I need a drink. A big one. But therein lies the problem.
One of my besties and I were having a discussion about the blog, and she was saying she wanted to hear my smartass opinion of "up there" versus "The South". Don't you love how "The South" with it's capitalization and title makes it sound all fancy? Well, that's a novel, not a post. There are just too many differences. And I'm afraid, I wouldn't know how it would turn out. I mean, I'm southern. It's takes less than one sentence to know I don't belong up here, but I don't really belong down there, either. I blame my mama. She was raised in a combination of the midwest and the south, so I was bound to be screwed up. So, naturally, I can plant my roots any ole where and have a grand time.
Except, when no one can fix me a drink. That's right. Girl lourves her a margarita. In Mississippi, we frequented Las Margaritas, well, frequently. And by frequently, I mean, we had our own table, and Wallace (the big ole teddy bear looking bouncer type) would probably have made people leave if they were in our spot, at least that's our theory. He took care of us. I mean, how many people give the guy at the door a hug when you go eat Mexican? Well, I do!
Then, transplant me to the North. Twenty-five miles (though it could be 100, since we rarely venture into it) out of Philly. I'm near 4 Targets, 3 Five Guys, a Cheesecake Factory, a million Japanese steakhouses, a billion Chinese places, and every other eatery in between. You name it, we have it. (Except Logan's, poor Baby Bear.) Every store you have ever dreamed of is located near or in the Cherry Hill Mall. And the outlets. Sweet paychecks, the outlets. There are 4 within an hour of me. Heck, NYC is only a short train ride. But wanna grab some chips and salsa and enjoy a nice afternoon? Forgetaboutit.
Salsa. It's tomatoes! And they sell those suckers on the side of road everywhere I live. But for the life of me, I can't find anyone who understands salsa. You'd be better served by taking a jar of Tostitos or Chi-Chi's brand to the restaurant tucked in your purse. And if you know me, I must be disgusted to even make that suggestion...right Sarah?
We are the adventurous sort, so we've tried several places. One tasted like right out of the jar. Another had the strangest flavor. I swear there were CHUNKS of garlic in it. It was like eating Italian sauce on my chips. I almost cried. But no matter what struggle, we've been through with salsa, nothing compares to the pain and suffering (yes, it's that extreme) of not being able to find a decent margarita. I've had something that tasted lemon flavored, something that was like an icy water type drink, and even Chili's tasted foul. I don't understand. At the least, get some mix, pour in some tequila, and stir. Cmon!
Yes, I do know how to make a good one myself. Thank goodness for a ladies tennis league. Oh, warm and cozy feelings about the south for that one! But my awesome recipe makes a pitcher. And I refuse to waste it....or clean it up, let's be honest. But on beautiful, warm afternoons, I'd love to have one (by the way, this was NOT today. Cloudy, damp, and cool. Hey, Jersey, it's spring, get a clue). And it's true, I'd probably get teary-eyes even having a drink with some C & S without my girls, but I need to find us a spot before any of them come to visit.
And let's face it, Cinco de Mayo is literally days away. It's go time people! So, if you need me, I'll be cleaning out my blender and researching salsa recipes.