We forget the loves and the betrayals alike, forget what we whispered and what we screamed, forget who we were. I have already lost touch with a couple of people I used to be; one of them, a seventeen-year-old, presents little threat, although it would be of some interest to me to know again what it feels like to sit on a river levee drinking vodka-and-orange-juice and listening to Les Paul and Mary Ford and their echoes sing “How High the Moon” on the car radio. (You see I still have the scenes, but I no longer perceive myself among those present, no longer could ever improvise the dialogue.)
The libation: Raise a toast to the beloved essayist - but as she’s not 17 anymore (and, let’s face it, neither are we), let’s class up that vodka and OJ just a bit with a muddled screwdriver.
Slice two oranges into thin rounds into a bowl with the juice of one lemon and a sprinkling of kosher salt. Bruise the oranges with a wooden spoon to release pulp and oils. Add 16 oz of good vodka - Grey Goose or similar - and five cups orange juice. Pour over crushed ice.
Serves you and eight friends, plus your collective existential malaise.
Photo © Jandrick