Maybe you’ve read, amid the COVID-19 pandemic, about the resurgence of happy hour or cocktail hour among Americans looking for fun during home-sheltering.
These aren’t happy hours in the traditional sense, of course. The bars, taverns and dives are off limits, at least for the time being. Here’s to hoping they can survive and sling drinks once again.
Some pandemic cocktail hours are being held online, with friends gathering via video chats. Others are held to mark the end of the home workday, creating a boundary between the ceaseless toil of the dining room table and the cool oasis of the back deck. Maybe, after a few belts, your work-at-home spouse will feel like talking to you again.
Maybe it’s just a cold beer or two. I’ve had some delivered by a local brewery, although I wouldn’t feel right about giving them a plug in my column. A lot of businesses could use our help. One that randomly comes to mind is Iowa Brewing Company.
Or maybe you’re mixing cocktails. It just so happens I have some pandemic appropriate mixes I’m willing to share. If you’re not in the mood for a little good-natured satire, now’s the time to socially distance yourself from this column. See you soon, stay well.
For the rest of you, cheers!
A 2oz. pour of Lysol, Pine-Sol or any sol you have on hand.
A 2 oz. glug of El Presidente Bleach, aged in pure plastic.
A handful of hydroxychloroquine. Better make that two handfuls.
Pepcid tablets, muddled.
A dash of cow urine. (Optional)
Pour ingredients into a cocktail shaker filled with ice and anxiety. Shake, feverishly, until well blended. Strain, through a face mask, into a cocktail glass. Garnish with an olive, assorted antibiotics or an eye of newt. Dump into the nearest sink, you knucklehead.
Daily Iowa Briefing Fizzle
A jolt of Patho Gin, spreading alarmingly.
A long dog and pony of Run-Out-the-Clock Rye.
A flimflam of Doc McReynolds cherry picked data.
A matrix of Sidekick Soda, deflecting or diverting.
A Garrett of pressing queries, cut off, follow ups removed.
Fresh fruit, colored maps or word salad, for garnish.
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Mix Patho Gin, dog and pony and cherry picked data in a highball glass or in a sparsely appointed auditorium. Top off with sidekicks, maps and cut off queries. Stir, and then leave, briskly.
A Gallon of Tech Bros’ Secret Health Elixir, ruggedly bearded.
A very generous tip of Captain Kutcher Utah Risky.
A dubious of Absolutely No-Bid Vodka.
A strategy of Neverclear.
Seventy Kelsos of grape punch.
$26 million, for garnish.
Red Solo cups and straws, for testing.
Combine elixir, risky, no-bid, Neverclear, Kelsos and piles of cash in a large tub with ice. Toast to your unbelievably good fortune, and to friendship.
A spike of COVID liquor or Coronalua, peaking.
A hastily poured shot of 1 percent tested milk, pasteurized, normalized.
A second spike of COVID and Corona, peaking again.
Mix ingredients with reckless abandon over ice. Gulp quickly before putting your mask back on.
A Gadsden of snake oil.
Lemon lime soda, liberated from the tyranny of cooler confinement.
A tweet of Orange One liquor, agitated.
A conspiracy of sour mix, and we all know damn well who did the mixing.
A confederacy of Rebel Yell whiskey, segregated, old times not forgotten.
Nuts, for garnish.
Mix ingredients in a Mason jar or on the steps of a capitol with a Democratic governor. Stir with a rifle barrel. Drink until the protest makes total sense.
Social Distancing on the Beach
Six feet of Hey Backoff Vodka.
A protective perimeter of cranberry juice, bright red.
A long reach of peach schnapps, doubled.
A generous glug of orange (you too darn close?) juice.
Mix all the ingredients into a sand pail filled with ice. Sip through a mask, or throw at anyone who invades your personal safety zone.
Long Stuck at Home Ice Tea
A shot of crème de menthe, aged in the back of a cabinet.
A shot of pepper vodka, next to the crème de menthe.
A shot of triple sec, from last Cinco de Mayo.
A shot of Pimm’s, acquisition completely forgotten.
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A shot of some sort of spiced Christmas drink, maybe from Aldi’s.
A shot of Marsala wine, because what the hell.
Combine ingredients in a pitcher until brownish gray and pungent. Serve in old newbo evolve cups. Garnish with goldfish crackers, chocolate chips, Easter candy, baby carrots rolling around the crisper drawer, whatever you’ve still got. Drink, after toasting the fact things could be worse.
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