Alcohol Cw - Blog Posts

Stanley Cup Playoff Drinks

Here are some drinks to celebrate the Most Wonderful Time of the Year! Just like the playoffs themselves, playoff drinks have to strike the tricky balance inherent to a winter sport being played in June, like seriously why did we ever let the California teams get good enough to make it into the later rounds it’s like a million degrees what the hell are we doing trying to play scoot and shoot on ice. These are some of my favourites for watching the Cup while in your cups.

The PIMs Cup

By Ethanbentley at en.wikipedia [FAL], via Wikimedia Commons

A playoff version of the classic British summer drink, prepare a fruit cup per your favourite recipe, but serve in a glass with a salted rim. Discretely brush off the salt before drinking, it’s just there to provoke horrified looks. Celebrate bright fruity spring flavours and your favourite heavily-penalized dillhole at the same time

Toast: To a different little shit who has his own towel in the penalty box each time you take a sip. Toasted players should be unique, unless toasting Brad Marchand, who is unique enough on his own. Like a proverbial river, you can’t step in the same Marchie twice

Garnish: A smug look at your friend having a shrieky meltdown that you would celebrate such a classless goon

The Playoff Beard

By Chris huh [Public domain], from Wikimedia Commons

Mix a sex on the beach or a tangerini or similarly coloured drink and then serve in a scotch tumbler with a single pretentiously-large ice cube.

For some people loving sports means sometimes having to pass as Totally One Of The Guys, Nothing To See Here. This drink gives the option to do that while remaining true to an identity as a smouldering queer dumpster fire. Looks like a manly drink for manly men but tastes like an afternoon cackling at a matinee performance of one of the funny tragedies at Shakespeare in the Park

Toast: The patron saint of smouldering queer dumpster fires in the NHL, Tyson Barrie. Alternatively Tyson Barrie’s dignity, which needs all the help it can get, or the boat his cardiologist gets a little closer to buying every time he hits on a teammate on camera and then isn’t sure if they’re going along with it jokingly or are actually into it

The Flannel Shirt

Mostly I go for fruity drinks to celebrate playoff joy, but sometimes you need a soothing wintry drink for playoff heartbreak. The flannel shirt can be an excellent balm for postseason hard times. Feel free to play around with the spice mixture (allspice in the above recipe, but other mulling spices can also be good) for comforting nostalgia suited to you.

Toast: Those halcyon winter days when you happily doze by the cabin woodstove wearing nothing but Hilary Knight’s cozy flannel shirt. You hear the shoothing rythm of firewood being chopped outside and wait for her to come to come back in, face red from the cold, to cram herself into your chair and unwittingly light up your whole spine with her icy hands on your warm neck. The shirt smells like her and no one has even been mathematically eliminated yet, let alone blown 4-1 leads in the final minutes of game seven, been swept (or reverse swept), or knocked out by the same division rival for the second year in a row. You’re safe.

hours into the unclear future, chrissy might catch herself realizing that infinite reasons could exist for pink cheeks and dreamy silences in a packed kitchen hot from crowded bodies guzzling light beer and gossip like air, but in the moment she was only capable of joyously giggling,  ❝ steve, you’re so pink! ❞  a small poke to his cheek came after, followed in quick succession by an exultant gasp and a poke to a nearby eddie’s cheek.  ❝ you both are! ❞

such a sight was inexplicably tickling with a plastic cup of punch or two in her system (never more than that, however  —  playing it safe has become more comforting than boring) that lent a glowing edge to even the harshest of lighting and noises. like all of them were sucked into the kind of classic 80’s film chrissy used to romanticize within an inch of its life. with her shoulder sunk into eddie’s side and halfway beaming at steve, an argument could be made. brat pack, eat your heart out. they didn’t have safe places like she did, to be drawn back to every night like twin homing beacons. they weren’t laughing like she could these days. 

