s bad-boy college squeeze, and a
blizzard ... what could possibly go wrong?
The Hemingway Daiquiri: It Gets The Job Done
Meet
Father Christopher Heaton: a tall sixty-something widower who runs
marathons. He’s a bit beardy, but quite
muscular…and an old hippie who’s seen something of the world. His job at St. Elizabeth’s Episcopal church
in the lovely Hudson River town of Clabberton, NY, requires him to be beyond
reproach. After all, church ladies are
watching!
Most of
the time, Father Chris is very very good.
But
sometimes, he needs to mix a subtle but potent cocktail for a certain church
musician…and that’s when he turns to THE HEMINGWAY DAIQUIRI. Like Chris himself, it’s more dangerous than
it seems!
Papa
Hemingway drank this cocktail in Cuba, often ordering doubles of it because he
liked it so much. Two things to note if
you’re going to follow in his footsteps: one is that this drink is best with
pink grapefruit juice, freshly squeezed.
Look for Indian River grapefruits in the market. Secondly,
you’ll need to find a bottle of maraschino liqueur. Father Chris prefers the Luxardo brand, which
comes in a pretty green bottle in a basket.
Maraschino is actually not terribly sweet, and fun to play with if you
enjoy mixing drinks.
THE
HEMINGWAY DAIQUIRI (This is one
serving. Multiply as you need to!)
2 ounces
silver rum (Father Chris likes Mount Gay.)
3/4 ounce
lime juice, freshly squeezed
1/2 ounce
(or a bit more) pink grapefruit juice, freshly squeezed
1/2 ounce
maraschino liqueur
Half a
lime wheel, for garnish
Chill your
cocktail glasses by filling them with water and ice cubes and then dumping it
out, or do as Father Chris does: just leave them in the freezer when you’re not
using them. Put all the ingredients
except the lime wheel in a cocktail shaker with lots of ice cubes. Shake until the shaker feels almost too cold
to hold—at least thirty seconds. Strain
into a cocktail glass. Float the half
lime wheel on the top of the drink—or perch it on the edge of the glass.
Cheers!
Well, I am off looking for grapefruit, see you!! :)
Here is an excerpt from the book:
“You are a woman of … appetites, Em. You like to eat and drink and…”
“…and fuck.”
Emily shocked herself by saying that. Dropping an f-bomb when you were
just randomly turning the air blue was one thing. But this was no
fuckity-fuck-fuck. This meant actually doing the deed…
But she hadn’t shocked Al. “Indeed. And fuck.” He nodded, his lips tight. “I left you in the lurch.”
Emily
sighed. “Yup. Yup. Guess you did. But we talked that stuff to death two
decades ago. Shit, Al! It’s just … just … I don’t know what it is.
Alexa, play Widor organ music.”
“I don’t know any songs by Widor,” said Alexa.
“Alexa, argh!” Emily made neck-choking gestures toward the black cylinder on her counter.
“Bee-boop,” said Alexa. Her illuminated blue ring danced and turned itself off.
“I
know our lovely and talented daughter meant well with that thing,” said
Al. “But The Echo sucks at classical music unless you get lucky. Works
better just to ask for radio stations.”
“You’re too good at that. Do you haunt many Echo owners?”
“Just Gordon.” Al laughed ruefully. “That young fella of his bought an Alexa for him. Alexa, play WQXR.”
“Playing WQXR.” Alexa provided them with the middle of Respighi’s “Ancient Airs and Dances.”
“Not
bad,” said Emily. “No static. It barely comes in up here on the FM. And
they’re a public station now, so no more pre-need funeral ads, I guess.
God, funerals!”
“Yeah. That. I gather you had a spectacularly bad day…”
“Do you get special ghost email about that or something? Ghost Facebook?”
Al’s laugh, again, was rueful. “Hard to explain. It doesn’t work like that. I never really thought of you as a femme fatale, Em.”
“I wasn’t the one who fatale-ed
him! I honestly didn’t intend to have anything else to do with him! Or
not much else, anyway. Look, I was being a sex-positive, independent
woman caring for her own needs. He went home to his girlfriend, tried
for a little more of the old slap and tickle … and crumped.”
“And now you’re playing his funeral. And he came to the organ loft today to bother you.”
Emily began to laugh, too—a bit too hard. There was nothing else left to do. “Oh, fuckity fuck!”
“What?”
Then
there were tears in her eyes again. She laughed until she ran out of
air. “I never even unblocked him on my phone. I never even friended him
on … Facebook! It was supposed to be a nothing. A one-off. A…”
“I sort of remember Brad. He was at the reception when you played in Brooklyn, right? Was he a good organist?”
Emily
wiped her eyes. “He was terrific. But loud and flashy—at least when we
were kids. A show-off. I don’t think I’ve actually listened to him play
since before I met you. He loved boat races as much as he loved music.
Not to mention chasing women. I used to regard that as a challenge when I
was in school: break the womanizing horn-dog’s heart and win the Battle
of the Sexes. Ah, Al, we’re so nuts when we’re young.”
Al took Emily’s hands. “‘Nuts’ is harsh. I think we’re young when we’re young. You know?”
“I do know.”
“Em, I’ll tell you this… Brad’s going to be … around. Womanizer or no, he probably liked you a lot more than you thought. I get that. Plus, he doesn’t know he’s dead, right?”
“He seems a bit unclear about that. He’s got to know I’m practicing for his funeral. You never seemed unsure about being…”
“Being dead. I had lots of warning. I was sick for a long time.”
Emily nodded. “That sucked. You sure didn’t deserve it.”
Al
pecked her cheek with his usual hurried and dry kiss. “No one deserves
it. Your friend clearly has unfinished business,” he said. And then he
disappeared.
→→→ Find The Ghost on Amazon ,
or at Evernight! ←←←
About Aletta...
Aletta Thorne believes in ghosts. In her “normal” life, she is a choral singer,
a poet, a sometimes DJ, and a writer about things non-supernatural. But she’s happiest in front of a glowing
screen, giving voice to whoever it is that got her two cats all riled up at
three AM. Yes, her house is the oldest
one on her street. And of course, it’s
quite seriously haunted (even scared the ghost investigator who came to check
it out). Aletta is also the author of The Chef and the Ghost of Bartholomew
Addison Jenkins.
