As it turns out Esquire magazine has beaten me to the punch. Their reductionist cocktail recipe allows anyone to mix up a reliably drinkable invention using a simple ratio: 3 parts liquor, 1 part liqueur, 1 part Aperol and 1 part citrus juice.

Any time someone claims to have discovered a foolproof recipe, it is my duty to attempt to break it, so for my first Esquire cocktail I broke out the most shameful contents of our liquor cabinet: 1½ oz Sauza Gold tequila, ½ oz Southern Comfort, ½ oz Aperol and ½ oz lime juice. Between the SoCo and the tequila, I wasn’t expecting much from this. But I was pleasantly surprised. While the cheap tequila’s familiar sting was present, it only lingered ethereally over the cocktail, rather than entirely defining it like the cheap tequila cocktails I invented in college. The drink was more or less as promised: smooth and not too sweet. Kind of boring, but not offensive.

Another iteration using 100 Proof Wild Turkey, Benedictine and lemon juice mixed with Aperol turned out the same way: not terribly interesting, but pretty good. Definitely drinkable.

This is not my favorite cocktail recipe. I’ve had way more fun and discovered far more interesting flavors and drinks in Ted Haigh’s Vintage Spirits and Forgotten Cocktails, which I’ve only scratched the surface of. But when it’s just too much to run out for that obscure new ingredient — or if it’s Sunday in this backwards state — it’s nice to know there’s a cocktail I can mix up with what I’ve got on hand, even if it’s SoCo.

Last Wednesday night I hustled from a meeting near the Mississippi to Cooks of Crocus Hill in Edina before their 9 o’clock closure, refusing the freeway. Our tropical jewel fruit share had arrived. I had called the shop earlier to find out exactly how long I had to drop in and pick up the fruit and after explaining their lack of refrigeration, etc. etc. it became apparent I really ought to come that night, so I made it work. From the original agreement from Cooks:

Nature can be fickle. We have tried to be as precise as possible when listing delivery dates of our crop shares to you [ours was advertised as mid-January, so these will definitely wobble a bit]. We will be notifying you as soon as possible regarding your pick up date and time. Please make arrangements to stop by for your share no later than 24 hours after the confirmed delivery time.

This all seemed like a bit of a pain until I arrived at Cooks to find my glorious, giant box of fruit. All is forgiven. “This is all for us?!” I blathered. I smiled! I was the only one picking up at the Edina location, so yes, it was all ours. This was no small box—it’s a good thing I had found a nearby parking spot.

I arrived at home still grinning from ear to ear with our little bounty from the non-frozen world. Thus began the bigger question: what are we going to do with all of these lemons and limes? So far they’ve brought a great deal of inspiration and cheer to this Minnesota-kitchen-in-February. Naturally, our plans around them are fueled by a lurking anxiety that we’ll fail to use our new citrus friends until they’re past their prime.

Lemon curd, tacos with lime, lime sorbet, lemon vinaigrettes, lemon chicken, limeade, pies, cakes, lemon-in-your-tea (or water!). It’s all on the table. The best part? You’re all invited over for cocktails.

Cooks of Crocus Hill offers crop shares (some of which are fruit shares) throughout the year. Unlike a traditional risk-oriented CSA, they promise refunds on deposits in the event that shares aren’t delivered. Find out what’s available now: http://www.cooksofcrocushill.com/cropshare/shares

For our fruit share, Cooks worked with the always certified organic FruitShare. We’re thinking of ordering directly from fruitshare in the future. Here’s what’s in season at the moment: http://www.fruitshare.com/Featured-Product

Both drinks come from the invaluable Vintage Spirits and Forgotten Cocktails: From the Alamagoozlum Cocktail to the Zombie by Ted Haigh, a.k.a. Dr. Cocktail.

Leatherneck Cocktail

• 2 oz blended whiskey (Crown Royal, for example)
• ¾ oz blue curaçao
• ½ oz fresh lime juice

Shake over ice; strain into a cocktail glass. Garnish with a lime wheel.

