Strong Drinks and Sweet Old Ladies: Whiskey Sour
My father makes few things in the kitchen. Ribs, cocktail sauce, tuna fish salad, and peanut butter and jelly on ritz crackers are among the classics. They receive much more fanfare than my mom preparing a three course meal from scratch every night.
The fanfare is primarily instigated by my father, who is a much better self-promoter than my mom. In addition to his 6 or 7 dishes, he can be counted on for one very important contribution most evenings: the cocktail. An well-timed libation before mealtime can be among the more valuable contributions.
As bartender, he’s part Henry Ford, part Soup Nazi: During the summer, guests can have any cocktail they'd like as long as it’s a Tanqueray & Tonic. And when he's decided you've had enough (because he doesn't feel like getting out of his chair), well there's no more drink for you.
In my pre-drinking days, I can remember my father mixing Whiskey Sours on a regular basis. These were particularly thrilling events because sours, made the way my dad makes 'em, require a blender. My Dad was a city boy, and had no skills with man tools. He couldn't figure out lawnmowers or leaf blowers, and had no interest in learning. The most sophisticated tools he could handle were manly kitchen tools: the blender and turkey carver.
When it came time for Whiskey Sours, out came the safety goggles, and children were not allowed in the kitchen. So my feet stayed in the den, and I'd lean as far into the kitchen as gravity would allow to get a look at the big event. I watched, but never saw. Until recently, I had no idea what went into the drink.
Whiskey Sours had a different aesthetic than my dad’s other cocktails, primarily highballs. This one had a ½-inch head on top that never receded. The cocktails were served over ice which in a rocks glass -- the thick blanket of foam made the ice cubes give off a blunt thump instead of a click when they knocked together. It was unlike the other highballs.
As a kid, I was not allowed to have a Whiskey Sour. So I would stare at the glasses, begging like a mutt, until someone caved and let me sip, holding the glass at a stingy angle as I’d dive nose-first into the glass, trying to suck up as much Sour as I could. Inevitably, I’d get some of that head on my nose, and spend the next ten minutes trying to lick it off with my tongue.
Recently, Kidalicious and I were making dinner, and he asked me to make him an old-fashioned cocktail. I remembered the Whiskey Sour, and called my mom for the recipe (she never made the drink, but she’d know how). The recipe belonged to Ruth Magee, a pal of my Grandmother’s, who had passed on years ago. I remembered her well because she had a son who wrote children’s books, which I thought was a very cool thing for an adult to do.
Those upstate New York little old ladies play it prim, but they know their cocktails. Especially ones with gin and whiskey. Mrs. Magee’s recipe had only three ingredients. With all the fuss surrounding the preparation of these drinks, you’d think my dad had to sacrifice the fattest calf before he could make them.
But no. You just leave it to the practicality of the upstate New York woman to come up with a cocktail recipe that’s delicious, memorable and easy. And let the man get the credit for the fuss.
RUTH MAGEE’S WHISKEY SOUR
1 can of frozen lemonade concentrate
1 can of whiskey (same can, conveniently!)
1 egg
Ice
Combine ingredients in a blender. Blend. Make a fuss. Serve over ice, breaking a faux sweat.
NOTE: As I’ve aged, I’ve become less of a sweet fanatic, and more of an alcoholic (just kidding, ma). Try it with 1 ¼ cans of whiskey, and stir in club soda before serving. That will take the sweet edge off. Garnish with a lemon wheel (which will also help ease the sweet) in a rocks glass.
The fanfare is primarily instigated by my father, who is a much better self-promoter than my mom. In addition to his 6 or 7 dishes, he can be counted on for one very important contribution most evenings: the cocktail. An well-timed libation before mealtime can be among the more valuable contributions.
As bartender, he’s part Henry Ford, part Soup Nazi: During the summer, guests can have any cocktail they'd like as long as it’s a Tanqueray & Tonic. And when he's decided you've had enough (because he doesn't feel like getting out of his chair), well there's no more drink for you.
In my pre-drinking days, I can remember my father mixing Whiskey Sours on a regular basis. These were particularly thrilling events because sours, made the way my dad makes 'em, require a blender. My Dad was a city boy, and had no skills with man tools. He couldn't figure out lawnmowers or leaf blowers, and had no interest in learning. The most sophisticated tools he could handle were manly kitchen tools: the blender and turkey carver.
When it came time for Whiskey Sours, out came the safety goggles, and children were not allowed in the kitchen. So my feet stayed in the den, and I'd lean as far into the kitchen as gravity would allow to get a look at the big event. I watched, but never saw. Until recently, I had no idea what went into the drink.
Whiskey Sours had a different aesthetic than my dad’s other cocktails, primarily highballs. This one had a ½-inch head on top that never receded. The cocktails were served over ice which in a rocks glass -- the thick blanket of foam made the ice cubes give off a blunt thump instead of a click when they knocked together. It was unlike the other highballs.
As a kid, I was not allowed to have a Whiskey Sour. So I would stare at the glasses, begging like a mutt, until someone caved and let me sip, holding the glass at a stingy angle as I’d dive nose-first into the glass, trying to suck up as much Sour as I could. Inevitably, I’d get some of that head on my nose, and spend the next ten minutes trying to lick it off with my tongue.
Recently, Kidalicious and I were making dinner, and he asked me to make him an old-fashioned cocktail. I remembered the Whiskey Sour, and called my mom for the recipe (she never made the drink, but she’d know how). The recipe belonged to Ruth Magee, a pal of my Grandmother’s, who had passed on years ago. I remembered her well because she had a son who wrote children’s books, which I thought was a very cool thing for an adult to do.
Those upstate New York little old ladies play it prim, but they know their cocktails. Especially ones with gin and whiskey. Mrs. Magee’s recipe had only three ingredients. With all the fuss surrounding the preparation of these drinks, you’d think my dad had to sacrifice the fattest calf before he could make them.
But no. You just leave it to the practicality of the upstate New York woman to come up with a cocktail recipe that’s delicious, memorable and easy. And let the man get the credit for the fuss.
RUTH MAGEE’S WHISKEY SOUR
1 can of frozen lemonade concentrate
1 can of whiskey (same can, conveniently!)
1 egg
Ice
Combine ingredients in a blender. Blend. Make a fuss. Serve over ice, breaking a faux sweat.
NOTE: As I’ve aged, I’ve become less of a sweet fanatic, and more of an alcoholic (just kidding, ma). Try it with 1 ¼ cans of whiskey, and stir in club soda before serving. That will take the sweet edge off. Garnish with a lemon wheel (which will also help ease the sweet) in a rocks glass.
posted by Allison Fishman Task at 4:43 PM
3 Comments:
Allison,
My mother was Ruth Magee. She would have loved the idea that her Whiskey Sour recipe was being remembered and shared by Lucy's granddaughter!
Thanks so much for keeping her memory alive! This was her best recipe!!
Take care,
Linda
I remember those sweet old ladies and the whiskey sours...you captured it well, my dear.
YKW
Allison,
We've had some laughs over the years about my mother's cooking; the shoe-leather meat, the soggy canned peas, the cottage cheese jello. So I know she's getting the last laugh now, having been included in your wonderful blog and website. And while Mom was never much of a cook, she had a splendid appetite to her dying day. Maybe that had something to do with her libation expertise!
As my sister said, thanks for reminding us of one of Mom's proud moments.
Best,
Doug Magee
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