Over the weekend, this seemingly sane and lovely woman made a batch of pink panty pulldown punch, using a recipe that I'd published in January 2010. It was, in fact, the first piece I published under the pen name 'Jolie Kerr' (Jolie is mine — well, Jolie is a nickname of my Christian name — but Kerr is not. Now you know that!)
It seems like a good time to revisit the recipe, which I think still holds up! It's sort of charming to see how derivative it is — I'm sure most writers would be embarrassed of their early pieces that so clearly ape the style of another, but I find it kind of sweet to remember a time when I admired the editors I wrote for to the extent I wanted to sound like them. (That sounded ... twattier than I meant it to. And also exactly as twatty as I meant it to.)
Okay! Right, here's the recipe.
Half Baked, with Jolie Kerr: The Real Recipe for Pink Panty Pulldown Punch
With Valentine's Day nearly upon us, you may be looking for a lovely pink drink to serve your beloved.
This is not that drink.
This is the drink you make when you want to get your beloved utterly blotto on Valentine's Day (ANAL). But let's be honest, shall we? You won't be serving this to your paramour, you unlovable piece of shit, you'll be making it for the sad, sad SINGLE AND READY TO MINGLE party you're desperately trying to convince yourself is exactly-EXACTLY! I'D HAVE IT NO OTHER WAY! ME? I'M SOOOOO GLAD I'M SINGLE!-how you want to be celebrating Valentine's Day.
It's fine! I'm not judging! (I'm judging.)
The first thing you're gonna do is get a bag of ice. Yes, you need to actually BUY A BAG OF ICE. I know, the horror. You'll get over it. Now take your bag of ice and drop it on the floor. Pick it up. Drop it again. Pick it up. Drop it again. Keep doing that until your bag of ice can no longer menace the Titanic, and then dump the whole thing into a plastic bucket.
(Wait, sorry what? Your floors? Oh honey. If you're worrying about your floors? You should not be serving this punch in your home.)
Okay, where were we? Yes, right-the plastic bucket. Now listen, if you're gonna try to talk to me about some sort of "punch bowl" bullshit you can just get out of here right now. One does not serve Pinky Panty Pulldown Punch in a lovely bowl. One serves it from a plastic bin. You know where you buy plastic bins? The hardware store. (Pick up some spackle while you're there; you'll need it tomorrow. Trust.)
Into your bucket goes your ice. Over your ice goes two handles of vodka, and listen closely because this is important, you're to use the cheap stuff. Like, the stuff that comes in the plastic bottles and costs ten bucks. Don't challenge me on this, okay? It's my damn recipe. If you're trying to make this punch with Grey Goose you've probably also ignored my wishes and you have your ancestral silver punch bowl out and you know what? You're an uptight pussy who never gets laid and likely suffers from a surgical-grade case of hemorrhoids.
Then you're gonna add your beer. Yes, beer. Beer and vodka, right. Yeah, there's beer in the punch. (Three times is the precise number of times you'll need to repeat "there is beer in the punch" in order for people to understand you.) How much beer? A 12-pack or so. If you drink one or two along the way no worries! And actually? 12 beers is a bit much, so toss in 9 or 10 of 'em and call it even. I'm really hoping at this stage in the game you're not even going to ask me what kind of beer to use, but in case that's what you're planning to do here's the answer, sport: THE FUCKING CHEAP SHIT. Jesus. Do I have to explain everything to you?
Next you're going to add a 2 liter bottle of ginger ale. The type matters not. It's just ginger ale.
You still with me? Okay! The last step is super, super important. Dump in about half a large container of powdered pink lemonade mix and stir the whole mess together using a wiffle ball bat. Why a wiffle ball bat? Because it's my world, and you're just living in it. (If your name is Katie Baker-Bakes or if you're wearing fleece as you read this, you can substitute a lax stick. Totes acceptable.)
While you're stirring-and it'll get frothy what with all that carbonation so don't get too aggro with your stirage, right?-you'll need to bless the punch in some way. If you're a smart, you'll chant "double, double toil and trouble." If you're a cool, you'll rap, "I did it like this, I did it like that, I did it with a wiffle ball bat soooooo…."
I am neither of those things so I usually just flash my tits and scream "GOD BLESS, THE PUNCH IS READY!"
AND NOW IT IS TIME TO DRINK. And drink you will! Because this stuff? Tastes like candy in a cup. And it will FUCK. YOU. UP.
You will hang from the chandelier. If there isn't a chandelier to hang from you will craft one out of empty Solo cups and year-old issues of New York magazine. You will find that you know all the words to the Sam Kinison version of "Wild Thing." You will do the worm in a sorochka that you just happened to have lying around the house. You will get in an oatmeal fight. You will wrestle a deaf tiger. You will kick your friend across a room into the Christmas tree you still haven't taken down. You will French braid a man's chest hair because you can. You will sing "Fat-Bottomed Girls" and intersperse breaks in the lyrics with a cries of "I LOVE FAT CHICKS." You will stick your fist in the lasagna.
You will, quite simply, have the best fucking night of your life.
And in the morning when you wake up with the worst-and I do mean THE WORST-hangover of your life, you will raise your fist to God (you won't need to shake it, as it will already be shaking) and curse my name.
This article originally appeared on The Awl.