Summer Series: Boozy Popsicles

Blueberry Mojito Popsicles. Click HERE for recipe.

 

 

Do you know what’s better than a popsicle? A popsicle with alcohol. Why didn’t the world think of this earlier? Don’t kid yourself, this is a recent phenomenon. It’s right up there with the glorious invention of Uber, Instagram and Pinterest. And Netflix. And Hulu. And digital magazine subscriptions. Isn’t life grand these days? Now if only I could just have a GPS tracking system inserted under Gracie’s skin, all would be good in the world. But let’s be happy with what we do have, popsicles… Boozy popsicles.

We are a popsicle family. Growing up, there were more popsicles in our house than fruit. It was my mother’s only bargaining tool. “If you stop hitting your brother with your tennis racket, I’ll let you guys have popsicles.” My mother had us, all three of us brats, before she was 24 years old. I think she married Mr. O’Connell when she was like 19 years old. Children raising children. Good thing she was rich otherwise it would’ve been a scene straight out of “Teen Mom.”

We lived in a neighborhood where there was an ice cream truck that came around every afternoon during the summer. Pure childhood bliss. Isn’t it amazing the thrill it gives a child (even an adult) to hear the sound of the bells and the music of an ice cream truck. The good news is that our ice cream truck man wasn’t a child molester or at least we don’t think he was, but he probably was because they all are. However, all we cared about were those popsicles. We probably had 10 boxes of fudgesicles in our freezer at home but we just wanted those Bombpop popsicles from the ice cream truck. My little brother, sister and I would wait on our porch gripping our dollars in our dirty little hands, just waiting for the sound of the ice cream truck. The second we heard it we would start running with our dog, chasing that truck, worried that he wasn’t going to stop. Why were we so worried? We were his best customers, and he knew it. Of course he was going to stop but we still panicked. We would run barefoot with our crazy little dog after that ice cream truck. We were screaming, the dog was barking and the ice cream man would taunt us and park at the end of the block (next to that kid’s house who killed his parents or neighbors, I forgot which), secretly laughing that he caused severe anxiety in the O’Connell children.

Once we had those popsicles in our disgusting little paws, we would head directly to our backyard because my mother wouldn’t let us in the house with popsicles. My mother was usually decorating something and would kill us if our cherry popsicles dripped all over her Pierre Deux sofa even if it was in the family room where children are supposed to be! No resentment here. :-)

Instead, we retreated to the steps off of our back porch leading to the backyard. That’s where the air conditioner unit was and it blew out hot air and we cuddled up next to it in our bathing suits licking our freezing cold popsicles. After that we would just throw the popsicle sticks on the ground and go about our merry way causing destruction in our wake. We were complete hellions and if you don’t believe me, just ask any of our neighbors. We put up a good front though, my sister and I in our Florence Eiseman dresses and knee socks, my brother in his little blazer, but no one was safe in our house. Mostly babysitters. My little brother once locked himself in the bathroom and cut his finger with a butter knife and flung the blood all over the walls of the bathroom just to scare the babysitter. Needless to say she never came back. Other babysitters would just stand there in horror as we climbed to the tops of trees, rode the handlebars of our bikes, performed death defying gymnastics in the front yard and circus tricks in the backyard. There were lots of stitches, bloodied noses and tetanus shots at our house. My parents just ended up hiring a nurse as our nanny… To triage. My aunt, who I hate, was also a nurse and would come over to our house and try to give us throat cultures and wonder if she should call the authorities.

It’s not my parents fault though. My father was just busy getting richer and my mother was busy painting the dining room French blue. I do remember repercussions, but they just didn’t stick. We had our sweet side though… My sister would play with her Mrs. Beasley dolls, I would quietly and incessantly read Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle novels, and my brother would just be fucking adorable. My mother would drop us off at First and Calvary Presbyterian Sunday school every single Sunday just to get a much-needed one hour break from us and I guess God just seeped in by osmosis and we all three turned out okay... But that's debatable.

Brat # 1, 2 and 3, the dog and my mother. Isn't my mother pretty? Her eyes are closed... She's probably asleep.

 

 

If I can think of anyone who needed an adult popsicle, it would be my mother. But the funny thing is that she doesn’t drink alcohol “because it makes her cough.” Eye roll.

But for the rest of us adults, alcohol laced popsicles hit the spot and are slightly chicer than standing around at a summer barbecue sipping a Real Housewives of New York Ramona Singer Pinot Grigio.

Let’s take a look at some recipes…

 

 Rum and Coke Popsicles. Click HERE for recipe.

 

 

 Citrus Basil Mojito Popsicles. Click HERE for recipe.

 

 

 Coconut Cinnamon Amaretto Popsicles. Click HERE for recipe.

 

 

 Bloody Mary Popsicles. Click HERE for recipe.

 

 

 Mint Julep Popsicles. Click HERE for recipe.

 

 

 Blackberry Chèvre Bourbon Popsicles. Click HERE for recipe.

 

Gin and Tonic Pomegranate Popsicles. Click HERE for recipe.

 

Voilà! Adult popsicles. Stay tuned for my last installment of my summer series. Your girl, Ellie, is heading to Provence on Friday to wind down summer in Europe and start my official decline into the depression of fall in Paris even if it is très jolie. The good news is that my husband announced last night that I could “move to Provence if I wanted to.” I guess my week of fake crying, empty threats and the silent treatment worked. Take note girls. While I am in Provence, I will beg my girlfriend Madame B, our host for the weekend, if I can take photos of her big fat South of France mansion because I know you guys will love it. Keep your fingers crossed! I am taking the train with Gracie and my caregivers and David and 400 pieces of luggage, extra breathing machines, cough assist machines, feeding tube formula and my beloved Haelen 951. This should be interesting.

Yes, after the incident a few days ago regarding the terrorist trying to kill everyone on the Paris bound train, I started to worry a little bit about my upcoming train ride. But then I remembered an email that I received from my friend Carol who passed away from ALS last year. It’s kind of morbidly funny but just stick with me. She was in such pain and so miserable about how ALS affected her life. She wasn’t exactly jovial like me but I liked her anyway because sometimes her outward thoughts were my inner thoughts. Anyway, she wrote me an email and said, “Sometimes I wish a mad man would just burst through my living room and shoot me in the back of the head.” Let me interpret: sometimes with ALS you just wish it would all be over in a second. So I thought, “Well if another crazy man boards our train… So be it.” It’s kind of liberating to have this attitude. But with my luck, I’m sure I would survive. :-)

Bon week-end! It’s the last weekend of summer, so enjoy it!