Here’s a Mai Tai Salute to You, Ma!

Many people view the start of summer as the time to rev up the frozen margarita machine. For me, it’s Mai Tai season. Actually, Mai Tai season for me starts on Mother’s Day. It was my mother’s favorite drink, and whenever I daintily sip the luscious nectar (tossing one back is not allowed) I remember her laughter as we dined at Kon Tiki Ports or Trader Vic’s in downtown Chicago. That was one of the good times.

My mother was a complex woman, and, as such, we had a complex relationship. Moody hardly begins to describe her. It is possible she was bipolar, but I simply thought of her as unpredictable. When I was in middle school, I read a short story called “The Lady or the Tiger” by Frank Stockton. At the end of the story, the hero is faced with a choice between two doors. Behind one is a beautiful woman he would get to marry. Behind the other is a ravenous tiger. I always felt like I was facing that choice when I came home from school. Would I get the angry mom slamming kitchen cabinets as she swore to high heaven, or would I get the happy mom who wanted to go to Marshall Field’s and buy out the store? It was a bit of a crapshoot.

Most people who met my mother thought she was the most energetic, exuberant person they had ever met. And that was probably true. But they didn’t see the depressed side of her, and they never understood why I wasn’t as thrilled with her boisterous approach to life. I knew what they didn’t. That the happy times could evaporate in the blink of an eye, and she would shut herself off from the world.

For a long time, I focused on the bad times. The angry outbursts, the guilt trips. But now, well, now I’m older and I survived all that. My husband and I are both retired and so far are still speaking. Our three sons are grown, none of them live at home, and none have ever asked me for bail money. We’re all good here. I find myself wondering if my children view me as flawed as I did my mother. I want them to understand I did my best and hope they forgive me for any trauma I may have inadvertently caused.

Now, I want to view my mother through this new lens of wise older me, not the child me. I want to provide my mother with that same sense of acceptance and gratitude for raising me as well as she could. So I will focus on the happy times. For example, instead of griping that my mother was a poor cook, I can be happy that meant we would eat at restaurants more often than other families.

My mother loved to go out to eat. Honestly, we all loved to go out to eat because Ma did not like to cook, and it showed. My mother never met a cut of beef she could not bake into submission. I was fifteen years old before I knew beef was red in its uncooked state. I only ever saw it in one of two forms: wrapped in aluminum foil sitting on the kitchen counter to defrost or sitting formidably on my plate with all the appeal of a lump of charcoal. Over time, Ma limited home cooking to Sunday through Wednesday. Overdone beef with bland mashed potatoes and canned peas on Sunday, spaghetti with jar sauce on Monday, charburgers (heavy on the char) with potato chips and green beans on Tuesday, and dry roasted chicken with carrots and more potatoes on Wednesday. Thursday was pay day, so she ordered pizza. Fridays were reserved for the bar, where we all had fish and chips to stay true to our Catholic teachings. Saturdays featured Chinese, which in the conformity-based Sixties counted as exotic food.

To be fair, Ma did have a few skills in the kitchen. Her corned beef was excellent, and Thanksgiving was delicious, even if the risk of salmonella was high from the turkey defrosting in the basement laundry tub for two days.

Some Sundays we got a reprieve from the charcoal bonanza. Most of the restaurants we went to featured lots of mashed potatoes, gravy and beef that didn’t need a chisel to cut. Even better was an Italian restaurant. Fresh bread and lasagna remains one of my dearest comfort foods. We even had a chance at a dessert that didn’t have the name Hostess on it. Not that there was anything wrong with Hostess, but a fresh piece of apple pie with ice cream was a welcome change.

My father didn’t like to join us on these adventures. As a tradesman, he often entered buildings through the restaurants’ kitchens, and he had a dim view of their hygienic practices. He had no objections to the rest of us risking intestinal distress. I suspect it because he could sit at home and wash down sardines on crackers with beer without any comments from the peanut gallery, as he called us.

Without doubt, my favorite restaurants were the exotic ones. The ones with the fancy umbrellas in the drinks, with dishes I couldn’t pronounce, with spices other than salt and pepper.

Kon Tiki Ports was one of my absolute faves. It involved a trip on the Illinois Central train, always exciting, and a leisurely walk up Michigan Avenue, studying the storefronts. We only went on days that Ma was in a good mood, so she talked and laughed all the way. Once there, the waiters and even nearby patrons were all entranced by her spontaneous exuberance, too. I don’t recall any of the conversations, just the feeling that the world was a wonderful place to be.

I wasn’t old enough to drink, but my mother would sneak me a sip of hers, usually but not always a Mai Tai. Sometimes, she had a basic Old Fashioned. I always felt so grown up and sophisticated.

My mother died unexpectedly when I was 19. Nothing prepares you for that. Her memory pops up at the oddest times. Whenever I order a steak medium rare, for example. Or looking at my face in the mirror. But having a Mai Tai on a hot day is the best memory.

It’s hard to find a good Mai Tai bartender these days. Many of the tiki drinks are viewed as too ancient to be worthy of attention. Many bartenders guess at the ingredients. As long as it has pineapple juice, they think it’ll pass. Many of these concoctions taste good, but they are not Mai Tais. One time in downtown Detroit, the bartender just mixed a whole lotta spirits together, including gin, and called it a Mai Tai. Bottoms up! It only cost five bucks, so I drank it but it was not a Mai Tai.

So in honor of Ma, I have developed my own Mai Tai recipe. It may not be the right one for everybody, but it is the closest I can come to the memory of those exotic tastes.

Trish’s Mai Tai

1.5 oz light rum

0.75 oz dark rum

.5 oz orange curacao

.5 oz orgeat syrup or Amaretto

1 oz orange juice

1 oz pineapple juice

5 drops lime juice (can be more, but I have sensitivity to lime juice and have to be careful)

Fill shaker with ice. Put all ingredients in shaker and shake well. Strain into cocktail glass or Tom Collins glass filled with ice. Garnish with orange and cherries. The little umbrella is technically optional, but I wouldn’t recommend drinking one without it.