A Few Days in March: Spring is on the Way

 

                         Early March Comfort Food: White Beans, Spinach, Tomatoes, Potatoes...and Some Sausage 
March 5^th

“Last week I was thinking about what games to buy; this week I’m thinking about arming myself.”

These were the words of a Ukrainian guy I heard interviewed on NPR. Talk about playing the last week at this time game…

Still, I’m playing with time and going back weeks, months, years. It seems like photos make time seem that much more tangible.

I don’t mind not being able to see what’s coming; divining the future was never one of my three wishes. (Though—I have to admit—my number one wish was always the greedy, ‘I want more wishes!’ wish!) Of course, I did always want to be like Bewitched, and touch my nose and make magic happen—or maybe more like I Dream of Jeannie (always liked the outfit),  so I could just cross my arms and nod my head to make some magic happen.

However, and maybe, I’ve matured a bit. Though I still have many wishes, these days, I speak my wishes aloud, with palms pressed together in front of my chest, while I’m standing on my favorite rock at Davenport Park, feeling the sun on my face, and facing the ever-inspirational water. These days, I wish for the health and wellbeing of my children and my loved ones. I wish for food and shelter and equity of treatment for all. And I wish for peace. These days, my wishes are more embracing of a larger picture.

Since it's cooler, I go back to making comfort foods.

            Red Lentil Sweet Potato Soup--with Spinach, Cilantro, and Toasted Coconut

March 12^th

It’s a rainy/snowy day. I’ve finished Educated, by Tara Westover, and have re-started Calypso, by David Sedaris. I’ve got Caste, by Isabel Wilkerson, The Beekeeper of Aleppo, by Christy Lefteri,   and am continuing We are Each Other’s Harvest, by Natalie Baszile.

My book pile is my treasure. The books are filled with ideas that will plant themselves in my head, and will be woven in between my own thoughts—will support the ideas and beliefs I have. They will make me laugh. They will make me cry. Most of all, they will make me think. I start, and then put them aside so that I can write. The words the spring forth—though inspired by the words I’ve read, expressions I yearn to adopt—sometimes I feel like they might not be mine, but my brain envelops them, embraces them all, and moves them into the realm of my own usage. They become mine.

Though I’m writing, I am distracted by my book pile. I stop writing, and look—due to force of habit—at my phone. I scroll through my messages. There are many I could/should erase.  I’ve kept a few from my aunt; she passed away last year. I can’t erase her messages. Yet.

I listen to her voice and a collage of tangled memories comes fourth—and though they delight me on one hand, they deeply sadden me. I haven’t been able to listen to my mother’s voice—recordings—since she passed away, now almost exactly 4 years ago. Wow. Four years.  I imagine speaking with her—I have so many questions that are known lying, suspended in air. Unanswered. I also think about what I’d like to update her with. 

March 13^th

The sun is out—the wind is biting, but the sun manages to wiggle its way onto my face and I hold it there. I’m walking/running—and watching others do the same.

I see a young man, walking near Viva Grande in New Rochelle, and talking on the phone. I can hear him speaking in Spanish—commenting on the weather, “A veces, sí—demasiado frío,” and I imagine he’s arrived, perhaps from Mexico—judging by his accent--not too long ago, and recounting bits of his job…and the weather.  The wind is whipping is straight black hair around, but he lets it go. I want to see whom he’s speaking with, and imagine his mother—and maybe others gathered around. He smiles at me—perhaps because he sees me watching his hair dance. I smile an hola back to him.

My thoughts drift. I think about other young—and older men— and women, in his same position: those who have left their country and family behind in search of opportunities.  

March 16

It’s back to spring. The children’s squeals at Trinity Elementary School are paralleled by the parrots’ squawks. I wonder if they notice each other.

The children are not wearing masks—only wait, some have them as a kind of chin strap. I imagine their moms saying, “Make sure you keep your mask on!”

That brings me to thoughts of my mom, who passed away almost exactly four years ago, in four days.

Now running, I'm at the bottom edge of Davenport Park. The water glistens in the sun. I climb atop my prayer rock, the large one that rests right over the Long Island Sound. I think of peace, stability, sanity, health—and all the people I want to send warm thoughts to. I close my eyes and let the sun rest on my face. I tell my parents I love and miss them.

I turn around,  and run up the hill back to the street. Running up the hill today seems easier, but still, it’s not easy.

