A Brief History of the Modjeska

I went back to my beloved Kentucky home this weekend, for the first time since December. I was there for a family friend’s wedding, and for Father’s Day, and spent a glorious 72 hours eating doughnuts and barbecue, hitting up my favorite bookstore, dancing in a garden, and doing yoga and watching John Oliver and laughing so hard I cried with four-fifths of my immediate family (my sister, sadly, was stuck in D.C.). It was a much-needed break from the stress of daily life. For three days, I looked at the stars instead of my Twitter feed and did my best to tune out the news, focusing on SherlockCars 3, and old friends instead. There’s a particular sweetness to that feeling of comfort and safety, a warm fuzzy joy that only comes when you are home and safe and loved. I wanted to wrap it up and bring it back with me, at least a small piece, to infuse into my everyday New York life. And in this case, as is often my way, that little morsel of home took the form of a caramel, marshmallow confection known as the modjeska.

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Now if you’re not from Louisville, you are probably wondering: “What on god’s green earth is that funky, vaguely-Slavic-sounding term Zelda just threw out?” I can picture the look on your face exactly, because I’ve seen it on roommates and coworkers when I return from the Bluegrass State bearing a slim white box full of neatly wrapped treats nestled in paper beds. “A mo-what-now?” they say, picking up a piece and holding it a safe distance from their mouths, unsure if they dare test it. Now, if I were a more selfish person, I would leave them to their confusion and guard this secret delight for myself. But despite my better judgement, I find myself enlightening them. After all, I have made it an unofficial life mission of mine to spread the word of Louisville’s underappreciated glory to the world — culinary or otherwise (see: this blog). And so, I explain.

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The modjeska, in its simplest form, is a candy consisting of a marshmallow dipped in caramel. It was invented in Louisville in 1883 by Anton Busath, a French confectioner who had immigrated to the Ohio River town. Busath slaved away for years, perfecting his “caramel biscuit.” Around this time, a Polish actress also made her way to Louisville. Busath saw her perform at the McCauley Theater, near his downtown shop, in the debut U.S. production of Henrik Ibsen’s “A Doll’s House.” He was so enamored with her that he wanted to give his crowning achievement her name. He asked her for permission, she granted it, and thus, Helena Modjeska found herself the inspiration for a Kentucky classic. She was so tickled, she sent Busath an autographed portrait, which he hung in his shop.

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When Busath Candies was destroyed by a fire in 1947, Busath asked his friend and fellow candy-maker Rudy Muth if he could use his kitchen to produce the caramel treats, as Christmas gifts for his friends and family. Muth agreed, sharing his space, and in gratitude Busath gave him the recipe after deciding he couldn’t reopen his own shop. Another local confectioner — Bauer’s Candies — renamed their own caramel biscuit in a tribute to Busath after they closed. Both Bauer’s and Muth’s Candies continue to produce their own versions of the modjeska in Kentucky today (in traditional and chocolate varieties), shipping them all over the world.

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I discovered the glory of the modjeska when I moved to Louisville at age 11. There was a small market across the street from Scout’s and my school called Burger’s (RIP sniff sniff), and there was a jar of the candies (Muth’s version) right by the register. I still remember biting into it for the first time — the sticky caramel yielding to a soft cloud of marshmallow — and thinking that I had found the perfect dessert. I had always been a caramel lover, but this was on a whole other level. Some people are turned off by the marshmallow, thinking it will be weird when wrapped in a non-chocolate coat. But trust me: It is magic.

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Nowadays, I’m partial to Bauer’s; their marshmallow and caramel are denser, with a richer flavor to the caramel. And every time I go home, I find myself hauling a box back with me. Sometimes I share with my office, or with Scout. Sometimes I hog the whole thing to myself, rationing out the treats so as to savor the experience. For a dangerous stretch of last year’s election, I had a box in my desk drawer for “emergencies,” which proved to be more frequent and not at all far between, resulting in my plowing through the whole batch at an alarming rate. It is a quality candy, to be sure, made the old-fashioned way that follows a now 100+ year tradition. But I think the real reason I love modjeskas so much, and why they hold a particular place in my heart that no other food does, is that they taste like home.

