Ingredients
3 ounces of bourbon
If your older brother makes a big show of bringing a very expensive bottle of the stuff because he constantly needs to remind everyone how much money he makes, use that.
1 ounce of dark amber maple syrup
I like a good Canadian brand because I’ve never felt Canada’s own Thanksgiving holiday gets the attention it truly deserves.
½ ounce of Italian amaro
There are several amari to choose from, each with its own distinct character. I like a Sicilian style, such as Averna, because it reminds me of my own family, a particularly rancorous lot.
The juice of half a lemon
Eureka lemons are best.
The white of 1 egg liberated from a reasonably healthy chicken
Turkey eggs are to be avoided. As are turkeys in general.
Freshly grated nutmeg
Plenty of ice
Instructions
Into a large cocktail shaker, deposit the ice. Pour over the bourbon, maple syrup, lemon juice, amaro and egg white. Close lid firmly.
Wrap in a clean kitchen or bar towel, which will keep your hands from freezing as you violently shake.
Agitate the contents of your shaker. Begin with a moderate, but peppy tempo—a lively conga, such as Xavier Cugat’s “One, Two, Three, Kick,” works extremely well. Gradually increase the tempo and vigor of your shake, imagining that what you hold in your hands is no longer a mixology vessel, but the shoulders of your casually racist grandfather who never bothered to remember your birthday, or your brother-in-law who won’t stop trying to sell everyone on the idea of NFTs. Shake with increasing intensity until sufficiently tired and/or exorcised of enough frustration to once again function politely within a family setting.
Feel remorse at your formerly violent thoughts toward your relatives.
Remove the lid of your shaker, strain the frothy contents into a cocktail glass, garnish with as much nutmeg as you please, consume the drink in two to three large gulps, tell everyone who’s been pounding on the door for the past three minutes that you’re just fine and will be out in a minute, take a good hard look at yourself in the vanity mirror and say to your reflection in a barely audible whisper, “Next year, things will be different.”
Repeat as often as necessary.
Michael Procopio is a two-time James Beard award loser. You can read more by him at spatchcock.substack.com