Then I run back to Viva Grande, my market, where I’ll pick up some vegetables and more for dinner.

Comerse el Coco: A.K.A. Rumination

My Illustration of one of my Parrot Friends 

Their voices catch me by surprise—as do their green tails. I stop my running, pull out my earbuds, and look up into the tree to see and hear them. 

Well, this isn’t the first time I’ve seen the parrots of New Rochelle, here, next to Trinity school. But it’s winter, so I was not expecting them. I stand under the tree where they’ve gathered, and watch them as they dance above me. They're all feasting on the small buds that line the smaller and very thin twig-like branches.

It was then that I had my “Axolotl” moment (I refer to a wonderful short story by Argentine author, Julio Cortazar). In the story, the protagonist loses part of his own sense of self, and experiences a type of metamorphosis: he adopts the identity of the creatures he’s observing.

In my case, I knew I wasn’t actually becoming a parrot—despite my desire to join in, feast, and then fly with them. But I started to ponder: How do these parrots see me? Here I stand, a white female human with cream-colored knit hat, almost nest-like blonde meets brown curls of hair sneaking out underneath, a red down vest, black leggings and red rimmed socks poking up above my black running shoes. I wonder what they notice and if, in fact, they are observing me observing them.     

Looking up at this bevy of birds, thinking about their impression of me, reminded me of something else: a story about noticing, one that I’ve told my students over the years. 

My story starts several decades ago, when I was hired to do a training in a university in West Virginia. The school had been recently acquired by a Japanese company. At the time, I was working with predominantly Japanese students at Concordia College in New York, and had done some presentations about cultural differences in communication styles of English language learners from Japan. Hence, I was hired to travel to this university to work with their teachers for a couple of days. Little did I realize that I was more foreign to this group of instructors than their new Japanese students were. 

I remember I dressed in one of my standard NYC-type suits (we’re talking about the early 90s)—which was a simple black linen single breasted, shoulder-padded waist coat and a matching almost knee-length skirt. I wore ivory stockings, and black Mary Jane heels and a pair of longish Peruvian silver and lapis lazuli earrings that poked out from time to time between my dark brown curls. 

When I saw them, I noticed right away that they were all white, mostly quite a bit older than I was then, and more conservatively dressed. The women all looked like Aunt Bees to me (from Mayberry RFD), with grey or dyed sand-colored hair, piled up high. Maybe wearing pearls?  

One gentleman, who looked a bit different from the rest of the crowd, sat in the front row. He was wearing a white mock-turtleneck shirt, and a navy-blue corduroy jacket with suede patches on the elbows. His hair was straight and sandy blonde and long, and pulled back into a tight and long ponytail. 

“Aha,” I thought, “here is my ally.” 

But I was dead wrong. 

I told the teachers, as part of my spiel, that their new students might not be as voluntarily vocal as some of their others. In fact, I continued, they should of course encourage all of their participation, but then call on individual students to speak up. Additionally, these students might not answer as quickly as we might like. To this end I advised, when asking questions of their English language learners from Japan, teachers should wait a bit longer for a response.   

My “ally” in the front row leaned back, and spoke up: 

“What do you mean, wait longer? What are you saying? Is five minutes long enough?” His rapid fire questions were shot off  in a sarcastic-meets-accusatory tone. 

I tried to rapidly recover from the sting. 

“Let me clarify,” I began. “It’s that many of your students may not have had the chance to practice their spoken English, and they will be concerned about formulating the correct answers prior to saying them aloud.” 

I went on to explain that English classes in Japan generally—especially at that time—didn’t focus on speaking skills, but  instead primarily on grammar and writing. 

I didn’t look directly at him, but scanned the audience. The group nodded in what appeared to be understanding. However, according to my memory, that man in the front row with the ponytail and corduroy jacket unthankfully grimaced. 

The rest of that workshop is blurry to me. But I do remember vividly that later, at break time, as we gathered next to the large coffee pot, sipping from white Styrofoam cups and eating delicious homemade peanut butter cookies, the Aunt Bees graciously thanked me, and apologized for their colleague’s behavior.

That was when I became aware of two things: I was judging them all based on my personal collection of preconceived notions and, well, they were doing the same thing. 

So, what does this have to do with “comerse el coco?” Well, that expression means—literally—to eat your head; to ponder many things at once, and have these thoughts crashing around with jagged edges. Rumination.  I think we all do this—especially these days, when so much is going on immediately around us both locally and globally. This pondering is not necessarily a bad thing. But it’s a thing. 

