Laura suggested that I might write about teaching in urban schools or the vagaries of modern dating or one of my evolving get-moderately-financially-
comfortable-ever-so-slowly schemes. And I might yet.
But when I called my mother today and asked what she was up to, she answered: Soaking raisins in gin. And now that phrase is reverberating around the inside of my skull, crowding out any other plans I might’ve had. I thought she must be working on some new confection, because when we worried my Grammy had taken to drink it turned out that the bottles of Southern Comfort were actually disappearing into dozens of whisky cakes, which she was distributing to her ladyfriends around St. Theresa’s parish. But no, you take these raisins straight up. Nine a day.
This “voodoo recipe,” as my stepfather dubbed it—golden raisins only—is supposed to remedy arthritis. As when anyone evinces skepticism over anything nowadays, I was told: “You can look it up on the internet.” Sure enough, Googling “gin-soaked raisins” produced 10,300 results.
Never mind how the internet affects political involvement. Laura, you should be writing about how it simplifies self-medication. And encourages gin sales.