I am on the telephone when Overlord the Firstborn tosses me a new assignment. Also, a pair of basketball shorts that may or may not be clean.
"Can you smell these and tell me whether they're acceptable?" he says. "My nose is stuffed up."
I would like to be able to tell you that I let them hit the floor and set him straight with a look that was glacial, frigid, bone-chilling, arctic cold - like the perfect martini described in Nannette Stone's Little Black Book of Martinis. Like one of those 1950s television dads whose wife was in the kitchen mixing him a perfect martini.
But of course, I caught them, sniffed them, approved them and tossed them back with the reflexes of a woman whose martini aspirations run closer to good enough.
from the martini archives: There will be Peeps