I’m back to the present. I’m still under the tree. Suddenly, I feel something lightly tap my head, and think, “Wow! Bird droppings! This could mean good luck.”

I take off my hat to examine, and immediately discover that it’s a small twig. 

Still, I feel lucky.

 

Back to the Blog--And Looking Ahead

 

Sunday Pre-Dinner Assortment

It’s never just the flavors—it’s not even just the food. It is a combination of colors, textures, aromas and tastes. This is what I like to give to my family and friends. This is what reaches my soul. This is what brings me back to this blog. 

Last night’s sunset cloud dance (pictured below) inspired. It fed me some ideas.

  

And now, today, it’s December 15: ten days before Christmas, 15 days before my birthday, and 17 days before January 1—the typical resolution-start day.

Yet my soul brings me right here, and right now.

Actually, it’s not so much resolutions; it’s more of a plan of action. So, here we go with my top ten:  

1)2)      1) Read more. This year I’ve slowed down with my reading. Of course, I read every day, but not the novels and short stories like I used to. It’s time for this, too. 

2) Write more. I've left this blog aside for a year+. It's time.  I’m working on several writing projects, but I want to get back to making this one--my solo venture--more of a disciplined effort. As part of that, I looked into my own time management system—my way of brainstorming and pre-writing.

3)     Cook more. Well, actually, I do cook a lot—but I want to cook differently. I want to keep the favorites, but start exploring different combinations of spices, ingredients, and flavors. 

4)      Dance more. This wasn’t as easy to do during these past two years, at least not outside my home, but I’m bringing it back now.

5)      Watch and listen more. Here I’m specifically referring to plays and live music. Have to say, I’ve already started this one, and it’s delightful. I’m continually blown away by the talent that surrounds us. Watching performers is an emotional experience because it dives into you and pulls out feelings--while delighting your senses. It's evocative.  It’s living life within life—and allows us the privilege  of seeing from different angles.

6)      Observe more. There’s so much going on around us all the time. I want to take a step back and look at the details. At the risk of being cliché, I want to respect a  mindfulness of the eyes. This means slowing down and taking in: appreciating a child’s smile, someone’s wave as I pass, a sunset, the sight of people greeting each other. Life moments.

7)      Express more. Sometimes I hold things in my throat, instead of saying them. I don’t want to—as my dad used to say—look back and exclaim, “Woulda, shoulda, coulda” about anything, but especially about expressing certain sentiments. Now, I’m talking about the positive things. Negative ones I will keep a lid on—for as long as my current filter allows. But I want to be clearer with my loved ones. I want them to know that I love them, now and always.

8)      Create more. If something speaks to me, either evokes some kind of inspiration to bring out my colorful markers, I won’t wait, as I once did. I have my pens and my pads. It’s time to translate visions in my mind through my fingers and onto paper.  

9)      Savor more. So many moments pass so quickly. I want to stop and savor—literally and figuratively. I want to listen more. Savoring is the recognition that right now, this very moment, is the moment.  

10)   Celebrate more. Yes—there’s a lot NOT to celebrate, but there’s also much to recognize and relish. I want to focus on that without, as I’ve said before, putting my head in the sand. I’m not ignoring the negative—and do want to work and support those who work to make things better all around. But I also want to recognize the positive. I want to celebrate what we can, when we can. That’s my plan.

Like many of us who have children that are now grown, I miss their early days. They were magical. Today I found this photo of my mom and me. It is clearly a moment of celebration of surroundings--wishes, and joy. 

I wish this kind of magic for all of us--for all of our souls. 

Ode to Sonia O. A.K.A. Mi Mamá

My Mod Mom--Many Moons Ago in Italy

“What do you notice about the line of my shoulders versus the line of my hips?” My mom asks me as she stands before me in her studio. Her hand, purposefully placed on her right raised hip is that much more pronounced due to her lowered right shoulder. Her head, in true model fashion, is slightly titled to the right. Thick dark and perfectly arched eyebrows accentuate her almond-shaped eyes above her light brown flawless skin and high cheekbones. Her straight dark brown hair is cropped carefully and closely to her head.  Her deep chocolate eyes focus fully on me. She’s exaggerating her stance as she poses in front of me. She wants me to see her with an artist’s eye. 

