This cocktail isn’t pretty. As much as I love Pomegranate Molasses it turns out it does not, as I imagined, impart a ruby hue. But don’t let the murky water scare you, jump in!
- 2 ounces Gin
- 1 tsp Pomegranate Molasses
- 1 Tangerine preferably organic and well washed quartered with skin on
- 1/4 lime plus a wedge for garnish
Combine all ingredients in a pint glass or cocktail shaker.
Vigorously muddle with ice for about 30 seconds
Strain and serve up or on the rocks
are remodeling remodeled Powell’s Books in downtown Portland. I understand why but it makes this little tale now obsolete but still spring (and puddle) appropriate.
The Buckets of Powell’s
I was standing in the writing/reference section of Powell’s books this afternoon, an exceptionally rainy day even for weather soggy Portland, when I felt a small fleck of water glance off my cheek. I looked up and even though the ceiling was pocked with weather damage and drip marks there was no obvious source. My coat was dripping, bead of water still falling to the floor and my umbrella though sheathed still bore evidence of the weather. Perhaps it was I. But I couldn’t remember the author of the book I was looking for so I stayed in that corner by the window looking book by book and shelf by shelf. Another drip. Me? Not me. I began to question, like the woman who swats at a buzzing insect that only she can hear. Three droplets and three long hard stares up towards the ceiling later I finally saw the source. A slow drip that missed the blue trashcan already atop the shelf, and fell onto the wooden beam below it. I felt vindicated. A leak that only this poor lonely girl looking for writing prompts might find. I took my books in hand, my hat as well, and went to Information to tell them about the drip.
“I just wanted to let you know” I said in a conspiratorial tone, like the bathroom was out of toilet paper or the info clerk had her skirt tucked into her pantyhose (not that she was wearing pantyhose, in fact I’d venture to guess that she burned those along with her bra).
I really wasn’t waiting to see what happened but I got distracted by all the novels I have yet to read, caught up in the desire that my gift card should be worth more than it was.
“There’s no leak” I heard a Rubenesque woman in mom jeans say. “It was just a wet customer, I can see the trail.”
“No, no.” I countered. “My umbrella was dripping, in fact…” My voice trailed off as I realized that I had left my umbrella hanging by the thesauruses. “It’s a slow drip, but it’s there. It took me a moment to be sure. I’ll show you.”
And so insistent I led disbelieving she back to the corner where writing and reference meet. She pointed out the small puddles along the aisle, I struggled to find my counter point. “It’s a slow drip.” I insisted again. “But it’s there.”
And there it was, glimmering off the top most shelf, the dribble of evidence. I grabbed my umbrella and pointed with its metal tip, first at one glimmering drop and then the one down below it. I was flush with victory. I proved my case. Mystery solved.
“Yup, I’ll go get a ladder,” she said.
I never looked at the ceiling of Powell’s before. My gaze never extended beyond that top shelf. And usually, that being overstock, not even that far. But there, in literature, where the building is only one story high and riddled with history and small fissures there are buckets everywhere (and trash cans, and tiny pails). Look up next time you’re there and be amazed by how, there in The City of Books, how many holes there are where the rain comes in.