a slow, loose dawning still managed to roll over the former cheerleader, cooling a little of her own halfway inebriation.  ❝ it’s been a while, right? since we had fun like this? ‘cuz it feels good. ❞  

a freak, a jock, & an ex-jock walk into a party....     ///      @firelightfables​ + @starsinshadows​

they should never put this in the kitchen, chrissy thought through her hazy bubble cloud of wine cooler and winter break-fueled good mood. it was almost a languid sort of cheer that had hit her this late in the evening; she rarely stayed this late at parties but the smiles in every direction passively persuaded her to let the night drag on further and further until everyone would inevitably become a half-drunk and sleepy mess of laughter and jokes that never quite landed yet sounded hilarious regardless. but she’d forgotten about the trademark seasonal trap the party host had hung in a kitchen entryway, beyond which the siren song of a sofa crooned chrissy’s name. ....right - she’d been meaning to watch out for the mistletoe earlier. and missed her cue to glance up before nearly sliding past nancy right under it — until she noticed nancy’s movement grind to a halt, too. stupid little plant thing.

before her already alcohol-pinked cheeks could bloom any darker, chrissy giggled with all the air she had left in her lungs. oh, this would be easy, actually. no problems here.

                          ❝ oops, i guess! merry christmas break, nancy. ❞  there was no needing to think her plan through twice before swinging an arm about nancy’s shoulders and giving her a smack square on the cheek. perfect.  ❝ that counts, right? since we’re under here, i think we should make the rules. ❞  

                    —     a      🌿     for    @rebelcliche​

rabastanlcstrange​:

WHO @blanchexxprimpernelle​ & @nvmalfoy​ WHEN 12 June 2003. WHERE The Augurey Club.

The sunglasses were a poor disguise. Perched upon the bridge of his nose and designed to keep the world out or another world in, they had done little in the way of providing a shield either way — he felt scrubbed raw and exposed, every nerve awake and inflamed. Bash could hear the whispers floating around the patio, could taste the distinct lack of champagne in his mimosa (clearly Rolf had gotten to them here, too) and with each passing moment the urge to drive the stem of that crystal glass into the nearest overly-deferential neck was becoming a more viable option. And yet.

He took a sip of orange juice and soda water (a monstrosity), nose wrinkling and teeth bared in a smile that had turned half-feral as his head turned in anticipation of the click of heels upon the tiles of the patio. “You’re late,” he offered, raising his half-full glass of not-mimosa into the air in the hopes it might be swept away and replaced with one less disappointing. Time was slippery at the moment, skittering away between his fingers whenever he tried to pluck at the strings of it. “You missed the shift-change for the pool boys.”

Small sunglasses slid down to reveal a judgement filled gaze, a sliver of eyes and skin not hidden by the sun hat gracing her blonde head, as Narcissa tilted her head down to get a better look at her brother-in-law and almost first husband. “You’re early?” She sniffed, raising her chin up in even more judgement as she stole the glass from his hand. “I don’t know what I expected after you fled to host your little theatre games.” Without inviting her.

The sip was horrific and Narcissa had half the mind to spat the concoction out on the patio stone but ladies didn’t spit. Instead, she swallow the horrific citrus-y drink as her lip curled and slid the glass across the table and as far away from the pair of them as she could manage. “What was that? Poison?” Not willing to spend another moment with the foul taste on her tongue she removed her glasses, tucked one ankle behind the other, and glanced in the direction of one of the cabana boys. He came running.

“I’m not sure who in their right mind decided that–” A french tipped nail pointed to the offending drink. “–was an acceptable thing to serve but I’ll need their name. Immediately. Three fresh mimosas. Bring the bottle.” Her eyes slid over to Bash. “A black coffee.” When the pool boy didn’t scurry along to fix the grave error, Narcissa’s gaze shifted slowly. The effort of acknowledging a cabana boy who couldn’t even have the decency to unbutton his shirt quite taxing. She blinked and as if that simple action had broken the spell, the boy spun and left in a frenzy of flurried embarrassment.

Leaning over, she planted a kiss on Bash’s cheek and patted his face to see if some color could return to the sour disposition she adored. “You look terrible.”

@blanchexxprimpernelle​

@draconianmalfoy