Emma's party (for one)

Yo internet.

I know many of you only make it through the sad twilight of the weekend that is Sunday evening thanks to my superlative baking, so let's kick this Martha Stewart-athon off with a biscuit. This 'Mondrian drops a fistful of E ' abstract is the work of Señor Fingers. We were supposed to be keeping it 'for ever' but ate it this afternoon. It tasted mainly of stale sprinkle and goat. We've had another goat-filled weekend. The goat fun never stops in Belgium, no indeed.

Moving swiftly on, I had great ideas of an amusing cocktail making session, using the CFO's parents' 1976 cocktail shaker, but enthusiasm levels from my usually game co-tester were set to 'relentless negativity' last night. There was mention of 'quiet' and 'a nice glass of wine'. I did not, however, allow this to deter me. I shall become the Belgian Amy Sedaris through the sheer force of my baleful will. Yes. I shall.

So, the context is that the CFO's parents have gifted us this ancient cocktail shaker (not actual, vintage ancient. Just peeling rusting lid, pyrex cheaptastic Carrefour freebie) and we recently noticed that the cocktail recipes on the side are, frankly, terrifying.

Photos will be even worse than usual. I was having technical difficulties. So here is the shaker, showcasing the 'Sidecar', on its, er, side.

"This one [the Manhattan] has NO mixers at all!" said the CFO with respectful awe, holding it up between finger and thumb.

"Unless you consider Vermouth a soft drink"

We weren't actually able to do that one, due to the corner shop not having Bourbon. But! We did the others! I don't know why I'm saying 'we'. I did them; the CFO drank wine and sat on the sofa looking disapproving. But it seems profoundly sad to think of me on my own in the kitchen making cocktails, so let's say I made them with my imaginary friends. Goodness we have fun.

First, assemble your ingredients:

No. The eggs are no accident.

Now start mixing!

1. The 'Apple Jack' (4 Calvados: 4 Pear liqueur, : 1 Lemon juice: 1 grenadine)

We swapped the pear liqueur for pear vodka. It didn't help much. Look:

Note that our tester appears to be suffering from hairy hands syndrome à la Father Jack. I am looking for a place for him in the home for bad hairy priests. Juxtaposes nicely with dinky Shinzi Katoh glass, no?

Our verdict: Tart doesn't quite cover it. It has an acidulated Haribo nose, but launches a vicious, toilet cleaner attack on your throat. "It's treacherous" says the CFO "It looks like a girl's drink but it's vicious".

Next!

2. The Sidecar ( 2 Cognac: 2 Cointreau: 1 lemon juice)

The role of Cointreau is being played here by Triple Sec. Is it even glancingly similar? Who knows. Voilà:

Yes. It is sideways. But also, it is a Sidecar! It could be deliberate?

Note the pleasing 'bile' colour. Our tester is giving it the sideways thumbs up, but it might be ironic. I have no tasting notes on this one. It was nasty, clearly. But at least the lemon juice contains some semblance of nutritional value. Why did all these cocktails contain lemon juice? Maybe the shaker was free with a bag of lemons?

3. Gin fizz (4 gin: 1 lemon juice: I tsp sugar: sparkling water to taste)

You're kind of expecting this by now, but I had no sparkling water, it transpired. So I used tap. There goes the fizz. Oops. Maybe someone could think of another name for it?

But, this was NICE. Really really nice - a sort of invalid's cocktail. I would drink this again. Well, not if I had to do it myself, or before I turn 80. But a definite winner.

4. Porto Flip - this is the one that totally inspired me to do this ridiculous excuse for a project. Half and half Port and Cognac : AND AN EGG YOLK. Mmm! It's a meal in a glass! And doesn't it look pretty? Look at the lovely bit at the bottom!

The photo has been, ahem, 'flipped'. Sorry.

The CFO thought this wasn't quite as bad as he was expecting. I could only swallow it if I closed my eyes, because that yellow, separated dreglike residue was just soooo DELICIOUS. Yes, that's definitely the word I was looking for. That ectoplasm is chasing me through my dreams.

So. There you have it. I could have been reading Proust, but instead I chose to display my dirty fingernails on the internet for your gratification and prompt you to ponder whether I actually live in an underground car park, because why is everything so damn dark. Was it worth it? I don't know, really I don't, but I have a dark suspicion. Now where did those maraschino cherries go?