My sketchbook lies open on my lap and my charcoal pencil is in my right hand. I’m sitting up straight on her royal blue covered couch, observing her observing me—eyes peering into mine—as she models. Her easel and stool are behind her, as is the red French Roast coffee tin filled with different-sized paintbrushes, and the adjacent palette dotted with small piles of shiny colors. The smell of fresh oil paint breathes towards me as does the warm light from the skylight above.

“The lines of your shoulders and your hips are slanting in opposite ways?” I say—with a question in my voice to cover myself in case I’m incorrect.

“Exactly!” her Audrey Hepburn smile lights up her face and I bask in her approval. She maintains her stance.

“Now sketch me,” she commands. I know she means for me to pay attention to her position and figure, and not the details of her outfit:  black and white thinly striped turtleneck cotton and high waisted capris black pants, tapered at her skinny waste, as well as toward her thin, sockless ankles that lead into ped-cushioned feet, and her loafers.

I was probably nine years old. This was one of many art lessons she gave me. I’m sure I resisted at times.  But I tried to keep my complaints to myself, especially when she recounted how the only way to get good at anything was to keep at it—and never give up.

This class was probably given just before she put me into African dance classes with Mr. Ashangi. When I started those classes I did complain--about being the only white girl, about the other girls who wondered why I was with them—and Mr. Ashangi, who made fun of me and told me that as a white girl, I couldn’t possibly have rhythm.

In response to my whining about the class, Mom told me that I needed to work that much harder so that I could get rhythm, and that this class would be a good lesson for me.  “Now,” she claimed, “you’ll understand what it feels like to not be in a majority!”  

As for my mom, she didn’t appear to have ever struggled with rhythm. In fact, she seemed to have been born a natural dancer—as well as someone possessed by so many other attributes. We have home movies of her, from the 40s, dancing on the roof of her Brooklyn apartment. In the films, she’s about 11 years old, and imitating Carmen Miranda while being coached and coaxed by her parents.  She looks sun kissed and happy.

Mom kept her love of the sun, dance, and smiles her whole life.

As a young teen, my Brighton-Beach-Brooklyn-born-and-raised mother worked to lose her native accent. She won the argument to go to Cooper Union to study art instead of being sent to secretarial school. She worked in advertising, television, as an illustrator, a children’s book illustrator—and author, teacher and more. She often told me tales of being the first female art director, at age 23, at Young & Rubicam, and how she had to repeatedly prove herself in order to “hang out with the boys.” Apparently, she did.

Mom and Dad in the 1960s In NYC

M & D in the 1980s in North Brookfield, Massachusetts

Hostess and cook extraordinaire, those that knew my mom extol her virtues as an entertainer, as well as a quick-witted extrovert. Clever and creative are just two of the many wonderful qualities she had. Controversial could be added to that list.

Four Generations: Sonia, Sofia, Arlen, Grandma Sophie, in the 1990s, Larchmont, NY

Recently, a dear friend suggested I write a book about her. Mom was, after all, a fascinating trailblazer in many ways. I told my friend about her many accomplishments, as well as a bit about her being quite controversial, both amongst her five children (from three marriages) and their significant others, and grandchildren, as well as friends, and colleagues. He immediately retorted: “That makes the story that much more interesting.”

Well, perhaps I will dive into that in the future.

Today I glance around my home at her numerous paintings, sculptures, furniture designs, photos, and books;  memories of her and my dad’s parties, her taking me to so many museums, shows, and movies, her sharing of  books, tales, travels, and more come into my mind. It’s a bittersweet wave that runs through me as I write about her. I feel lucky, and hope I told her that before she passed away two years ago.

Three of Mom's Children's Books 

However, dear family and friends, my objective is here is not to be sad; on the contrary, I want to celebrate her life today. Today, after all, is Mother’s Day. And so, it’s a pleasure to share Sonia’s Blueberry Pie with you. Both of my children, Sofia and Wes, not only love this pie, but also have made it for their friends on occasion.

In conclusion, to all of you—mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, children, I hope you enjoy this treat as much as we have, and do.

