I understand that not everyone keeps their hammer in their kitchen to facilitate the production of mojitos and manhattans, but more people should.

Except the people who live directly above me, that is.

It is a fact universally acknowledged that a single woman in possession of an uncracked bottle of fine Havana Club Anejo Blanco rum must be in search of a mojito.

Which is where the hammer comes in.

Please don’t labour under the misapprehension that all Communist symbols are dour, utilitarian objects. No, indeedy. Why, ask any druid about the many, merry uses of the sickle. And we here at the ol’ raincoaster blog have our own uses for the hammer which include, as stated above, solidarity exercises with our Cuban Comrades.

So…the hammer is under the sink and all is well with the world. To make a mojito I take the hammer out, take two plastic bags, dump an ice-cube tray’s worth of, yes, ice cubes, into the double-bagged apparatus, and proceed to smash the hell out of it against the concrete floor of the apartment. Since it used to be a parking garage, I figure it can handle the abuse, and since there’s nothing downstairs but a few Acuras and Kias, I figure nobody is going to whine to the manager. And the ice gets nicely crushed and the cocktails get nicely made.

I actually have an official ice crusher, but since it’s a retro-Seventies model made out of cheap plastic and tin, it doesn’t function except as a visual reminder of the heyday of Playboy. So I keep it in the box next to the dusty Margarita glasses (I haven’t been able to afford tequila since the great Agave Plague of 2004).

Coming next week: where the electric drill comes into it…

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