The Hanging Rose

A sparkling, fruity, pretty party drink.

ENOUGH!!!  Enough with this weight-loss nonsense, am I right?!  I know why you all started following me in the first place, and that’s liquor Liquor LIQUOR!!!  Life is too short to worry about fitness all the time.  All these months of being supportive and informative has left a bad taste in my mouth (Bad taste or sobriety?  Is there a difference?), and it’s time to get back to my hardcore roots.

What is that, a celery stick?  Stick it in some vodka before I lose you all respect for you!  Doing push-ups?  Pfffbtbt, it’s only cool if you’re attempting to get off of the pub floor . . . and failing.  Is that a beer?  MIX IT WITH SOME SCOTCH!  It’s time to put down the barbell and pick up the bar glass, and we’ll start with my brand new drink called . . . the hanging . . . rose . . .

Hmmmm.  Okay, I may have gone a bit overboard with the enthusiasm at first, but this drink is still a lovely addition to any afternoon get-together.  And it’s a layered drink, so people will think you’re all talented, or whatever.

The Hanging Rose

– Rum (1 shot)
– Champagne
– Club Soda
– Grenadine
– Green Food Coloring
– Rose Extract (in theory)

I first started working on this drink about five years ago, when a friend and I were having a drink before going to some house party.  “Make up a drink, right here, right now,” he shouted at me.  Mixing the only ingredients I had (vodka, lime juice and grenadine), I created the first version of The Hanging Rose.  It was pretty, but also tasted like that one time I was so tired I accidentally brushed my teeth with dish soap instead of toothpaste.   Since then I have been striving to get the drink to something more palatable.

  • Pour into a glass one shot of white rum.
  • Fill glass halfway with champagne.
  • Fill ¼ of the glass with club soda.
  • Tilt the glass slightly, and slowly pour the grenadine down the side of the glass, letting it pool on the bottom.  This is the same effect as you would see in a Tequila Sunrise and will create the “flower” portion of the drink.
  • You’ll want to wait a minute before adding the grenadine.  Our champagne/club soda mixture is thinner than orange juice, and the grenadine will mix more easily in it, so take a moment and let the liquid settle (e.g. stop swirling, moving) before adding the grenadine for the best visual effect.
  • Add a tiny, tiny drop of green food coloring right in the middle of the glass, creating the “stem” of the drink.  Because the food coloring will spread like crazy if the drink is moving even a little, you might want to consider serving the drink before adding the food coloring.  The look of the drink is far more impressive if the top half of the glass isn’t entirely green.   As you can see from the pictures, waiting is not something I did.
  • Ooh and ahh over the look of the drink, then mix with a spoon, go, “that doesn’t look so bad,” at the new dark cream color of the drink, and continue on with what you were originally doing.

In all honesty, this drink is a work in progress as it still feels like it is missing something.  If I had thought about it sooner than five minutes before I started taking the pictures for this post, I would have gone out and tried to find some Extract of Rose to add to the drink.  I would also suggest using a champagne flute rather than the tumbler I used; I thought I had one until I remembered I threw it out the window one New Year’s Eve.  But still, the drink is fruity, floral and light, perfect for a bridal shower, or perhaps a brunch.  The club soda can help take that dryness off of the champagne, the grenadine adds a different sweetness to the party, and the shot of rum helps the drink pack a bit more of a wallop.  This may be a feminine drink, but I know more than a few ladies that can easily drink me under the table.


A Carpenter Speaks His Mind

Based off of a conversation I overheard years ago.

Mike the Carpenter:  Are you kidding me?  Those people aren’t LA folks.  You don’t know any true LA folks except me.  Los Angeles is a hub for the interstate immigrant.  All these people from across the country, across the fucking globe, come here in hopes for the quick bucks and star dreams.  They come out here, trying to be LA, act LA, but they don’t know the first thing about what it’s like because the people they learn from aren’t people who are from here!  They come out here and take our jobs, eat our food, live off our land, pack our freeways, drink our liquor and sleep with our women.  They flick their cigarette butts out their windows and pee in our oceans.  They act like dicks all in the name of “Pursuing the Dream” or some horseshit like that.  They give us a bad name.  And then after seven to fifteen years they realize they are nothing but a bunch of boring, country bumpkins and that they never stood a chance out here.  Then they move back to Bumfuck, Iowa or wherever they come from, marry the fat girl across the street, poop out a few kids and then live out the rest of their lives waiting for their children to put them in a home.  And what are we left with?  Scars.  They’ve turned a gorgeous land of boardwalks and orange groves into a dried husk.  And they’ll tell their friends back home, “Oh yeah, I hate LA.  It’s a shitty town covered in glitter and asphalt.”  But they know it was because it was filled with people just like them, fucking parasites.  And they’ll feel a pang of guilt, as they should!  But it won’t last long, because they never took the time to love this city.  Not like I do.

Phil the Student:  So what is the real Los Angeles?

Mike the Carpenter:  Not your Hollywood clubs or film openings, I can tell you that.  Los Angeles is the palm tree silhouette at sunset.  It’s sharing a cervesas with a few immigrants who don’t speak much English that you’ve hired to help you build a fence, and laughing together for no real reason.  It’s culture reinvented.  It’s the pull of the Pacific surf that carries away your troubles.  It’s good, hard working people who come here not to live the dream but to simply live.  It’s heat and sea breeze.  It’s a blooming rose all year long.   It’s all of that, piled under the trash left by tourists.

Phil the Student:  Do you have to be born here to be true LA?

Mike the Carpenter:  No, but the odds aren’t in their favor.

Phil the Student:  So . . . which one am I?

Mike the Carpenter: (pauses, swings his beer, stares at Phil)  How long have you been here?

Phil the Student:  About five years.

Mike the Carpenter:  Hmm.  Give it three more, and then we’ll see.