Shirley Temple, All Grown Up (or How to Make an Amaretto Cherry Sour)

In keeping with the spirit of exploring the culture of my environment, I must include a tiny bit of background information from time to time. Therefore dear readers (reader count=2), I have included some information about my early days in Atlanta for your perusal. My love affair with music, and it is a love affair--picture cerulean blue skies and couples embracing in frozen locked kisses as the camera makes wide arching circles while a chorus bursts into song, must be contributed to my mother's large Italian family. I have always thought of them as a merry band of dark hued gypsies, each with a God given talent for singing or playing any and all assortment of musical instruments. I imagine that my mother sang to both my sister and myself while we nested comfortably in her womb, not knowing what madness awaited in the bustling world outside. Whereas my sister most likely sang along, her stunningly gorgeous voice in harmony with our mother's superior soprano; I imagine that my mother's trilling acapella had me rhythmically swinging my tiny arms and legs. I burst from the womb with no other talent for music than my infant screams. None the less, my family's love of music had an indelible affect on me. I came into this world dancing. This love affair can not be compared with my love for music, for these two loves are incomparable but completely compatible. My love for dance is not sugar coated for the masses, no. It is lusty, gutsy, and sometimes down right mean. Dance moves me from a place deep within the hidden folds of my psyche--a place churning with primordial ooze and vibrating with the rapid rhythm of tribal drums.

Take a spin in my DeLorean DMC-12, and fast forward about 20 years.  The year is 1997 and the city of Atlanta is abuzz with transients and growth due in no small part to the 1996 Olympics. I am one of the masses looking for the promise of a bright future, and my version of the American Dream. A shy, dark haired, and undereducated young girl seeking out her place in the big, scary world. Much to my surprise I find others like myself, moved by the beats rising up through the primordial ooze. I began my dark descent at a little dive by the name of 688. By the light of day I was a serious young woman making my way through the working ranks, but at night I relinquished my need for control and gave in to my most base desires. I'm sorry to say that sounds far more scandalous than it truly is--you see these desires have almost always been fed simply on the dance floor. If there were a soundtrack for this sordid double life it would most certainly begin with this song: Alien Sex Fiend's "I Walk the Line". And if there were a drink that symbolizes my sweet, but sometimes sour nature it would be the Amaretto Cherry Sour. This sweet, and somewhat sour drink is a nod to all of the Shirley Temple, Roy Robins drink ordering kiddies out there. I do not recommend ordering this drink at any of your more serious bars, as they will most likely laugh in your face, however this is on my short list of guilty pleasures, and in the pursuit of honesty I have included the recipe below. Readers, laugh all you want, but give it a try anyway I promise your little kiddie hearts will not be disappointed, and your alcoholic palettes will be pleasantly pleased.

Enjoy,

Epicurious Gypsy

  

Ingredients:

2 oz. amaretto liqueur

1 oz. sweet and sour mix

1 tbsp. grenadine

2 oz. lemon lime soda