Blueberry Pie and Flowers 

Sonia’s Open-faced Blueberry Pie

Makes one 9-inch pie

Graham Cracker-Nut Crust:

1 1/2  cups graham cracker crumbs (you can buy them as crumbs, or crush 1 ½ packages   in a food processor)

1/2 cups pecans (I prefer) or walnuts, toasted pulverized (in a food processor) or finely chopped

1 tablespoon raw brown sugar

1/4  teaspoon ground cinnamon

4 tablespoons butter cut into ½-inch bits

Preheat the oven to 375ºF. Combine the ingredients in a food processor and process until it becomes just about smooth. Press into a buttered 9-inch pie pan. Bake until lightly toasted, 8 to 10 minutes. Let cool

For the filling:

3 cups fresh blueberries (you can add blackberries, too!)

3/4 cup blueberry jam or preserves (can be a blueberry and blackberry mixture)

1/4 teaspoon minced fresh lemon rind

1 pinch nutmeg

1 pinch cinnamon

In a medium saucepan, combine ½ of the fresh blueberries (about 1 ½ cups) with the blueberry jam or preserves. Add the lemon rind, nutmeg, and cinnamon, and cook, over medium heat, until warmed through, about five minutes.

Scrape into the cooled pie crust. Top with remaining blueberries, serve, and enjoy! 

Inspiration from Meals, Music, and Muses: Alexander Smalls' Latest Cookbook

Not quite sure what day of the quarantine we're in, but I do know one thing: it’s time!

What is it time for?

It’s time to put the pedal to the metal, so to speak, and get back to what I started many moons ago. And so, my friends, I’m going back to one of my true loves: food writing.

To “re-inaugurate” this blog after a two-plus year hiatus, I turn to a chef, author, restaurateur, singer, dear friend/mentor whom I admire tremendously: Mr. Alexander Smalls.

With Alexander Smalls, a Few Years Ago

Now, Alexander and I met about 15 years ago, when my agent at the time thought we would not only get along well together, but that we could also collaborate on a book project. At that time, he had already published Grace the Table (which is available via Amazon and other outlets).

Well, the book Alexander and I worked on together didn’t get published, BUT others have been—and continue to be—and we are still very much connected.

Which brings me to this blog.

Alexander—in the past two years—has written and published two wonderful books (pictured below): Between Harlem and Heaven, and Meals, Music and Muses: Recipes from My African American Kitchen.

It’s Meals, Music and Muses from My African American Kitchen, published this year,  that pushed me into my Easter Sunday menu. And that, my friends, is exactly what I’m sharing with you here!

Two of Alexander's Books, with Post-Its Marking my Yet-to-Make Dishes 

As for the recipes in his book, I encourage you to buy it. Actually, you should buy both of his recently-published books to read, keep in your library, and gain inspiration from. After all, if you are lucky enough to be home, healthy, and with loved ones or neighbors who would benefit from your cooking, now is the time to cook—and share.

Speaking of sharing, some of you may recall advice I shared a while ago: when creating a new menu for family/friends, it’s a good idea to incorporate one ol’ favorite along with the new dishes. The old favorite I incorporated are the Brazilian cheese puffs, a.k.a. pão de queijo. Now—as I've also told many of you—recipes evolve and adapt depending on availability of ingredients and on what you like—or dislike, not to mention whose at the table with you. So this recipe for Brazilian cheese puffs, since first published in my cookbook Mambo Mixers,  has gone through some changes. Here, below, I send you my latest version. But first, check out the photos from our Smalls'-inspired dinner:

Our Easter Table

Icebox Lemon Pie = dreamy...

Here’s the menu (Note: All are from Meals, Music and Muses--except for the Cheese Puffs!):

·         Brazilian Cheese Puffs 

·         Deviled Eggs

·         Carolina Hoppin’ John (Rice and Peas)

·         Carolina Cabbage Slaw with Roasted Sweet Corn

·         Barbecue Ribs with Bourbon Praline Sauce

  Icebox Lemon Pie

And, with this menu, and encouragement to explore, I sign off. In the meantime, I urge you to make the additions suggested to your cookbook library—
and to play with your food!

Warmest regards,
Arlen

Here's the Cheese Puff recipe: 

    Brazilian Cheese Puffs
(Adapted from Mambo Mixers,©2005, Arlen Gargagliano)

Makes about 6 dozen small cheese puffs

• 1/2 cup canola oil
• 1/3 cup water
• 1/3 cup milk
• 1 3/4 cups tapioca starch (doce) or manioc flour (available in large grocery stores and Latin markets)
• 1/4 cup tapioca starch (azedo)
• 2 eggs, lightly beaten
• 2 cups freshly grated Sardo (Argentine parmesan), your favorite parmesan, or Pecorino Romano cheese
• 1/2 cup shredded mozzarella cheese

Preheat the oven to 375ºF. In a medium saucepan, combine the oil, water, and milk and bring to a boil. Meanwhile, pour the starches into a large bowl. When the liquid has boiled, add it to the starch and mix well. Let it rest for about 15 minutes. Then stir in the eggs and the cheeses and mix until well blended.

