My cousin let me tag along to my first New Year’s Eve party.
I was thirteen. He was sixteen.
Prior to that year, my New Year celebrations consisted of watching the ball drop and eating pizza with my brother while our babysitter climaxed in the pickup truck in our driveway.
This was way funner.
It was in the barn of one of his friends.
It was filthy and smelled like arm pit. There were dead animal heads everywhere and in the center of a trio of old smelly plaid couches, a coffee table shaped like a coffin. Boys are so weird.
We spent the night playing cards and watching the drunk ones wrestle each other.
It would have been a cliche had I not been thirteen and OMG I WAS DRINKING BEERS WITH BOYS.
We toasted the New Year with Southern Comfort.
Prior to midnight, 1994, I had my only alcoholic experiences consisted of that of other thirteen year old girls in my rural position.
Boon’s Farm, warm beer from the garage, and whatever was left over from your parent’s get togethers that didn’t have a cigarette floating in it.
Southern Comfort was magical.
I spent the rest of the evening kissing a senior boy named David. He had a girlfriend. But, she was mean, controlling and wouldn’t let him touch her boobs.
I was pretty and understanding and just, got him, ya know. Also, I thought his teeth were pretty, and I let him feel me up.
The next morning I woke up on one of those smelly plaid couches. My cousin was asleep in the coffin. He had a Sharpie marker penis on his forehead.
My bra and left boot were gone.
And, this smell. This weird, wrong, smell was coming from the fire pit outside.
The boys walked in handing me a plate.
What is this?
We were out of bread, so we made french toast out of hot dog buns, and that’s deer sausage. I cased it myself.
That’s the funny thing about country boys. They may drink like fish and wear a wrestling singlets under their clothes, just in case, but fuck if they don’t value the importance of a huge ass hangover breakfast.
It took me a year before I could stomach the smell of Southern Comfort again, but every time I taste it, I think of that night.
So many of my memories are tied to meals or bottles of liquor.
Shish Tawook the night we got engaged.
Finding out I was pregnant after a night of Everclear margaritas.
Shrimp Lomein sitting on the floor of our first house the night we got the keys.
A bottle of Pinot on the couch during the series finale of Sex & The City.
And now, Skittles flavored vodka the last night I had with my best friends, before I had to wake up at 5am the next morning to put them on planes, and let them go back to their own corners of the country.
What you will need:
5 bags of skittles. 4 clean mason jars. 1 bottle of your favorite vodka.
Separate the skittle into colors.
Put them in the jars, and top with 2 cups of vodka.
Let the skittle sit in the vodka for at least three days, shaking the jars to mix it up whenever you remember to do so.
After three days, strain the vodka through a cheese cloth to skim out all the grainy parts of the skittle that didn’t dissolve.
Toss them in the freezer until you are ready to drink them.
Serve straight on ice, or for a bubbly treat, serve with Sprite or Club Soda.
It is ridiculously delicious. And, surprisingly potent considering it looks like you are drinking crayons. I definitely want to give this a go with some other candies, my next venture is sour skittles.