I have a confession to make: I do not own blended whiskey. So what did I do to make this drink? Well I was making two, so I “blended” the dregs of a bottle of 100 proof Wild Turkey (3 oz) with a last bit of Bulleit Bourbon (1 oz). I know that’s not blended whiskey — and probably a sign that I have a problem — but it made an okay version of the Leatherneck. Such is my shame.

This drink is the color of radioactive blue only achievable with blue curaçao.

Blue Moon

• 2 oz gin
• ½ oz Crème Yvette or crème de violette
• ½ oz fresh lemon juice

Shake over ice; strain into a cocktail glass. Garnish with a lemon twist.

While the Leatherneck Cocktail’s garish acid blue gave off an exuberant vibe with a strong hint of desperation — a drink for a Friday night, perhaps — the Blue Moon is all refinement and class right down to its subdued blue color, a distillation of the intense purple of crème de violette.  You can almost hear the strains of the eponymous song wafting across the room as soon as you open the shaker.

For those of you not so lucky as to live within Surly’s distribution range, Cynic is a very full-flavored ale; as the beer hits the tongue it fills one’s mouth with bananas and cloves and maybe a hint of vanilla. As the initial banana blast dies down, a solid malty backbone makes itself known and and other spices appear, most notably cinnamon, which burns slightly. As the beer finishes, it snaps with some hop dryness, but this is by no means a hoppy beer. Compared to other saisons, Cynic is — like many of Surly’s beers — much bigger; the banana and spice flavors are prominent on the tongue and easy to identify, and the malt and hops are distinct and recognizable.

In the past when I have done pairings on this blog I generally planned them pretty carefully: starting from Garrett Oliver’s masterful Brewmaster’s Table I would pick a beer I could  find locally and plan to make whatever food Oliver suggested to go with it. Tonight’s pairing, however, was pure serendipity. On a recent trip to The Four Firkins, Martha insisted that we pick up a four-pack of Cynic. I was already planning on making Moroccan Chicken, a culturally inauthentic but nevertheless tasty recipe from Cook’s Illustrated. As I got to thinking about the richly spiced chicken in fragrant broth and the four cans of spicy, fragrant Cynic sitting in my fridge something clicked and a pairing was born.

Moroccan chicken — an adaptation of traditional Moroccan tagines for American kitchens — is made by cutting a whole chicken into eight pieces (a task I achieved effortlessly with my new boning knife — my latest kitchen obsession) and browning them in olive oil. Next, onions are sautéed with a few pieces of lemon peel, then garlic, paprika, cumin, cayenne, coriander and cinnamon go in the pot. Broth and honey are added to deglaze and form a braising liquid, then the chicken thighs and legs are added in, followed by large discs of carrot and the chicken breasts. The whole thing simmers away for 15 minutes, at which point the chicken is removed and olives are added. After five minutes of boiling to thicken the sauce, the chicken returns  to the pot accompanied by cilantro, lemon juice, and a paste of lemon zest and garlic. The result is a dish of strong spice and garlic, with notes of citrus and sweetness from carrots and honey balanced by bitter olives. Served over cous cous it is very satisfying, warming fare that takes little time to prepare. Doesn’t get much better than that.

Doesn’t get much better, that is, unless you happen to have a can of Cynic on hand. At this point I had built the pairing up so much in my mind that there wasn’t much chance I wouldn’t say it worked, but honestly — honestly! — this was a great combination. At the most basic level, any food that is spicy (spicy-hot) is great with beer as the beer’s carbonation helps lift the burn from your tongue, readying your palate for more food. But the specific spice flavors in Cynic — especially the cinnamon — were matched by those in the stew in such a way that they blended together beautifully, a seamless union of drink and food. The citrus in the dish, which is subtle and muted, was nicely picked up by the citrusy hops present at the end of a drink of Cynic; as the hops hit, they provided an invitation to explore the citrus in the stew more fully. So too the hops’ bitterness countered the sweetness of honey and carrots in the stew.

When pairing food and beer, selecting similar flavor profiles can be risky since the flavors in one might overpower or distort the same flavors in the other. But in the case of Surly Cynic and Moroccan Chicken, the flavors were in near perfect proportion to each other; each bite of this stew made me want another drink of Cynic, each drink of Cynic another bite of stew.