The summer my sister and I were seven years old, we embarked on our first big project together. We had decided to make a secret dwelling in the woods behind the home we were staying in, and we worked hard on it all summer. We found some large garden shears and cut pathways in the brush with our tiny hands to connect the clearings between the young alder trees. Over weeks we built our secret home complete with bedrooms, hallways, bathroom, kitchen and a living room with a view across the ravine.
In the dry gully behind the house, we discovered a wealth of wood scraps and miscellaneous construction trash lazily discarded that we could use to furnish our home. Among the rust and splinters, we found a large wooden cable spool and decided it would make a perfect dining table for our private cottage. We freed it from the pile and rolled it to the bottom of the hill and looked up together at our task: we two must push the spool up the long incline and through the trees to reach its destination in our fairy kitchen.
We positioned it towards the path of least resistance and started pushing. Halfway up the hill, our tiny arms and backs betrayed us, and we sadly watched it roll back down and into the shrubs at the bottom. Again and again we tried and failed to roll that spool up the hill. Each time we rescued it from the brush and started back up again, our freckled faces became more red with the exertion, our palms got rough and sore from splinters, but we were determined and would not stop until we had our table. Finally, we managed to pass the crest and landed triumphant at the top, and our cheers of accomplishment echoed across the hillside. Our table, once wrestled through the trees and into our kitchen, was decorated with a tablecloth made of scraps of blue tarp and a coffee can full of fireweed blooms that we refreshed each time we went to play cards.
Twenty years ago, we had our first Thanksgiving without our parents. Neither of us knew (or cared to learn) how to cook a traditional meal, so we chose to splurge on sushi instead, and spent the evening playing rummy and drinking sweet margaritas and loving our life together. Over the years, we have faced so many challenges, but we know if we could push that spool up the hill, we can do anything, so long as we have each other. Every day I am thankful for her, my mother’s greatest gift to me and my forever partner in life, my sister Sarah.
The margaritas I enjoy now are more mature and far less promiscuous than the ones we drank back then. This virgin blueberry margarita is made with blueberry flavored kombucha, which adds some complexity and a lovely purple hue.
Ingredients for two drinks:
The juice of 1 ½ limes
1 teaspoon agave nectar
Tiny pinch of salt
8 ounces blueberry kombucha
Directions:
Combine all ingredients in a cold shaker with ice and shake to chill and combine.
Divide into two small glasses with ice.
Garnish with a ring of lime and maybe a few frozen blueberries.
Sip between hands of rummy or gummy bear poker.