IMAGES VIA: BAUER’S CANDIES, NPRENCYCLOPEDIA BRITANNICA, PINTEREST,  MUTH’S CANDIES

Rooftop Party Essentials

Our calendars have been officially flipped to June for 6 days now, and so even though the weather has been decidedly gloomy and unseasonably cool, we have officially declared it summer in our hearts. Summer in New York means a lot of things: sweaty subway seats, hot garbage smell, throngs of tourists in matching t-shirts. But it also signifies one of our favorite times of year: rooftop season.

Since quitting Bushwick for Crown Heights nearly two years ago, I have found myself blessed with a beautiful rooftop. It’s not the fanciest pad in the world, but it’s big and it’s quiet and it has a view of the skyline from the Battery to Central Park. When the weather gets nice enough, it becomes my private retreat — a place to run away with an iced coffee and a good book and escape the hustle and bustle of the world for a while (perks to working a weird schedule: the neighbors rarely interrupt my me-time). I love it so much, I even wrote a post about it. But while most of my roof time is spent finishing my latest book club assignment or thinking up topics for blog posts, my dream is to one day throw that most New York of fêtes: a rooftop party.

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See my roof, while lovely, is jinxed. My roommates and I have tried to throw housewarming parties, and Derby parties, and birthday parties, and meetings of the aforementioned book club en plein air, and every single time we have been foiled by the cold and the rain. This past weekend was no exception. I awoke to sunny skies and an optimist spirit. Maybe this would finally be the day! I texted Scout and our fellow book clubbers: “The weather outside looks roof-friendly! So plan your outerwear accordingly.” But a mere two hours later, as we began to assemble, so too did the storm clouds. By the time we were all present, it was full-on raining, and we had to settle for my living room floor.

But still I dream of BBQ’s and coolers of beer, big-batch cocktails and music by twinkly light. And so I have assembled this guide to how to throw the best rooftop bash ever, which I fervently hope to test out this summer…if the rain ever lets up.

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The Basics

Make sure your guests have somewhere to sit. You can go the table and chairs route or stick to picnic blankets, but make sure that whatever seating you have is waterproof and/or portable. I am personally a big fan of Target’s picnic blanket selection; they come in a variety of adorable patterns (I’ve been lusting after these pineapples for weeks), and fold up into a conveniently portable package, complete with shoulder strap. If outdoor furniture is more your jam, IKEA or Amazon are your best bet.

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The Mood

Every party needs a good soundtrack, which means you will need to procure speakers of some kind. Take this moment to assess your roof’s outlet situation, as this will determine what kind of audio equipment you can use and how much pre-party charging of said devices you will need to factor into your timeline. Also important, lights! My roof is lacking in outlets of any kind, and while New York kindly provides enough light pollution to keep it from being pitch black, some electronic assistance is recommended. In the absence of plugs, I recommend battery-operated twinkly lights: festive and convenient!

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The Vittles

Maybe you’re among those lucky few New Yorkers to live in a building with an elevator, which will convey you, your guests, and a feast swiftly skyward. But if, like me, you must climb several flights of stairs in order to reach the promised patio, portable is the name of the game. Anything that requires plates or silverware means more for you to haul up, and back down at party’s end, to stick to finger food. Pigs in a blanket, good. Spaghetti or salad, bad. On my festive to-cook list: cauliflower feta fritters, lemon raspberry pie crust heartsdouble chocolate cake doughnuts.

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The Libations

Much like with the food, the key with rooftop booze is to minimize the amount of stuff you have to cart up and down. This means nothing that requires individual assembly (a good rule of thumb for parties in general). Big-batch cocktails are your friend here — think punches, sangrias, anything that can be poured in a drink dispenser. I recently made this blueberry mint lemonade from Joy the Baker and think it could only benefit from the addition of gin or vodka. Make sure you bring disposable cups, and a couple garbage bags for people’s empties (do not be the neighbor who throws a party and leaves trash all over the roof). And if you’re also going to have beer, bring a cooler or bucket and a couple bags of ice to keep it cold. Bonus: The cooler or bucket will have to be brought back down, but the ice can be dumped out to melt at party’s end!

