I am pleased to announce that Debbie Gibson culturally blipped here in the UK too, so I'll be having one of these at some point. Also, as I regularly attempt to dye pickled onions red to adorn Vincent Price Cucumber Crocodiles with the sorry excuses for food colouring we can here get these days, your innovation of using Peychaud's to do this job is pure genius.
Although I am willing to go to protests, and will do that again tomorrow, as I have now for, apparently, (gulp) some 50+ years (I was a precocious child), I do not get parades. Hate them. The balloons on Thanksgiving were fun to watch on TV when I was a kid, but I grew up (and live now) in Manhattan and parades are so stupid and annoying. My view here may have been shaped by the fact that my neighborhood was the end of many (most?) NYC parades throughout my childhood, and the buses ferrying participants often parked on my very block. Certain parade days were more awful than others, depending on the level of drunkenness. But I digress long enough. A pink drink for Pride? Sounds Divine. And perfect.
It's 6:44 am and despite this, I am now ready to Knock Knees. However, the libation must wait. Perhaps 12 noon or so; yes? That seems civilized. That pink is lush, too.
I can't be sure whether I dreamed it or it was real, but I feel like I've read this essay and recipe before. But it doesn't matter -- I'm just pleased as punch to be reminded that there's another person on this planet who remembers Eric Blore. I'll bet you even remember his attempts to get Edward Everett Horton to extricate him from the Susquehanna Street jail.
I have definitely seen that scene! I love both actors so much.
And you may have dreamed about it, but I did originally post about this cocktail about ten years ago. I’ve revisited several posts from deep within the crypt of my dearly departed blog, because I think many of them contained good ideas, but weren’t executed quite as well as I may have liked. It’s good to retest/update an old recipe and I always end up tearing up the old essay and reworking it into something (hopefully) better. It’s very satisfying on my end.
And FYI it's very satisfying on my/our end as well.
Whoever did the casting of the secondary characters in those old Astaire/Rogers musicals did a hell of a job. Something tells me that person had truly memorable parties at his/her house.
The Debby Gibson is so pretty! I'm quite fond of pink as long as it's subtle. My best gal pals—Patsy K. Marjorie M., and Hope E.—are coming over tomorrow night for a slumber party (popping corn, braiding each other's hair, practicing kissing boys on each other... the usual), and I'm thinking that the D.G. might be the perfect libation to get things goin'!
Well, Tallulah B. and Lizbeth S. simply moisten when presented with pitcher of Debbie Gs, so I think you're all going to have one humdinger of a sewing circle!
I would probably fracture something after drinking this! Not a fairy tale ending. It sounds delicious and though I’m not usually an imbiber, I believe I will have to try this.
I am pleased to announce that Debbie Gibson culturally blipped here in the UK too, so I'll be having one of these at some point. Also, as I regularly attempt to dye pickled onions red to adorn Vincent Price Cucumber Crocodiles with the sorry excuses for food colouring we can here get these days, your innovation of using Peychaud's to do this job is pure genius.
Although I am willing to go to protests, and will do that again tomorrow, as I have now for, apparently, (gulp) some 50+ years (I was a precocious child), I do not get parades. Hate them. The balloons on Thanksgiving were fun to watch on TV when I was a kid, but I grew up (and live now) in Manhattan and parades are so stupid and annoying. My view here may have been shaped by the fact that my neighborhood was the end of many (most?) NYC parades throughout my childhood, and the buses ferrying participants often parked on my very block. Certain parade days were more awful than others, depending on the level of drunkenness. But I digress long enough. A pink drink for Pride? Sounds Divine. And perfect.
I used to love the Rose Parade until I spent the night on Colorado BLVD and saw a guy get shot in the head.
I much prefer pink drinks.
I approve of this coupe glass.
#RIP
I very much like the idea of celebrating Pride Month by watching Franklin Pangborn films.
I believe one cannot celebrate Mr. Pangborn enough
I’d like to see this attitude given the name “pangbornism,” so one could be described as a pangbornist thinker.
A fastidious but befuddled school of thought, one would imagine.
Yes— fastidious but befuddled, that’s perfect!
It's 6:44 am and despite this, I am now ready to Knock Knees. However, the libation must wait. Perhaps 12 noon or so; yes? That seems civilized. That pink is lush, too.
In this day and age, is there any point in waiting?
Well, actually, no. Perhaps a first cup of coffee though. Perhaps. This coffee does seem to have an odd hue now, rather pinkish. And clear.
I hope you god you haven’t added cream.
Hahaha! NO!
I can't be sure whether I dreamed it or it was real, but I feel like I've read this essay and recipe before. But it doesn't matter -- I'm just pleased as punch to be reminded that there's another person on this planet who remembers Eric Blore. I'll bet you even remember his attempts to get Edward Everett Horton to extricate him from the Susquehanna Street jail.
I have definitely seen that scene! I love both actors so much.
And you may have dreamed about it, but I did originally post about this cocktail about ten years ago. I’ve revisited several posts from deep within the crypt of my dearly departed blog, because I think many of them contained good ideas, but weren’t executed quite as well as I may have liked. It’s good to retest/update an old recipe and I always end up tearing up the old essay and reworking it into something (hopefully) better. It’s very satisfying on my end.
And FYI it's very satisfying on my/our end as well.
Whoever did the casting of the secondary characters in those old Astaire/Rogers musicals did a hell of a job. Something tells me that person had truly memorable parties at his/her house.
The 1930s and 40s had the absolute best scene stealing character actors.
I do remember Edward Everett Horton, but somehow missed Debbie Gibson. I will be checking my liquor cabinet to see if I still have some Peychaud!
Debbie Gibson was a mere blip on the cultural radar. Edward Everett Horton is eternal.
The Debby Gibson is so pretty! I'm quite fond of pink as long as it's subtle. My best gal pals—Patsy K. Marjorie M., and Hope E.—are coming over tomorrow night for a slumber party (popping corn, braiding each other's hair, practicing kissing boys on each other... the usual), and I'm thinking that the D.G. might be the perfect libation to get things goin'!
Well, Tallulah B. and Lizbeth S. simply moisten when presented with pitcher of Debbie Gs, so I think you're all going to have one humdinger of a sewing circle!
It is very hard to comprehend why Knocking Knees didn’t become the dance craze of that age.
Right? Especially with a very young Betty Grable showing us how to do it!
Perhaps I’ll have a William Gibson.
At 6 foot 6 inches, he's one tall Gibson!
This is news to me. I was just thinking about what that cyberpunk cocktail would look and taste like.
I would probably fracture something after drinking this! Not a fairy tale ending. It sounds delicious and though I’m not usually an imbiber, I believe I will have to try this.
Fairytale endings are pretty hard to come by these days, but I do believe drinking a Debbie Gibson might make you care less about it.