Form into medium size balls, about the circumference of a half dollar. (At this point you can refrigerate them up to three days in advance.) Just before your guests arrive, place them an inch apart on parchment paper covered sheet pans. Bake in the top rack of the oven, until they start to brown (about 15 minutes). Then flip them so that they brown on both sides. Let them cook for another three to five minutes. Serve immediately--with caution because they will be hot! Keep remaining (if you have any left!) cheese puffs in an airtight container for up to 5 days. Reheat, wrapped in a paper towel, for about 15 seconds in the microwave.

El Cubanito: The Cuban Bloody Mary

“Just keep writing, sweetheart.”

This phrase was repeated throughout my life, but especially during the last few years, when I enjoyed the privilege of spending a lot of time with my dad. Now, after a bit more than half a year, I return to the site that chronicled our last trip together just two weeks before he passed away. Because it was an honor flight honoring fellow WWII veterans, as well as Korean Vets, Memorial Day seems like the perfect time for remembrance and honor.   

Another favorite saying of my dad’s was, “Food is love!” And those of you who knew Tony, recognize that this sentiment was behind the driving force of our many dinners and fiestas. 

Yes, food is hugely important, but, as I've often done, I’m bringing cocktails into that mix! So here, mis amigos, is my first 2017 blog, written in honor of my dad, Anthony Gargagliano, who also urged me to travel, travel, travel...

  

The place: Havana, Cuba

The time: April 2017

The cocktail: The Cubanito, or the Cuban Bloody Mary

Maybe it’s because O’Reilly 304 shares its name with its street address—like my ol’ Mambo 64. Or maybe it’s because wandering around Old Havana makes one thirsty. But whatever the case, I found myself, after spending the day at nearby Santa Maria beach, wanting to explore something beyond mojitos and daiquiris. O’Reilly 304 fue perfecto!  

First of all, Havana Vieja had me delighted even before I set foot there; O’Reilly 304 was no different. The encantador (charming) staff and ambiente—despite the Tony Soprano reading a newspaper painting above the bar—reminded me of why I loved Havana.

After a brief discussion with the bartender,  and a “tour” of the bar menu, I opted for a Cubanito, which is a kind of Cuban Bloody Mary.  If you’re a fan of this ideal brunch drink (and hangover cure), I encourage you to try its Mexican cousins (click on the names to get to the recipes!)  the Bloody María,  a which I wrote about for LoHud a few years ago, as well as Sangrita, which I also wrote about for LoHud! Please know that if you or family members don't imbibe, you can always keep out the rum. 

So, here, my friends,  below the pictures, is the Cuban version of this brunch classic!  

I hope you’ll enjoy it—and please do let me know.

 

Bartender Encantador Starting the Cubanito.  (My dad's tocayo   relaxing behind him!)

He lights rosemary--for fragrance, and his special touch! 

El Cubanito--ready to be sipped! 

El Cubanito—Cuban Bloody Mary

This is my simple home-adapted variation of the Cubanito I tried at O’Reilly 304, pictured here! 

Serves 1

Lime segment  (for rimming), plus a lime cut into  quarters

Coarse salt for rimming, and also to taste

1/2 cup ice

1/2  ounces light rum (Havana Club Añejo 3)

5 ounces tomato juice

1 teaspoon  Worcestershire sauce

1 dash hot sauce, or to taste and/or fresh-diced jalapeño (Have fun with your spice! You can add a variety here--)

Parsley leaves, plus additional for garnish (optional) 

Pickled jalapeño, for garnish (optional) 

Tomato slice for garnish (optional) 

Rosemary, for garnish (optional)

Rim your glass--or jar as done in the picture--with a lime, and roll into salt to coat. 

Muddle your limes in the bottom of the glass. Add the ice, rum, tomato juice, Worcestershire sauce, and  hot sauce (or jalapeño). 

Add your garnishes, and a colorful straw (to stir with, too!), taste, adjust, and serve.