Somewhere in the dark, dank depths of the Chudoy Monastery cemetery in Moscow, the Monk Isidore (who legend tells first produced vodka in Russia) is rolling in his grave. And I am scrunching my patrician Roman nose (the irony: my people were peasants) in disdain.
Flavored Vodka. The new bane of my existence.
I consider myself a vodka connoisseur. I enjoy its smooth colorless crispness. We’ve had a long standing love affair that I have only deviated from during my pregnancies. I enjoy vodka on the rocks, in a 007 (club soda and orange juice) in a dirty martini, and with those sparkling waters they sell at Giant 10 for $10. I will defend Raspberri (2004), Mandrin (1999), or Peppar (1986) vodka. Those are Absolut classics that have bucked the trend and will stand the test of time. And, I am known to enjoy them with my Sprite Zero. It’s these new rootie tootie fresh and fruity 60 proof sugar infused garbage that needs to be tossed to the curb. Bubble Gum Vodka? Cola Vodka? Whipped Cream Vodka? Ice Tea Vodka? Sacriledge!
In life, some things just shouldn’t be messed with: A front lawn covered in newly fallen snow, Kitcho Sushi dressing and vodka. Just let it be.