Raindrops.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (6.11.18), spinach dip, the smartest thing I did, the quotidian (6.11.12), sourdough waffles, fresh tomatillo salsa.

The other weekend when my cousin’s family came to visit, she brought along a bottle of margarita mix. We didn’t get around to drinking any — they fixed us fresh mojitos instead, oh-la-la — so, curious as to how margaritas from a mix tasted, I asked if I could pour a bit into a jar for a drink later, after they left.

The margarita was delicious (of course — aren’t all margaritas delicious?), and then I started thinking: couldn’t I just make my own margarita mix? Really, how hard could it be?

From my preliminary research, I learned that mixes — ingredients and proportions — are all over the place. Some have only a spoonful of lime, and others call for a variety of citrus: lime, lemon, and orange. Some mixes have boatloads of simple syrup and others zero. After reading recipe after recipe, the whole thing started to sound like gobbedly-gook, so I quick scribbled down some quantities and shut the computer. Clearly, I’d have to learn by doing (and tasting, ha!).

But lo and behold, my first attempt, despite my decidedly inferior mixology skills, yielded margaritas that were exactly — I repeat, exactly — what I was after: not too sweet, punchy with alcohol, and with plenty of sour from the lime. I was thrilled.

Since then, I’ve made the mix several times. I enjoy the drinks both straight up (salted rims, optional) and whirled with ice for a slushy. On hot summer afternoons, however, I’m particularly partial to the slushy version, especially when it’s served up alongside a heaping plate of cheesy (pepper jack is best!) tortilla chips.

Margarita Mix

One recipe makes about four margaritas and can be either served straight or blended with ice.

For the simple syrup: measure ½ cup each of white sugar and water into a small saucepan and bring to a simmer over medium high heat, removing from the heat when the sugar is dissolved. Store any leftover syrup in a jar in the fridge.

6 ounces tequila
2 ounces triple sec
2 ounces simple syrup (see head note)
2-4 ounces fresh citrus juice, approx (1 lemon and 2 limes)

Combine and store in a pint jar in the fridge.

For an icy margarita for one: blend ½ cup of the mix with ice (keep adding ice until it’s a thick slurry) and pour into a tall glass. If you’re feeling fancy, add a slice of lime and stick a straw in it.

They (the margarita gods) say that the mix will stay good in the fridge for a week, but I think it’d last lots longer. I mean, it’s alcohol and sugar, after all — how can it go bad?

This same time, years previous: ba-BAM, pulling the pin, reverberations, a photo book, mud cake, last Sunday morning, Jeni’s chocolate ice cream, how we beat the heat.

This afternoon, a cool breeze, rain. Birds.

Downstairs, me and my 13-year-old — my younger daughter is in her room, sleeping maybe? —
and a 90-minute podcast on success.

“How do you define success?” I ask, hitting pause.
“Doing something correctly?” he asks back.

He grips a pencil and my chest puffs. My little notetaker!
But when I look closely I see
he’s only tallying
the number of times the presenters say
“um.”

I make margarita mix.

Also, brown rice, with bacon grease, in the rice cooker.
Beef browning, with onions, garlic, and pepper,
and taco seasoning added at the end.
Brownies.

My older daughter texts that she and her brother, at Culebra, are heading out to snorkel.
Text when you get back, I tell her.
They had fun, she reports later,
but there wasn’t much to see.

“Books are the great lie that tell the truth about the way the world lives,” Verghese quotes.
“Don’t prepare the path for myself,” someone else quips. “Prepare myself for the path.”

I plan the menu for the next few days and add to my grocery list
scallions, salmon, evaporated milk.
When the kids come home (tomorrow!), we might have strawberry shortcake.
If there are still berries in the garden.
My younger son washes the dishes.

Distracted, he picks up my camera and
wanders, snapping aimlessly, until I tell him to
stop.

The podcast ends and he disappears,
probably to his room to read.

Outside it’s still raining (but barely) and
in the kitchen it’s quiet. Just me,
a grown-up.

This same time, years previous: energy boost, the family reunion of 2017, the quotidian (6.6.16), delivery, meat market: life in the raw, of a sun-filled evening, for hot summer days, three reds fruit crumble.