A conversation with mixologist, Ted Kilgore

If you read Em-i-lis with any regularity, you probably know that I love a good cocktail. I am thrilled by the resurgence of classic punches, the popularity of shrubs and the flourishing of modern speakeasies dedicated to lovingly crafted cocktails. I adore the pomp and circumstance of it all- the smooth bar top, dim lighting, tinkling crystal, giant spheres and blocks of ice, rows of elegant labels, special glassware, and little dropper bottles full of tinctures to add a final twist. I have learned to love bourbon.

As such, it was with an enthused "Yes!" that I accepted the offer to interview Ted Kilgore, owner and beverage director at Planter's House in St. Louis, MO. A quick glimpse at Planter's home page alone assures me that it's a joint I would love to find my way to. In the best way, it reminds me of The Franklin Mortgage & Investment Co in Philly and Sotto here in DC. 

Ted has been mixing for seventeen years, and we talked about how easy it actually is to make your own infusions, liquors and so forth at home. The canner in me loved hearing about this because Ted talked about his handmade ingredients in terms of putting up seasonal ingredients for use and pleasure later in the year. That's precisely why I make so much jam all year long; to save for the future something that in its fresh form doesn't last too long. 

Right now, Ted is thinking autumnally: apples, cranberries, oranges and spice. Below I'll share the recipe for his Fall Flavors Vodka, a simple concoction you can make at home, as well as for his Holiday Highball which utilizes that vodka. You could also add it to champagne or even club soda for a light aperitivo.

I like to make festive, seasonal drinks for holiday parties and also think a homemade liquor would make a terrific gift!!

In addition to Planter's House, Ted contributes a great deal to Everclear's website, Make It Your Own, which contains an enormous number of DIY recipes that will definitely add some awesome chutzpah to your home bar. I am definitely planning to try a few.

Fall Flavors Vodka

Ingredients: 

• 3/4 cup chopped Granny Smith apple
• 3/4 cup copped Red Delicious apple
• 3/4 cup chopped cranberries
• 2 allspice berries
• 2 whole cloves
• 1 cinnamon stick
• 10 ounces Everclear 
• 10 ounces filtered water
• 4 ounces simple syrup (a 1:1 water:sugar ratio)

Instructions:

In a food processor or with a knife, chop the cranberries and apples. In a jar or other lidded vessel, combine the chopped fruit, allspice berries, cloves, cinnamon stick and Everclear. Give it all a good shake, and let steep for 24 hours.

After steeping, pour the mixture through a fine sieve and discard all solids. To what remains add the water and simple syrup, and transfer to a 24-ounce bottle, or to smaller bottles that add up to the same volume.

Store at room temperature. This will last at least six months. Your finished product will be roughly 80 proof.

Holiday Highball

Ingredients:

• 1½ ounces Fall Flavors vodka
• club soda
• 1 slice of Red Delicious apple
• 1 slice of Granny Smith apple

Instructions:

Combine the vodka  and club soda in a highball glass. Stir briefly, add ice, and garnish with apple slices.

Morning Snuggle

The boys and I have a daily tradition we call Morning Snuggle. Morning Snuggle is exactly what it sounds like: we snuggle in the morning. 

It involves the boys making various amounts of noise before 6:30am -which is the time we have told them they may exit their rooms- and then barreling into our bed at 6:31am, Jack on one side of me, and Ol on the other. 

Last week, Oliver woke up at 6:10 or something, and soon after we heard him chanting, "Bad clock, too slow, bad clock, too slow..." Tom and I laughed in muted hysteria, and when it became clear that Oliver A) doesn't require breathing and thus B) was not going to stop anytime soon, Tom started timing him.

"Bad clock, too slow" went on for FIFTEEN minutes straight before we heard, "Good clock" and Ol's door open. He came to our bed as if nothing had happened. 

But I digress. In some form or fashion, the kids make noise and then pad in to find me cocooned in my sheets and fluffy comforter. They wriggle in with their icy feet and Tinkertoy arms and legs, burrowing close to me and I to them. 

Their hair is mussed, their cheeks are ever-so-slightly flushed with sleep and happiness. Tiny bits of nighttime crust might remain in the corners of their eyes. Rarely do they have morning breath, and for that, I am grateful.

