ha, take that!

New approach to the epilogue seems to be working -- having foregone any scene setting and jumped straight into the conversation (via Bill and Charlie), Ginny is now FINALLY talking about the stuff I need her to talk about.

I will not declare victory until I'm finished, since this has gone wrong on me too many times before, but I think I may be on the right track at last.

*crosses fingers*

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ETA, 8pm: 725 words so far, which is more than I managed on the false starts. Also the conversation, while not quite hitting the points I want to hit, is doing some other useful things and I can probably maneuver Ginny, Bill, and Charlie onto the right topic without too much trouble. At least, I hope so...

But first, I will take a dinner break.

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ETA, 1am: 950 words. I seem to have gone off on an unplanned tangent, but whatever, it is still more relevant than my false starts and I kind of like it besides. :-)

thoughts on Black Russians, with a digression onto my family's attitudes toward alcohol in general

Today's experiment: walk in to town, buy vodka and Kahlúa (1L of Sobieski -- because it was the second cheapest and vodka tastes of nothing anyway -- and 750mL, respectively), lug both bottles home in a handle-free paper bag, discover that (happily!) the ice cubes I made to soothe my mom's paranoia prior to Sandy last fall have only sublimed about halfway to nothing, dig out dinky tin measuring cup, and make myself a Black Russian.

Mmmmmmmm.

I love Black Russians. They are the simplest damn drink to make, they taste lovely, and unlike some other mixed drinks, you never forget that you're drinking something with a high alcohol content, so inebriation can't sneak up on you unplanned. There are disputes about the precise ratio of vodka to Kahlúa -- apparently Kahlúa makers would like you to use a 3-to-2 ratio, whereas the International Bartenders Association would like you to use a 5-to-2 ratio -- but I split the difference and use a simple 2-to-1 ratio, as my mother taught me.

She used to drink a single Black Russian sometimes upon getting home from a really cruddy day at work, and was willing to let me sample them when I asked, which is how I knew I liked them.

This was my parents' basic approach to any alcoholic beverage -- if Vicky or I asked, they would let us get a teaspoon and have a single swallow of whatever they were drinking. Which is why I knew from a very, very, very young age that I cannot stand the taste of beer (do not argue with me about different types of beers, the poor quality of American beers, or anything else; what I dislike is the inherent flavor of beer itself, which no amount of "quality" or other flavors will ever disguise), prefer white wine to red, and think brandies are nice but not worth the expense. I don't remember exactly when they began allowing us to have a champagne cocktail at special family occasions, but I'm pretty sure it was before we turned 21, in both my case and Vicky's.

My parents drink mostly with dinner, but also a bit socially. The intent is either to accompany a meal or to get mellow -- never to get outright drunk. I suspect this modeling of a reasonable relationship with alcohol and the refusal to make drinking some kind of inaccessible, fetishized symbol of adulthood is why I never got into any kind of drinking culture in high school or college, and why Vicky only flirted with the edges of the heavy drinking scene.

In any case, I have tried a few other mixed drinks over the years -- several random kinds when I had a month's exchange trip to Germany at 17 and was legally able to buy and drink alcohol, and a couple others since then -- but I am not in the habit of going to bars so I tend to stick to what I know. Which is that Black Russians are awesome.

And now I can make them at home. :-)