Blueberry-Lavender Champagne Punch

Hey y’all. So this week was supposed to bring you another installment of All the Fixin’s, the series where we cook our way through our respective Southern heritages. But as you’ll know if you follow this blog, or our social media, or the world in general, this past weekend included that most hallowed of horsey days — the Derby — and we celebrated in a matter befitting the occasion. We did indeed cook things (many of them, in fact), but they were Bluegrass classics that make up the staples of each of our Derby parties: pie (in miniature, bite-sized form), bourbon ball cupcakes, benedictine, artichoke dip. And in the tornado of activity that was preparing for, throwing, and cleaning up after our annual Brooklyn celebration, we did not, alas, have time to venture into something new from one of our respective cookbooks.

Not to fret, All the Fixin’s will be back next month. But today, in its stead, we’re bringing you the one new thing we did try for this year’s party: a cocktail. Now we all know the correct drink to imbibe on the first Saturday in May is, of course, a mint julep. But despite our better judgement, we are friends with some people who do not partake of the browner liquors. So we decided to indulge them with an alternative option. Call us soft if you will: We prefer to celebrate our tolerance and generosity. Also Zelda will seize any opportunity to try out a new big-batch cocktail (punch bowls for one on a Wednesday afternoon seeming more sad than celebratory, she has to wait for parties to pull out all the stops).

We wanted something light and festive, full of bubbles and springtime flavors. And after some thorough Googling, Zelda settled on this Southern Living classic-with-a-twist: blueberry-lavender champagne punch. Champagne punches are a party staple: easy to throw together, pleasing to a crowd, with all the pop and fizz you want in a celebratory glass. This one punches up the traditional simple syrup with fresh blueberries and dried lavender, infusing the drink with sweet floral notes and a lovely purple tint to boot. We can’t honestly say we partook much ourselves, aside from taste testing to make sure the proportions are right — we are julep gals, through and through — but our guests swore it was positively divine, and the empty bowl at evening’s end backed their claims up. Mint and lavender alike, we all raised a glass (or several) and sang one song for our old Kentucky home — far, far away.

Ingredients

1 cup mashed fresh blueberries

2/3 cup sugar

1 cup water

1/2 teaspoon dried culinary lavender

3 bottles (750 mL) champagne (prosecco will also do the trick)

3 cups gin

1 cup fresh lemon juice (about 4 lemons’ worth)

Directions

To make the simple syrup, stir together the mashed blueberries, sugar, water, and lavender in a small saucepan. Bring to a simmer over medium heat, and let simmer for 20 minutes, stirring occasionally. Pour through a mesh sieve and strain out the solid bits, then set aside to cool completely (at least 45 minutes, but we recommend making it the evening before your gathering and letting it sit in the fridge overnight).

In a punch bowl or pitcher, combine the champagne, gin, lemon juice, and simple syrup. The proportions listed here are for a big batch, using all of the simple, but if you’re entertaining a smaller number of guests, use 1 cup gin, 1/3 cup simple syrup, and 1/4 cup lemon juice for every bottle of champagne.

Garnish with lemon slices, frozen blueberries, and/or lavender sprigs. Enjoy!

A Short History of the Mint Julep

The first week of May has us here at Zelda & Scout in intense party prep mode. This Saturday, we dust off our wide-brim hats and our fascinators, and pull out our many years’ worth of glassware, and make some probably-less-than-stellar decisions regarding both gambling and inebriation. Because the first Saturday in May brings the Kentucky Derby, which at Churchill Downs means the consumption of hundreds of thousands of mint juleps.

And sure there are people who will tell you that mint juleps are gross, and taste like soap, and are only good on Derby. But we are staunch defenders of the julep tradition and its importance as a truly Kentuckian drink, no matter what some articles in the course of this research might like to suggest. Most agree that while the julep probably wasn’t invented in Kentucky, (though the lore does state we can lay claim to another classic bourbon cocktail — the old fashioned — so our whiskey bona fides still check out), since its inception, the great Commonwealth has become its one true home.

The mint julep has been the official drink of the Kentucky Derby since 1938, but the julep has a long and storied history before that. In the 18th century, “julep” was a general term that applied to a number of sugar-based cocktails popular during the Revolutionary War period. Often these sugary elixirs were used as means of masking the taste when ingesting medicine…or you know just alcohol, which was also medicine. It could be made with a number of spirits: rum, gin, brandy etc. But bourbon whiskey is what stuck.

The word “julep” itself is originally derived from the Spanish julepe, which in turn comes from the Persian root gulab meaning rosewater. Thus julep was applied to any drinks in which sweetness was the dominant note. The addition of mint to what we now recognize as our mint julep may have originally been intended to soothe stomach pains, but there is no definitive proof.

The julep slowly changed from a medicinal mixture into one of leisure. As its popularity increased, it became a status symbol, largely because of the ice. Ice was, rather ironically, a hot commodity at the time: Only those with a certain amount of wealth had access to ice houses, much less the ability to crush the ice as fine as we know it today. By the time people began serving their juleps in silver cups, it was officially the drink of the elite.

So you see the julep is an old drink, and a simple one: just sugar, bourbon whiskey and mint (you can find Zelda’s tried and true recipe here, along with laments of New York juleps gone wrong). And while it may not have been born in the Bluegrass state, it did come into its own in Kentucky, as a way to imbibe in the local libation of choice: bourbon. Eventually it was introduced to our nation’s capital, legend has it, by Kentucky Senator Henry Clay, and once the politicians got a hold of it, we were off to the races. And though some may associate it with lazy Southern afternoons, sweating daintily on verandas, we Kentuckians know better.

The julep is a city drink, one that gained fame at the bars of the ritziest hotels in the South’s grandest cities, and as such, it is a drink of action. It’s the drink you hold aloft with one hand as your horse crosses the finish line to win your big bet of the day. It’s the drink you probably spill a little of in your haste to hold onto your hat as you run across a muddy infield. It’s the perfect drink for a hot and humid Saturday in May, whether you’re in the grandstand, the infield, or even on a roof somewhere in Brooklyn.

The julep helps us lean into the decadence, with our fancy cups and our perfect sprigs of mint garnish. It helps us embrace the depravity as we make some questionable decisions after our third, or fourth, or fifth julep of the evening (wait, what do you mean it’s only 4:30?). There will always be those who claim it’s too sweet, or that it tastes like medicine. There will be those who can only stomach it, begrudgingly, on Derby Day. But for Zelda & Scout, whether it’s the traditional Early Times or the updated Old Forester, on every day of the year, the mint julep tastes like home.

Sources: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

Making Matzah You Want to Eat

It’s that time of year again! My favorite Jewish holiday is upon us. Yes, Passover is here, and along with all my favorite things — gathering around the table with friends, drinking wine, and opening doors for invisible guests — it also means eight days without the comfort of leavened carbs. If you know me, you knows that this definitely qualifies as a hardship. Instead of the glorious wheat products that normally make up the bulk of my diet, we get eight days of the cardboard-adjacent cracker substance known as “matzah.” But all is not lost! Today, the first full day of Passover 2017, I have scoured the edges of the internet to bring you ten recipes that make matzah actually tasty. The Jews of the internet have taken to Pinterest and Tumblr and what-have-you to take matzah to a palatable, even delicious, level. Enjoy.

Matzah Brittle: This recipe is first on my list just because I firmly believe the best way to make anything taste better is to cover it in chocolate and caramel. There’s really nothing better. If you make this right you’ll want to eat it even when it’s not Passover. In fact it’s so addictive, in Zelda’s house it’s known as matzah crack.

Matzah Brei: Matzah Brei is probably the most traditional way we Ashkenazi Jews have to make the unleavened fare of our ancestors taste better. The concept is simple. Take some matzah, break it into pieces, soften with water or milk, add eggs, and fry. It’s like a Passover frittata, or Pesach french toast. Slather with syrup and you can almost dream it’s a waffle.

Matzah Granola: Snacking is the hardest part of staying #Kosher4Passover, so do yourself a favor and prepare a bunch of this munchy-worthy granola ahead of time. Then you can snack away to your heart’s content!

Matzah S’mores: S’mores are always amazing, and while the loss of the graham cracker shell does hurt the overall s’more taste, the flavor of the matzah is mostly hidden by all the good-good melty chocolate and marshmallow. For a cross-cultural Easter/Passover experience, use marshmallow peeps instead of regular marshmallows.  

Matzah Latkes: Why not combine these two bastions of Jewish food? Latkes aren’t just for Chanukah, people. We can savor the delight of the potato pancake all year round! Even if it’s more potato than pancake during Passover.

Matzah Lasagna: Anything you can do with noodles, you can do with matzah, or so this recipe posits. Having experimented thoroughly in my younger years, I believe it to be true. Your matzah lasagna is going to be slightly more crunchy than the traditional sort, but it will still be good.

Matzah Pizza: Teenage Scout’s favorite way to eat matzah, covered in cheese and marinara sauce. It’s just pizza! Really, really, really thin-crust pizza. There’s room for a lot of variety in toppings here, so you can really hide the taste of cardboard if you try hard enough.

Matzah Puppy Chow: For some Jews (cough-Zelda-cough), kitniyot are not off limits, so there’s really no need for this recipe as rice or corn Chex are #K4P. But alas for us Ashkenazi’s they are not…for some inexplicable reason. So we have resorted to re-creating a beloved recipe with Matzah to…mixed results. We’re sticking with the theme here: If you cover something in enough chocolate, it can never really be bad.

Matzah Cake: This is one for the more ambitious among you. It turns matzah into a dessert that almost looks restaurant-worthy. It does require two whole boxes of of the stuff though, so it’s mostly for the people who stocked up beforehand (not the Scout’s of the world, who will wander into the grocery the day before Passover and be relegated to making the last box of off-brand matzah on the shelf last the entire eight days of the holiday).

Matzoah Kugel: It’s fitting to end with this recipe. My children, what we’ve learned today is that the key to making matzah taste less like cardboard and more like actual food is drown it in as many other ingredients as possible. Hide it under apples and brown sugar and eggs and never look back.

Photos via: The kitchn, Love + Cupcakes, Martha Stewart Living, Ingredients Inc, Martha Stewart, DelishSkinny taste, What Jew Wanna eat, Living sweet moments, Epicurious

The Old Fashioned Way

We all have that one drink: the cocktail standard that we order when we’re feeling fancy, and we want a little more than Blank & Blank. I’m talking about the go-to when you’re dressed up for the night, and you want to feel like your drink made as much effort as you did to be standing in this bar wearing your new bomb-ass boots. For me, that cocktail is the Old Fashioned. And if I want to class up my personal joint (and I am assured that the bartender has time), I order what I consider to be the most classic of bourbon cocktails.

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If it’s not the most classic, it is probably the oldest, or at least the oldest to be given the name “cocktail.” The term cocktail can be traced as far back as 1806, and in the strictest version of the the term it means a drink that is composed of any spirit, sugar, water, and bitters…so if you know the recipe, you can see how the Old Fashioned would be one of the oldest. But in case you don’t know, this is the Scout (and generally) accepted recipe:

Put some sugar (1 cube, a bar spoon full, or some simple) at the bottom of the glass, add two healthy dashes of bitters, and stir or muddle, depending on your sugar type. Add a couple ice cubes and a healthy serving of bourbon (rye is acceptable if bourbon for some reason is unavailable). Stir to combine. Finish with the essence of an orange peel (twist it above the glass to release all those good oils and rub it around the rim) and garnish with said orange peel.

Note: Some people will tell you there should be a cherry in there; those people, in my personal opinion, are wrong. God forbid someone muddles said cherry, and bless their hearts if it was a maraschino. Now I realize I may not be in the majority here; said people include the apparent namers of the cocktail, and a certain hometown establishment for Zelda and me, The Pendennis Club (Maybe if they let more women in, they’d get it right…but I digress. More on them later.). You do you, I guess: Just keep all cherries away from my old fashioned’s, please.


The name “Old Fashioned” probably initially referred to all drinks made in this spirit-sugar-water-bitters style. The term came into prominence in the late nineteenth century and referred mostly to drinks made in “an old fashioned style,” as opposed to with newfangled liqueurs and the like. There were old fashioned cocktails made with gin and whiskey and brandy (see: a gin version mentioned in 1862’s Jerry Thomas’s Bartender’s Guide: How to Mix Drinks). But the whiskey and bourbon versions gained more and more popularity as the nineteenth century turned into the 20th, and were soon cemented as The-with-a-capital-T Old Fashioned.

The official story is that the cocktail we know today as the Old Fashioned was invented in the 1880’s at Louisville’s own aforementioned Pendennis Club, by a bartender and whiskey magnate called James Pepper. He invented the drink and mixed the very first one in Louisville, and he later brought it up to New York’s City’s Waldorf-Astoria, where it really made its name (The old fashioned apparently has a similar life trajectory to Zelda’s and mine, fancy that).

In 1885, George Kappeler published Modern American Drinks, which included the recipe for The Old Fashioned Whiskey Cocktail: “Dissolve a small lump of sugar with a little water in a whiskey-glass; add two dashes Angostura bitters, a small piece of ice, a piece of lemon-peel, one jigger whiskey. Mix with small bar-spoon and serve, leaving spoon in glass.” And essentially, that was that. The recipe has been slightly modified back and forth since then, but has stayed relatively close to the original.

In the 1930’s, the orange peel and cherry garnish were introduced, instigating turmoil among drinkers over what actually makes the perfect old fashioned. But you know you’ve got a good bartender when they ask “How do you like your old fashioned” after you order. Whether you stick to the traditional four-ingredient base, or add some orange zest, or take yours with brandy like they do in Wisconsin, or I suppose even if you muddle yours with a maraschino cherry (*sigh*), the old fashioned, in some way, shape, or form — is here to stay.

The great thing about a classic cocktail is that there’s endless potential to put a new spin on it, and bars these days continue to seize the opportunity, making them with agave or sorghum or whatever they can find. We are, as they say, in the age of the craft cocktail, and you can be sure that the Old Fashioned is in no danger of becoming what its name might suggest. But if you’re making me one? Please, no cherries.

Sources: Thrillist–The History of the Old Fashioned; The Mix–The History of the Cocktail

Holiday Cocktails Three Ways

December is upon us, which means we are in the season of holiday parties and cocktails. Let’s be honest: Our real talent lies in drinking, and the holidays are when we really put thos skills to the test. Come December, you can find us throwing back festive libations at parties and pop-ups and bars, especially those that take the holiday spirit to a scale only possible in New York (see Rolf’s, below). But if you can’t make it to such a Christmas Mecca for your holiday cocktail fix, Zelda and Scout are here for you.

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First, eggnog. Like its October counterpart, pumpkin spice, it is divisive. Its milky goodness is not for everyone, but those who do love it love it a lot. I am one of those people — a Noghead, if you will — and really the only thing that makes this drink better is the addition of alcohol. If you want to get fancier than the sweet and simple classic, Southern Comfort Eggnog + Southern Comfort Whiskey (the only way to drink nog, according to friend of the blog Jason), see below:

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Salted Caramel Eggnog from The Cookie Rookie: This is one for the more ambitious in the kitchen (the Zeldas rather than the Scouts, if you will). You have to make the eggnog from scratch, see, which surpasses my three-step recipe limit. In a large saucepan, combine 3 cups whole milk, 1 cup heavy whipping cream, 4 cinnamon sticks, 3/4 tablespoon vanilla extract, and 1 teaspoon grated nutmeg, and bring to a boil over medium heat. As soon as the mixture starts to bubble, remove from heat and allow it to steep and cool for 5-10 minutes. While it’s brewing, in a stand mixer, beat five eggs and 2/3 cup sugar until fully combined. Pour your egg mixture into  your milk mixture and whisk together. Add 1/2 cup caramel syrup, 1 tablespoon sea salt, and 3/4 cups dark rum. Garnish with caramel and more nutmeg if you’re feeling fancy.

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Next up, milk punch. Bourbon Milk Punch is a traditional holiday drink throughout the Deep South, but especially in New Orleans. The drink dates back all the way to at least the 19th century, when it was featured in 1862’s How to Mix Drinks, perhaps the very first cocktail recipe book. This recipe from Arnaud’s French 75 bar seems to be the internet-accepted classic version of this cocktail, featured by the New York Times and Garden and Gun alike. Pour 1¼ oz bourbon (or, if you prefer, brandy), ½ oz dark rum, 2 oz whole milk or half-and-half, ¾ tsp vanilla extract, and ½ oz simple syrup into a cocktail shaker filled three-quarters full with ice. Shake until chilled (roughly 30 seconds). Strain into a rocks glass and dust with grated nutmeg.

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Finally, for the clear alcohol connoisseurs, we have a seasonal twist on a classic — an Apple Cider Mule. This drink. from Pretty Plain Janes, swaps the summery lime flavors of the typical Moscow Mule for wintry notes of apple and spice. In a copper mug full of ice, as is traditional, mix 1 1/5 oz of vodka (this recipe suggests caramel-flavored liquor, but you do you) and 3 oz apple cider,. Top off with ginger beer, and garnish with apple slices and cinnamon sticks.

Photos via: The Cookie Rookie, Johnny Autry, Pretty Plain Janes