Their matched-set jammies are soft and still make me see them as little ones who will wear such pjs: friendly pirates and penguins on a festive boat; red, white and blue stars; smiling sharks; all manner of motor vehicle.

Only recently do they seem keen on having different patterns on their pajamas; for years they've wanted to match. Shark Brothers, Bat Brothers...any team is possible when your sleepwear differs only by size. 

In our blanketed island, we hold each other close. I kiss them to excess and they tell me about dreams they had. They know that I know they are spinning the crazy tales as they tell them, but we all pretend otherwise. And then I kiss them some more.

"I love yous" are batted about like an Olympic ping pong ball; as if we have the whole night of silence to make up for. Morning snuggle is fairly ideal which is to say it's also somewhat ephemeral.

Before I know it, Oliver has started "mining" his way under the sheets to the foot of the bed. There, he will begin to terrorize our legs and bottoms because in those things he delights. Jack kicks which is his immediate, instinctive reaction to being tickled, and invariably, Oliver is, at some point, kicked. 

Soon after the tears are dried, Oliver will probably fart which will both stink us out and lead to a rapid fire discussion about butts. Someone begins to jump. I repeat the daily message about how much it hurts to bash one's head on the wooden headboard.

Morning snuggle's time in winding down. Rapidly. 

Finally I can take the mayhem no more and so get up to leave. "No, Mom, just a minute more. We'll calm down. SWEAR!" But they know that I know they won't, and anyhow, it's time for breakfast.

That denouement is an integral part of Morning Snuggle anyway. Something's got to give or we'd be in that bed forever. There's always tomorrow.

The days, years, weekends and Miette gingerbread

This rainy, Joaquin-the-hurricane-no-show weekend ran its course about six hours ago.

My nails are crusted with an aromatic blend of garden dirt and gingerbread batter, the house looks like a war-zone despite regular efforts (both willing and forced) by all of us to clean it, I have a zit on my forehead, and although I had grand plans for an epic beef stew dinner tonight, I managed to make the best-quality, most-average beef stew possible. 

It's a good thing I also made five precious little loaves of stellar gingerbread from the Miette cookbook I bought yesterday while on a date with Ol. Jack was at French and then heading to a sleepover, so Ol and I walked Percy in the slightly spitting rain and then decided to drop him off and walk to Starbucks and Crate & Barrel for hot chocolate and a look-see. 

I found this beautiful cookbook, from the eponymous San Francisco bakery, on the clearance rack and couldn't resist the scalloped-edge pages and photographs of perfect layer cakes. Even though it will likely join its neglected kin on my crammed and dusty étagère that charmingly holds all its spontaneously-bought and rarely used relatives, I don't regret buying it.

The gingerbread is superb. Why did the middle of each loaf sink?

People, do you know that pithy parental saying, "The days are long, but the years are short"? Yes, that often feels so fucking true, and I understand why the expression stuck. However, we need to acknowledge that sometimes, the weekend days are long and the weekends are long. 

As a phrase, it doesn't sound nearly as rosy, but I feel certain that 98% of parents would agree with it completely. 

Even when nice experiences are peppered throughout, weekends can compromise the most psychologically-stable of us. And when one of your kids freaks out and cries boulder tears because you refused to allow all the new modeling clay to be used for a "city" which in no way looks like anything more than mountainous boogers and mashed ones, then stomps up the stairs throwing a shit storm of shit behind him and then gifts you with these visuals of your lovelessness and badness, well, you get my drift. 

Tom and I nearly wet our pants.

Mom and Dad are no longer loved.

I think it was at that point that we turned on Jaws as a thrilling distraction. Because we are excellent parents. The children were utterly nonplussed.

When one of my chatterboxes asked if we could play a family game tonight AFTER having cleaned the yard, ridden bikes, made gingerbread, watched TV together, acknowledged that neither child had nearly enough sleep last night, kissed 800 different injuries largely stemming from said sleeplessness, and eaten average beef stew together, Tom and I could not bring ourselves to say yes.

I swear I saw sparks come out of Tom's ears, and I felt an irregular pulse through my largest aortas. 

We said no.

I read some of The Mysterious Benedict Society to us all, and then we ushered the children to bed with a fair amount of enthusiasm. 

Monday, you are coming, and I fucking love you.

On a positive note, Ol and I ate our way through the farmers market this morning and had such a blast. I think we bought all the food. 

the freshest Brussels sprouts