The Margarita
Salted with Tears, Sweetened with Joy
True confession: when I bartended my way through college, I hated cleaning the frozen margarita machine. Hated it. Sticky, messy, impossible to get right. I used to slip the busboy an extra tip just so he’d clean it for me. Maybe that’s why to this day I still don’t care much for frozen margaritas.
But even beyond that, it took me a long time before I’d drink a Margarita at all — even on the rocks. Too many painful memories of the bar. Too many nights when the clink of glasses was covering up loneliness, or when laughter at the counter didn’t quite reach the heart.
And then there were the Wednesday nights. At one bar I worked, it was “upside-down margarita night.” Ugh. Messy, noisy, and honestly, kind of humiliating. Tips usually sucked. Maybe that’s part of why the Margarita carried more sting than sweetness for me.
So for me, the Margarita isn’t just about refreshment — it’s about redemption.
A Margarita on the rocks, with a salted rim and freshly squeezed limes, became something different. Something honest. A reminder that joy can be real, not forced. That sweetness can hold its own, even alongside the sour. That salt doesn’t have to ruin the glass, but can frame it.
Because the Margarita isn’t just a party drink — it’s a paradox in a glass. Sweet and sour. Joy and sting. Celebration rimmed with salt. It’s laughter with friends while tears are still fresh. It’s the reminder that life doesn’t come to us neat and tidy, but mixed — with both the ache and the joy in the same moment.
I think about that every time I hear the phrase “Celebration of Life.” That’s what we used to call funerals. And I’ll be honest — I chuckle to myself whenever I read that title. Because the truth is, very few people are celebrating in those moments. There are still plenty of tears, because someone we love is no longer with us.
When my mom died, and later my stepdad, in many ways it was a blessing. They had both been sick for a while, and I was grateful their suffering was over. But did I celebrate? No. It was sad in so many ways. There were tears and stories and laughter, yes — but celebration? That word didn’t quite fit.
I see it often when I lead funerals. Laughter breaks out as the stories are shared, as we remember the quirks, the good times, the little moments that made someone who they were. And then, just as quickly, the tears come. Because those same memories remind us there’s now an empty seat where they once sat, a silence where their voice used to be.
It’s both at once — laughter and tears, sweetness and salt. And maybe that’s what the Margarita reminds us: life is mixed. You can’t sip only the sweet and ignore the sting. You take them together. And when you do, you discover even the salt rimmed around the glass has its place.
Isn’t that life? Always both. The good and the bad, the sweet and the sour, the joy and the sadness. And if this were a country bar instead of a cocktail post, this is probably where someone would cue up Garth Brooks. