How to Make the Most Manly “Wisconsin Winter Toddy” Ever to Sit Just to the Right of Your Computer Mouse
Cold weather’s starting to roll in, and that means it’s almost Wisconsin Winter Toddy season.
What’s a Wisconsin Winter Toddy, you might ask? It’s a drink that doesn’t even bother with putting hair on your chest, because if you’ve lived in Wisconsin this long you can already rent yourself out as a bearskin rug in your spare time. This Darwinian drink gets the jump on winter and goes ahead and starts putting hair on your unborn children’s chests instead.
A Wisconsin Winter Toddy needs the following ingredients:
- Brandy. Not whisky, or whiskey, or bourbon, or rum, or anything else. Raw fuckin’ brandy. Wisconsin’s love for a drink most people associate with effete Frenchmen seems strange until you realize that we have fantastic grape-growing soil but miserable grape sunlight, resulting in abundant crops of grapes too sugary to make a wine that you don’t distill and age the shit out of. Hence, Brandy Old Fashioneds, Brandy Manhattans, and Brandy Fuckin’ Toddies, served all over the state at road houses so dingy and ancient their blue collar atmosphere has faded to a dirty off-white with hints of old indigo and prominent grease stains.
- Honey. Pure honey from bees that fed on sweet Wisconsin meadowflowers, gathered with your own two hands while they swarmed and stung ineffectually at your chest hair and plaid wool jacket. Ideally it should be so crystallized and frozen with age and cold that you have to dig it out with a spoon, but pour it in a spoon even if it’s not. The spoon is important later.
- Water, boiled on the stovetop in a kettle or saucepan. If you’ve got a fireplace or a wood-burning stove to set a kettle on so much the better. Don’t even think about microwaving it.
- Lemon juice. It lasts for months on ice, so press it fresh in the summer and have a good store laid in for winter. Or just buy it at the store, whatever; we have to cut a corner in here somewhere.
To make your toddy, put the water on the stove and forget about it until it’s boiling and has been that way for a while.
Stick the spoon down into the honey and dig around until it’s mounded up with delicious crystallized goodness. Select a mug based on how drunk you want to get and stick the dripping spoon right into it. It should lean picturesquely against the side of the mug like the long-handled spoon in an old drugstore malt tin and stay there.
Pour brandy directly over the spoon until you’re between a third of the way and halfway up the mug. Don’t be a show-off and pour almost all the way to the top; your drink won’t get enough boiling water to heat up if you do it that way. Just find a bigger mug. Don’t stir yet.
Add a splash of lemon juice. It should be a healthy splash. You’ve got a spoonful of honey in there, remember. You should hear the bottle go “glug” once or twice. Still don’t stir.
Fill the glass the rest of the way with more-than-boiling-hot water. Now you can stir. At this point one of three things happens:
- 1. You fill too full and stir too hard. The liquid in the center of the mug sinks and the liquid around the edges rises until it pours over, spreading a hot mixture that evaporates and dries into a nigh-indelible film almost immediately all over your countertop. Swear.
- 2. You pour the boiling water directly onto the handle of the spoon without noticing and grab a brazen hold of metal that’s been flash-heated to 212F. Scream.
- 3. You do neither of these things. Drink your delicious toddy. Feel like a beast.
Now. Who’s ready to give up on whatever lesser drink they’ve been cradling through the previous long winters of writing (or whatever) and switch to the Badger Country special? Because we all need something to keep our fingers warm by the computer, that’s for sure. Feel free to share your recipes in the comments, if you like!
Just, y’know, don’t expect me to actually switch.