At the instigation of a friend of mine I recently tried making something called posca (or, perhaps more accurately, something similar to something called posca). Posca was a traditional Roman drink composed mostly of watered down sour wine, often flavored with herbs or spices and sweetened. It was, in effect, the equivalent of lemonade only with vinegar instead of lemon juice. At this point I imagine whoever is reading this may have a slightly skeptical look on his or her face, but this look is not entirely warranted. In fact, having made something roughly equivalent I can assure you this is very tasty.

The real trick here is to track down as nice a vinegar as possible. After all, you’ll be drinking it. I used Sadaf brand vinegar which I purchased at the local middle eastern grocery store mostly because it’s the normal brand that I use in cooking. You can use any brand and probably any sort of vinegar in doing this, though I prefer cider or red wine vinegar. What is essential is that it is not distilled or quickly brewed: you want the subtle complex sourness that the longer process creates rather than the overpowering smell of acetic acid that you get otherwise. Neither of the vinegars that I used in trying out variations on this smelled the slightest bit like distilled vinegar.

The easiest thing to do is to make a concentrate of sweetened vinegar. Unlike lemon juice vinegar doesn’t lose flavor over time so you can do this in large quantity ahead of time and just leave it in the fridge. I like a ratio of around three cups of vinegar to one cup of sugar – in the pictured version I’ve mixed brown and white sugar which is why it’s darker, but this was only because of necessity and not taste. Heat the vinegar and dissolve the sugar in it as if you were making a simple syrup. Then add whatever spices you want. Coriander is especially nice (essential, really, for what I’m going to suggest), but I’ve also put anise seed and a little bit of fresh nutmeg in as well to good effect. Then bring the mixture to a boil and let it cook for a minute or two before turning off the heat and letting it steep for a bit. When it is cool enough to handle strain it and pour into a jar or bottle for safekeeping.

At this point if you want to make posca all you need to do is pour an ounce or two of the vinegar mixture into a tall glass and fill the rest of the way with water. You can use cold water, and add ice if you like. I find that unlike lemonade and most other drinks I actually find posca more refreshing when it’s sitting around room temperature, though, so it’s as least worth trying this.

This is a little boring, though, and as suggested in the title my first instinct was to go ahead and add gin to the drink. Luckily this works out pretty well: remember, one of the main flavors in the mixture is coriander, which is also a common botanical used in gins. It could probably be made more complex with the addition of a bitters (I have a bitters made with Rue that complements the fruitiness of the vinegar nicely, as it turns out). But honestly it’s pretty tasty as it is and adding a recipe for bitters to this post would be recommending and unreasonable amount of work when it comes to trying things out. Since the effect overall of adding gin is to make the drink a watered down and mildly sweetened gin with some vinegar mixed in there I’ve called it a vinegared sling. (It was easier than inventing a fancy name, at any rate.)

This is as much of a recipe as it makes sense to give for something as simple as this. But don’t be fooled: it really is delicious. As a side note I’ll add that the proportions here are entirely speculative. What actually tastes best will depend pretty substantially on what sort of vinegar you use, and how strong it is. So start with roughly equal quantities and then just experiment around until you get a nice balance.

Recipe

1 1/2 oz Posca concentrate
1 1/2 oz Gin

Pour into tall glass, fill with flat water.

Posca Concentrate

3 Cups high quality vinegar
1 Cup white sugar
- or -
1/2 cup white sugar
1/2 cup white sugar
- or -
equivalent quantity of honey

Add sugar to vinegar and heat to dissolve. Add

Coriander seed, other spices to taste.

Bring to a boil until everything is neatly dissolved and smells fragrant. Take off heat and let cool. Strain and bottle.

Mixlogy Monday this week is over at the Scofflaw’s Den, and it’s bourbon. Bless their booze soaked hearts.

In the rich heritage of American drinking, bourbon stands tall. While many a modern man goes to bars and does shots of vodka, our cultural heroes drink whisky, and when most Americans think of whisky, it is bourbon they are thinking of. “Brownest of the brown liquors,” says Lionel Hutz. Rye may have dominated the northern palate, but when it failed to bounce back after prohibition, bourbon was ready to step in with its rich vanilla and oak flavors. So powerful is its image that when politicians need to show they’ve got the stones to lead, their handlers stick them with a shot of the stuff, tell them to drink it down and smile for the cameras.

Q: What could possibly make bourbon more manly?

A: Raw egg.

The bourbon flip is a simple drink to prepare, a sort of eggnog for the Chuck Norris crowd. Ok, maybe not, but I hated Walker Texas Ranger anyway.

Bourbon Flip

2 oz. bourbon
1 whole egg
1 dash simple syrup

Shake these three hard, possibly with a dash of aromatic bitters, though they are not strictly necessary. Strain into glass and grate some nutmeg over the top.

Be sure to pick a feisty bourbon, because that egg is going to cover over a fair amount of the whisky’s fire. If you don’t have a grater, try cutting the nutmeg clove carefully with a knife. The bits will be a little bigger, but the foam on top will be able to hold them, and the results will be much better than tapping out some of that pre-ground stuff that’s been in your spice cabinet for two years. Hat tip to the Teardrop Lounge for reminding me just how tasty flips can be.

This Mixology Monday’s theme was Limit One over at Kaiser Penguin, cocktails so large that to have two would be excess. On Saturday night causabon and I met to have a drink, and go over what we would post about. We were models of Shandian restraint. Now that the fog has lifted, lets have a look at the damage, shall we?

1. Ankle Breaker (double)

2 Oz Lemon Juice
1 Oz Simple Syrup
2 Oz Cherry Heering
2 Oz Cruzan 151 Proof Rum
-
Mix and pour over crushed ice in a double old fashioned glass. Garnish with a maraschino cherry.

causabon: I insisted that since we both had two ankles we needed to make this drink a double instead of just the standard recipe found in Intoxica. As a result it was fairly large and quite strong. Once the ice in the drink melted down enough to cut syrup like consistency of the Heering, though, the drink was pretty solid. Ian suggests letting it sit for a few minutes after pouring it into the glass, but it might even be worth just giving it a good solid shake. The cherry and lemon flavors combine in a complex way that I hadn’t expected and the Cruzan 151 (which I am actually very fond of – it’s significantly better than Bacardi 151) provides a nice spicy foundation. I would definitely drink this again, especially once it gets warm. I can’t help but think, though, that it would do well with a more interesting garnish than just a cherry – perhaps a pineapple wedge or a lime slice?

Ian: I’ve never seen this happen before, but I feel that once you finish mixing the drink, you should set it aside for at least two more minutes and give it one last stir before drinking. This may be due to the amount of ice we could fit in the glass when we made a double. In fact, it probably was. Still, it was a good drink once it diluted a bit. To me, the cherry comes on a little too strong even near the end. Could a quarter ounce less Heering be the answer to both the syrupy texture and cherry dominance? As you can see, our livers weren’t going to be able to handle a second try.

2. Zombie Punch (1934, Sippin’ Safari version)

3/4 Oz Lime Juice
1/2 Oz Don’s Mix*
1/2 Oz Falernum
1 1/2 Oz Appleton V/X
1 1/2 Oz Cruzan Dark Rum
1 Oz Lemon Hart 151 Demerara Rum
1 Dash Angostura
6 Drops Herbsaint
1 Tsp Grenadine

Blend for five seconds with 6 Oz crushed ice, pour into tall glass and fill with ice cubes. Garnish with a mint sprig.
*(2 Parts Grapefruit Juice to 1 Part Cinnamon Syrup)

causabon: This was the winner of the evening. It is almost impossible to distinguish any of the ingredients in the drink they merge so completely into a new flavor. It also manages to change flavor throughout the drinking (which is nice given its size). It’s hard to say much more about this drink than that it is magnificent.

Ian: causabon is right. There is little that can be said about this drink that has not been said already. It’s is a classic for a reason. My girlfriend hates cinnamon, though I still cannot understand why. She loved this drink, despite the cinnamon. Its quality simply cannot be ignored.

3. Zombie (1956, Sippin’ Safari version)

3/4 Oz Lime Juice
1/2 Oz Grapefruit Juice
1 1/2 Oz Pineapple Juice
1/4 Oz Falernum
1 1/4 Oz Cruzan Dark Rum
1 Oz Myer’s Dark Rum
1 Oz Lemon Hart 151 Demerara Rum
3/4 Oz Maraschino
1/4 Tsp Grenadine
2 Dashes Angostura Bitters
6 Drops Herbsaint

Blend for five seconds with 6 Oz crushed ice, pour into tall glass and fill with ice cubes. Garnish with a mint sprig.

causabon: At the time I wasn’t sure if I preferred this version to the above one or not. The Maraschino makes it richer and smoother, though less spicy than the other one. Looking back on both of them I think I prefer the other version though – it’s just more exciting in general.

Ian: Again I agree with causabon. While the later version is excellent, the earlier one is scrappier. It’s ready to get in there and mix it up, cause a little havoc, break a few hearts. This version is almost too sophisticated. I loved them both, but the first one had the edge of danger.

The notes get sketchy at that point in the evening. Part two will reveal what further abuses were heaped on our poor livers.

Alright everyone. It’s Friday night—time to get your groove on. I bit the bullet this week and finally purchased Amy Winehouse’s US debut album “Back to Black.” It’s damn good. Really good. Nothing to lose your mind over, but definitely something to consider.

Here’s the thing. As much as you can accuse Amy Winehouse of being a press whore, you must give her credit for her musical talent. She’s no Ella Fitzgerald, but she sure as shit can sing her butt off AND feel the groove. This is not trivial. She’s not very innovative, but her shear talent for rhythmic singing must be recognized. Y’all, when I listen to Amy Winehouse, I hear Billie Holliday’s ability to sing behind the groove. Oh my god, you hear Winehouse on “Rehab” and you want to reach into the song and grab her molasses-like voice and drag it forward. When she utters “No, no, no,” she’s so behind the beat that she flirts with the next measure. As she manages (somehow) to avoid that next measure, she deserves some musical credit.

Her rich, voluptuous and somewhat angsty voice echoes another time, and her simple, slightly frunky grooves tease you with a taste of the pocket. For those of you not too familiar with music, being in the “pocket” refers to being solidly in a groove. It can carry the connotation of being slightly behind the groove as a pocket should be comfortable. However, when musicians are in the pocket, they never drift away from or lose the beat. Right Trav?  They are snugly enveloped in the delicious goodness of the groove. Amy Winehouse knows her way around all sides of the pocket, and that’s why you should admire her. Her voice is nice, but her ability to play around with the beat is something really, really nice.

In the media, she’s been lauded as calling back to the Ronettes, the Drifters, and Ray Charles. Duh. It’s wonderful. Her music feels genuine, and I love twisting my torso to the good-time-grooves. The simple tunes give my teeth something to sink into. She could easily fit into “Dirty Dancing,” “Grease,” or any other movie originating in the 50’s or 60’s. Does the apparent derivation subtract from her talent? I don’t think so. Not too many people can pull this shit off.

The only concern I have is with her lifting sections of songs to pander to the crowd. The background of the opening section of “Tears Dry On Their Own” mimics Marvin Gaye’s “Ain’t no mountain high.” Is this musical plagiarism? It might be. Why aren’t people freaking out about this? (mind you, maybe I missed a public outburst on this subject…most of the time, genes and proteins occupy my mind.) I understand the lifting of grooves is more acceptable in R&B than other genres, but seriously? Should I feel bad that I shook my booty towards this groove in lab today? Damn… it’s so good. Is this another case of Vanilla Ice ripping off Queen? If it is, please tell me because I did not spare Vanilla Ice any evil.

In any case, I hope Amy Winehouse battles her demons enough to produce some more music. (Fuck, I just realized she’s younger than me by about two months…ho..ly..shit…) Her voice and grooves echo another time, and I want to hear more of her creativity. Where’s she going next? I can’t wait for new stuff.

Over the holidays I spent almost two weeks in New Jersey, the land of my birth. Whenever I return to the east coast, I feel as if I have reached civilization. Although I pride myself on not being one of those uppity mofo’s from the east coast who believe nothing can exist outside the Northeastern bubble, I do feel as if I’ve returned to civilization when I see glitz and glamour of the Northeast corridor from my plane window. When my plane is descending into Newark and I peer out my window, I sigh a breath of relief upon seeing the lights of the Empire State and Chrysler buildings.Frequently after a few drinks, I’ll spout some proclamation in a Jersey/New York-ish accent. Since I live in Madison, WI, people always take notice. For instance, a couple of friends and I went to a brewery outside of Madison tonight and ordered the beer sampler. Reading the description of each beer, I pronounced the Irish stout as having “cawfee” overtones without skipping a beat. As soon as I said it, I realized my mother’s and father’s voice had overtaken my own in an effort to articulate the description of the beer. Usually I don’t notice these Jersey slips, but I was surrounded by my labmate from Nashville and her boyfriend who is also from the South. They don’t let these irregularities slide by.

When I moved from New Jersey to Connecticut as an eight year-old, my new classmates immediately criticized my pronunciation of “water.” I said “wooder,” and they said “Wah-ter.” Big deal, right? Well, as an insecure third grader, I actually changed the way I pronounced water to equal my classmates’. Ridiculous. I should’ve stuck to my roots and kept saying “wooder” like I was in the forest. I allowed my classmates to mold my enunciation into an uptight Connecticut youth’s. Thus, I lost a lot of my Jersey accent. I managed to maintain my inability to articulate words with “nt” in them, but soon was able to pronounce words with “er” with abandon. While I appreciate the elocution of people from Connecticut, I resent losing a bit my Jersey/NY character. Not only is it a great gimmick to entertain bouncers with (at the first bar I went to in Madison, upon seeing my Jersey license the bouncer asked for a Jersey accent, and I replied “How ya doin’?”), but it is actually part of my heritage.

As my family is from NJ and NY, they have the accent. At the most recent funeral I attended, I felt as if I was on the set of the Sopranos. After an hour or so, I could hardly understand my mother (originally from Queens, she remarked “Oh, I haven’t seen these pic-shas in yeah-as Ahhhhhg, yeah-as”), and the amount of “yeah, yeah” ‘s had multiplied ridiculously. Normally when I agree with you, I’ll say, “yeah, yeah, yeah” in rapid succession. After a couple of drinks, I’ll repeat the phrase, resulting in six “yeah” ‘s. At the funeral, however, my relatives ignored the rule of six and just kept going. I ate that shit up. I love the accent, and I literally cannot get enough of it whenever I’m home. I love going to the Coach store at the mall (the mawww-l) or the Polish deli to he-ah the Jersey inflection on certain words. You could probably come up with some psychological reason that it reminds me of my parents and extended family, therefore putting me at ease (which is true), but let’s face it—we all love that accent. You wish you could do it. You want to sound tough, so what do you do? You shorten your words, deepen your tone, swear a lot, and assert your dominance via modulating your vocal expressions. F*ck you, you mothah-f*ckahs.

This is why I now resort to mimicking the accent as a late-night drunken antic. None of my close friends in Madison are from NY so they can’t judge whether I have an authentic accent or not (though I’d argue it’s not bad since I was raised by a couple of NYers), and they love it. Also, taking on the accent as a short female gives me some stature to battle certain pricks who might pick on me.

I’m sad that I let my Jersey accent almost disappear in my youth, but I try to bring it back as much as appropriate in certain situations. I hope I never lose the ability to transition from my fairly innocuous accent to the Jersey accent. That stuff’s brilliant, yo.

Our rental car is covered in dust and I’m savoring the inertia of sitting still after spending the day bouncing down washboard roads. The folks and I have been meandering around the scruffy bum of North America, Baja California, for the last week. My guidebook for the trip is John Steinbeck’s The Log from the Sea of Cortez, which dazzles, like most of Steinbeck’s books they don’t make you read in school. No matter which direction we head, Steinbeck went there first, and his honest, accurate prose doesn’t suffer for the near seventy years that separate his trip from ours.

It isn’t surprising that The Log from the Sea of Cortez is still insightful; Steinbeck was a good writer and places change slowly. But where I expected a travelogue, Steinbeck delivers a bawdy philosophy of science. Steinbeck is unimpressed with a bundle of results tied up neatly with explanations—“a world wrinkled with formaldehyde.” He writes science: exploration, dissection, discovery. Of course, lab scientists such as me always envy field workers. Unless I start synthesizing psychedelics, I won’t be taking any trips into unknown country anytime soon. But, when I publish, I will cling to The Log as my antidote to the desiccated style of “proper science.” Steinbeck had another hypothesis, that found favor with me: that the water at Cabo San Lucas was bad, and the crew should drink beer and coffee instead. In honour of that remark, I present the following recipe:

New Year’s Mojitos

Prepare a simple syrup by combining equal parts white sugar and water with several sprigs of mint, and heating gently while stirring until the sugar dissolves. Cool immediately. Chill a highball or other glass. While it chills, prepare a solution of 60 mL white rum and 30 mL of fresh lime juice. Add simple syrup until the mixture tastes neither sour nor sweet, about 15 mL. Add several sprigs of mint to the glass, followed by the solution. Muddle the mint. Add a slice of lime, then fill the glass with ice. Top off with soda water and stir a couple of times, but not too much or the mint will float to the top. Imbibe.

Sometimes I consider how my life would be different if I had chosen another major or interest in life to pursue. I am very happy with my choice, but occasionally my mind drifts toward other occupations that could be interesting for short periods of time. Below, I list some jobs I’d try out (ignoring consequences to career or life) if I had to choose something besides science.

1. TV show recapper/critic: Duh. I watch television and am obsessed with reading Television Without Pity. Love it. I only wish I could be half as snarky and witty as these guys. They’re hilarious.

2. Wildlife/travel/freelance photographer: To be paid to travel, see amazing things and take pictures of them? Awesome. Yes, I realize it’s generic, but that doesn’t diminish its coolness.

3. Chef: It’s like science but doesn’t require measuring liquids to the microliter or solids to the gram. Mostly. Plus, you can eat your experiments.
4a. Radio host: If you get to know me well, you know I’m loud, fairly opinionated, and love to wage discussions on topics about which I’m not an expert. Plus, I love an audience.

4b. Baseball radio announcer: Does this fall under radio host? Shove it. Listening to baseball games on the radio is one of my favorite pastimes. I would need a ton of practice (like learning what some of those stats mean…), but I’d love to give it a shot.

5. Drummer: It’s so obvious I feel lame for putting it down. However, hands down, this would be the occupation I’d choose if I had unlimited money. Beating the shit out of something while creating a rhythm to groove to? You have to try it sometime. Well, I can’t guarantee you’ll have my sense of rhythm or taste for good beats. Sorry.

6. Brewmaster: I’m a beer snob. Seriously. I don’t like drinking anything that reminds me of bad keg parties from freshman year. It makes me feel nauseated. I’ll pay for the good stuff. I would start some home-brewing, but working with tissue culture cells prevents me from doing so. (easy contamination of cultures with yeast)

7. Butcher: As I loved performing dissections in high school and college, I’d enjoy carving some meat. Plus, am I the only one who thinks raw meat looks awesome?

8. Professional New York Times reader: Do you know how many good articles are buried in this newspaper? God, every single day I’m grateful this newspaper exists. Is this your homepage? Why not? From the Op-Ed section to the restaurant reviews (hi Frank Bruni!) and Mark Bittman’s recipes to Gina Kolata’s succinct and accurate science reporting and the weekly Cases article to the reliable, on point reporting and analysis of current events, it’s sublime. I could spend hours a day reading this paper and still not get through everything. Thus, it should be my job.

9. Christopher Guest’s or Amy Sedaris’ personal assistant: Alright, maybe you could just say “personal assistant of any favorite comedian of MK.” (Kathy Griffin? Rosie O’Donnell? the list could go on and on…) But those two would be at the top of the list. I know it would involve a lot of grunt work and perhaps some tasks beneath me, but it could include hanging out with them which would be awesome. We’re talking about the deadpan on steroids. George Mitchell, eat your heart out.

10. Long-range truck driver: Driving long distances soothes me. I love that it gives you time to think alone or that you can groove/sing along to your favorite songs. Unfortunately, I’m too small for this occupation.

Yeah, some of these are cliche, but wouldn’t they be fun? Why do I choose some of these more mundane-seeming jobs? Is it an attraction to apparent simplicity? What would be your occupations of choice? And yes, I reserve the right to change these at any time and possibly copy the ones you suggest.

This weekend, I drove about three and half hours upstate to the “Cry of the Loon” lodge, for the annual Creative Writing department September retreat (and, this is the second to last retreat EVAH, which is sad). The cabins were right on the lake: i.e., the lake was mere steps away, unlike my family’s cabin in Canada, where the lake is located down a perilous slope. Minnesota is, famously, the land of a thousand lakes (with more than a thousand lakes, as any native will tell you). But one thing I always think: gosh, the lakes here are small. I mean, in Canada, “our” lake (the lake the cabin is on — I’m aware we don’t own it) stretches, to turn a phrase, “as far as the eye can see.” You can always see the end of lakes in Minnesota; some of them seem to barely merit the title. Makes you long for larger bodies of water, unapologetic vastness — like, I don’t know, the ocean?

Which isn’t to say it wasn’t bizarrely, absurdly pretty up there. The leaves are starting to turn; the weather was alternatively wet and bright, but never cold; the sky was clear — I thought I saw some Northern Lights, but they turned out to be clouds (I have yet to see the Northern Lights — I always miss them, or they turn out to be clouds).

As for the “loonies,” well, any trip with so many writers is bound to have its share of shenanigans. In the interest of not incriminating myself or others, I will remain silent. It was pretty, though.

Last night I went to a free Flaming Lips concert. I have to acknowledge Southern Comfort for providing the free music, and for sharing the lime SoCo smoothies. Thanks for bringing me back to freshman year where Watson (my dorm) 707’s official drink was SoCo and Lemonade. “It tastes like bubble-gum!” Sorry, back to the music.

Not too familiar with the Flaming Lips, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I imagined heavy, horror-filled music to match the band’s name. The music, however, bordered on ignorant blissful sounds, and I was pleasantly surprised. The multi-layered, ethereal songs elated the stoned masses. Though most songs began with an intense, dark groove, Wayne Coyne’s bright vocals superseded the bottom. By the end of each song, Coyne’s inimitably happy voice had transformed any residual gloom into a frolicsome playground. His high voice also confused my concert companions as they thought he was imitating the Pillsbury Doughboy when he thanked the crowd at the end of every song.

Overall, the band played well, but the audience was less than enthusiastic. This could have resulted from inebriation and overexposure to the sun as the day’s events started at 2PM. Coyne coaxed the audience into a couple of sing-a-longs, but he could not sustain the crowd’s energy throughout. The mostly lackluster crowd and lack of drunkenness on my part probably influenced my opinion, as I don’t plan to buy any CDs. Don’t mistake my view as dislike of the band or the concert in general, however. I had fun, and the music was interesting. Frequently, bands draw energy from the crowd, and the music can suffer when a crowd isn’t excited. An energetic crowd would have enhanced this show. If the band comes through town again, I’d definitely see them. I just hope the crowd saves some brain cells for the main event next time.

Last night I went to see my relatives on the Jersey Shore. My cousins live in Spring Lake, which my parents claim is nicknamed the Irish Riviera. Sometimes I think my parents create these whimsical tidbits for my amusement, but the town lives up to the name. My dad and his siblings used to live down at the Shore during the summers when they were growing up. Naturally, when they all came of age, they hit the bar scene.  Supposedly they were kicked out on more than one occasion. When my cousins and I heard this, we decided the next generation of Bonners had to live up to our name and take on Belmar.

My cousin and I met a couple of her friends at Connelly Station in Belmar just before 9pm. Connelly Station is a fairly nice bar and restaurant which attracts an older crowd. The standard Irish brews were on tap, in addition to Miller Lite and Bud. The Giants/Jets game was featured on two TVs, the Yankees game on one, and the US women’s soccer team was on the small TV in the corner. After catching up on the family gossip, I eagerly anticipated the first notes of the band setting up. And boy was I rewarded. The first song was U2’s “With or Without You” which segued into “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.” A U2 cover band?! I nearly peed myself while texting the Almost East Coast Correspondent. Unfortunately my hopes were dashed when the band featured Journey next. Well, and the flat notes from Mr. Wannabe Bono. The girls decided we should head off to 507, another bar which had a both a band and DJ.

The 507 had a long line in front. Normally I skip bars with lines. Frankly, I don’t want to wait for my alcohol. Plus, I’m probably wary that the bouncer will not let me in for a petty reason like not wearing heels. I’d rather not embarrass myself or my friends with a heated discussion on whether the ridiculous pain of my feet is worth the price of being cute and two inches taller. I accepted the fact that I’m short a long time ago. Anyway, we get into the bar after fifteen minutes and head for the back room. Lots of Long Island guys and Jersey girls. Tight shirts, slicked back hair, and goatees on the guys, and make-up, dyed blonde hair, and lots of jewelry on the girls. Everyone has a great, thick accent, and no one uses sun block. My cousin ordered shots of Jameson and the “not quite 30 years old” Jersey girls at the bar marveled at our choice. They asked if we’re Italian. I don’t think they were familiar with Jameson. They were drinking colorful cocktails out of plastic cups. The band at 507 played mostly Bruce and Bon Jovi. Mr. Long Island named each song for me and was shocked that I didn’t know all the words. We wrapped up the evening by heading to Bar A, but realized it was 2AM—closing time.

This afternoon my cousin and I headed to the beach—a mere three blocks from her house. The waves threw me around a bit, but I consider the salt water I swallowed a nice dose of Jersey to take back to the Midwest.

Next up: the Retirement Community Report. Admit it—you can’t wait.