Flight of the Kumquats

There's loving someone, and then there's loving someone. You know that it's the purest kind, the loving-est kind, when you miss them if they're in the shower, or when they're asleep, or when they run out to get the mail. Not like creepy-stalker kind of missing, but the I-don't-want-to-be-away-from-you-for-a-second-because-you're-so-amazing kind of missing. That kind.

I was on a little trip last week to Los Angeles (you know, that sunny, hip place sometimes called L.A.), visiting my brother. Now he is a person I love. I wanted to power us into staying awake all night so that we could keep being together. I wanted him to stay dirty so that we could maximize our time. Thankfully, though, I was with him every time he checked the mail. We did end up doing lots of things during my short time there, and we certainly exhausted ourselves exploring the many hamburgers of that fair city, but mainly we discussed really important matters, like why things are the way they are, and what we can do about it. 

One of the most amazing things about Los Angeles is the vast array of citrus trees. They're everywhere, like long-haired surfer kids and those tight-jeaned bicyclists without helmets. But unlike the kids and the bikers, citrus trees are endlessly useful, and so lush, and such carriers of hope. I think, first of all, there are few things that make me feel as giddy and joyous as a citrus tree. Maybe it's because I'll never see them here in this barren Midwestern land of frigid pain, or maybe it's because the fruit is so bright and strong (and useful!). Either way, they're lovely, and especially lovely is the kumquat tree in my brother's yard. Okay, well, it's not his tree, it's a tree that lives in his neighbor's yard and hangs its branches over into his yard, dripping beautiful kumquat branches onto his side of the fence.

I admired the kumquats for days, and all that admiring eventually paid off: it got me five kumquats to take home in my purse on the last day of my trip. The kumquats were pretty good at traveling, but most of them got a little juicy and wounded as my bag was kicked around on the airplane floor for four hours. When I arrived home with my kumquats, I remembered that I don't even like to eat kumquats, which is sort of funny, but not uncommon for me (I tend to fall in love with the idea of a thing before I love the actual thing -- eggplants, for example, are beautiful to me, but I don't really love to eat them). But! I did have an idea. Precious fruit shall not go to waste! Especially these precious fruits that traveled all 1,739.76 miles just to be with me in Chicago. And I say, when life hands you kumquats, make a cocktail. I mean, that is the best solution, right?

So, the drink featured kumquats, but also had in it mint, agave syrup, vodka, bitters, and seltzer water. It was a nice cocktail -- smooth but excitable, although a sort of potent cocktail to have on a school night, I've discovered. I drank it and felt summery, although there were merely 45 degrees lurking outside, and I tried to remember all the reasons I live in Chicago, rather than somewhere sensibly warm, like California. I counted at least four reasons that I live here, and then concluded that would have to be enough. Since then, I have thought of one more reason, which is, of course, that my cocktail shaker lives here. I mean, I don't exactly miss it when I'm asleep or anything, but, well, it keeps me from steering myself off this cold cliff, this un-warm, odd-temperatured, citrus-starved land of no-brother access. It keeps me remembering, and memories, you know, were invented to hold love. You know, love love. The best kind.