It. Goes. So. Fast. by Mary Louise Kelly

Author:Mary Louise Kelly
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Henry Holt and Co.

* * *

I inherited my father’s tendency to drone on. To this day, I’ll be talking merrily away about something or other and C.J. will catch my eye and whisper, too low for others at the table to hear: Huguenots. I’ll look around and realize everyone’s eyes are rolling back in their heads.

Among the other things I inherited: my father’s last name. Our branch of Kellys came over from Ireland in the nineteenth century and took jobs as cops and housecleaners, mostly in Philadelphia, a few in Boston. Perhaps it was all these industrious Kellys who passed on to my father, who then passed on to me, a capacity for and an inclination toward hard work.

What else? My father’s big, broad feet. His big, broad hands. His love for the solitary, knee-sabotaging sport of running.

All this, and a killer cocktail recipe.

My father was not a drinker. But he loved learning about wine, which one to pair with which food, to elevate your meal from tasty to sublime. He loved a stein of crisp, golden German pilsner—a legacy from his years of service in the U.S. Army, stationed in Bavaria. He cared about appearances. The correct glass was absolutely required; this was not a man who chugged beer from a can. And he loved a good cocktail. He was going to drink only one, so it needed to count. Dad lacked patience for syrups and fruity add-ons and frou-frou garnishes. His rule for cocktails was that they should be three things: simple, cold, and strong.

Dad’s drink was a Manhattan. He was true to it his whole life. His preferred spirits evolved over the years, as he tried new things and was able to buy better-quality booze. Although I had watched him make one many times, I’d never paid much attention to how he was doing it. So one day toward the end, when he was no longer drinking or even eating much of anything, I dragged a chair up to my parents’ kitchen counter, got him settled, and asked him to teach me.

We went through it step-by-step. The chilling, the measuring, the shaking. Cocktails are like travel, in that so much of the pleasure lies in the anticipation. By this point Dad had been so sick for so long, but in that moment together it felt briefly like all was right in the world: him holding forth, explaining in somewhat greater detail than necessary how to mix a drink. Me listening, dutifully completing each step as instructed, hiding a smile, mouthing silently to myself, Huguenots.

I told him that I would write it all down. I told him that one day I would teach the boys, his grandsons, how to make his drink. That it would be among the things they inherited from him. Meantime, I think he’d be tickled to know his recipe—another thing that bears his name—was out there in the world.

Here it is:

PAPA JIM’S MANHATTAN

•   2 ounces Redemption Rye whiskey (acceptable, slightly sweeter alternative: 2 ounces Woodford Reserve bourbon whiskey)

•   1

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