The view outside my bedroom window is devastating:

Being of combined Latin and Slavic heritage, I tend towards an impassioned strain of melancholia. Images like this one help, but sometimes things are just too beautiful. You know?

My Latin half wants to photograph, to preserve, to absorb the springtime through the senses. My Slavic side wants to infuse vodka, and then drink it. My sane side, which was borne of careful cultivation, wants to do all of the above and then share the vodka with friends.

Today I bought a blood orange. I scrubbed its skin, sliced it up, tossed it in a Mason jar. Submerged the thing in Stoli. It will live there for the next hour or so, at which point its remnants will be strained out of the vodka and it will find a home in some soda water. I will share it with my squeeze and a couple of pals (including a certain incomparable Cuisinette) over a delicious dinner. We will be civilized grownups, and I will be in bed by 11.