This one’s had some different iterations over the years. It’s always agave based. In the past I haven’t always been happy with it. This time around I really wanted it to not suck and I also wanted to use this stuff called Rooster Rojo, a tequila brand with this amazing pineapple infused añejo. They’ve got other products too but I was super impressed by this. I will almost never speak about brands, I just feel like it’s free advertising for them, unless they’re magnificent.

Peachy Keen

1 oz. Rooster Rojo Pineapple Añejo

1 oz. Blanco Tequila

.75 oz. Peach Calpico

.25 oz. Fresh Lime Juice

.25 oz. BBQ Mike’s Lime Sherbet

.25 oz. Aji Amarillo Syrup

1 Dash Peach Bitters

Shake, strain into a rocks glass, onto a BFR. Sprinkle something nice on there, like a dash of Aleppo pepper.

It’s a nice, summery feeling potation. The aji amarillo gives it a slight zip, like too tight jeans. Nothing crazy though. Spicy cocktails can be a crutch because they’ll often overpower all the flavors. Sometimes that’s what people want but if used properly, in small amount, it can accentuate the other ingredients.

There was this old comic from back in the day called The Nail, pretty sure it was written and drawn by Alan Davis. The premise was this: What would happen if on the day Superman landed on earth as a baby, the Kents got a nail in their car tire, and someone else found him?

I thought of this because one straw can break the camel’s back and cause what many would label “The Snowball Effect” but I would call an unending shitstorm of hell. Case in point: this morning. Jo was blow drying her hair and I put some leftover chicken in the microwave. Let me preface this by saying the morning was going very smoothly. My son was being quiet for once, enjoying some cartoons and breakfast. The goddam microwave and the hairdryer for some reason cannot exist simultaneously however and the fuse blew. Now, I now this will happen but the part of my mind that knows this will happen doesn’t seem to be fully operational at eight in the morning. So, the dryer snaps off, the microwave shuts down. Oh god no.

I go to the fuse box while enduring an earful from Jo and start toggling all the switches. “I know, I know,” I say. Nothing comes back on. Everything in the apartment has officially been reset, the stove clock, my desktop computer, but most annoyingly, the internet which is the supplier of my son’s cartoons.

What do I do? I decide to open the fuse box. First off, my good screwdriver and the bits are down in the garage, in my car. They’re down there because I had to install a security chain on Jo’s mother’s door’s apartment because my son knows how to open doors as well as locks. At any rate, I dig into my toolbox and find a screwdriver. The fuse box screws have been painted over. The drives on all the screwheads are completely clogged. I have to do a bit of scraping in order to get them all out. “Hey don’t get that paint on the carpet.” “Yeah, yeah.” And once I have the fuse box cover off? Well, it’s a super old set up. A nest of wires scarier than a den of poison vipers. No way to actually change the fuse without getting in there and removing a bunch of doohickies. This is where experience comes knocking and a rare burst of common sense erupts into my mind and says, “No fucking way.” Yeah, no death today, Mr. Grim Reaper. I know you’ve given me plenty of get out of jail free cards in my life, but on this Friday morning I shall not be cashing one in.

I toggle the switch a few more times and huzzah! It all come back to life. I start screwing it all back together. Oh who is this? My son want to give me a hug. So sweet. Oh no, not so sweet. He wanted me to pick him up so he could play around with the toggle switches in the fuse box. Ah. I put him down and explain it’s dangerous, yada, yada and he proceeds to melt down. Lately it’s been less crying and more like a high pitched screech that just takes all the wind out of my sails. He’s going mad while I endure the noise and put the rest of the goddam screws in. I go to soothe him but he wants his cartoon back on. Of course, the internet needs a moment to reboot. He tells me “Paw Patrol.” Yeah, yeah, ok. I put on the Paw Patrol Movie. Nope, more irritation. Parenting is so wonderful.

“He doesn’t want the Paw Patrol Movie,” Jo says. “He wants the TV show.”

“How the hell does he know the difference?”

“He just does.”

Ok. I put the goddam show on. He quiets down. I still have no idea how he knows the damn difference between the movie and the show. Then, there’s another bit of the screeching and wailing. The internet hasn’t caught up yet. It takes another minute or so, which is a fucking eternity in toddler tenderness.

I’m sure you’ve been at a grocery store or in line somewhere and witnessed this scene. The tired parent with a look on their face like they need an immediate, strong drink, the kid or kids screaming and you’ve thought to yourself, “Wow, what a brat.” No, dude. Kids don’t know how to self regulate and a lot of the time the only way they can express how they feel is to cry. The next time you see this, be a good citizen and let them go ahead of you in line. It’s an act of kindness that may get your evil, judgmental ass a sprinkle of some good karma down the road.

Hearing a child cry sucks to the random onlooker but to the parent it just plain hoovers all the energy out of you. There’s a fair amount of time, while it’s happening, where you stare into space, take some deep breaths, and regret every choice you ever made in your life before you snap out of it and realize how much you love your kid, wife, and the whole damn family.

I forgot how the whole thing went but in The Nail the Kents ended up not finding Superman. Instead, Kal-El is raised by the Amish, works on a farm, and the D.C. Universe is a completely different place without having a Superman in it.