by Ed Sikov
My cold lasted another week, so forget about literary reticence. Let the gross descriptions fly: Snot spewed out of my nose like raw scrambled eggs, only darker, more translucent, and graced by tiny bloblets of blood. My lungs hacked up a hocker so gray it could have come out of an old coal miner. When I wasn't wiping smears of sputum off my hands, sheets and nearby skin mags, I contemplated my recent poor behavior. Dan was right: I'd become "an old-fashioned asshole." Dan was nothing but affectionate with me, even after I spat goose-shit-green mucous onto his pillow while he slept. He deserved better from me. So did my friends.
When I stopped being viral, I invited Craig and Kyle to dinner. Surprisingly, Craig didn't hang up on me when I called. "I'm sorry…" I began. He cut me off: "Listen, dollface – I'll forgive you anything as long as you keep your tongue off my boyfriend." "Right-O!" I sang out, anxiety turning me strangely into Terry-Thomas in some British war comedy. "How about dinner here on Saturday? It's Chicken Cacciatore and an after-dinner drink that doesn't suck." All was well.
Dinner was a disaster. Dan was late, so I had to wield the vacuum cleaner and a can of Pledge and set the table while trying to make what turned out to be an absurdly complicated "hunter's style" chicken with only half the ingredients the recipe called for. (I hadn't bothered with a shopping list. "Calling Dr. Freud! STAT!") The result was a greasy, taste-free horror – no wild mushrooms, no fresh sage or thyme, clumpy years-old garlic salt instead of garlic… . "Hunter's style?" What were they hunting – something out of "Oliver Twist"?
Having tasted the cacciatore, I downed some Tormore Single Malt and became morose. But when Dan waltzed in mere minutes before Craig and Kyle were supposed to show up, my irrepressible life force returned. I became hostile. Craig and Kyle thus entered during the second act of "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf," with me playing both George and Martha. I behaved terribly; Dan was rightly embarrassed. I might have summoned enough dignity not to spend the whole evening staring at the gap between Kyle's bottom shirt button and his belt, a space out of which a perfect tuft of soft hair emerged. Craig noticed, much to his glee and my continuing disgrace.
But dessert was fabulous! The White Russian is one of my favorite cream-based cocktails because of its subtlety, simplicity and relative lack of sweetness. It's got a little Kahlua for a cafe au lait effect, vodka for some kick and thick, chilled heavy cream for the mouth-to-belly bliss that only cold dairy fat can provide. Still, two rounds of White Russians wasn't enough to make up for hurling lettuce fragments and bacon chunks in Craig's face after discovering that puppy Kyle had been gobbled up by Jabba the Hut.
Am I still bitter? You bet your elephantine ass I am.
The White Russian
1 part Absolut
1/2 part coffee liqueur
1 part chilled heavy cream
Put some ice in a shaker and add all the ingredients; put the cap on and swirl it around a bit rather than shake it. (After all, you're not trying to make liquor butter.) Pour through strainer into a good-looking glass and serve.
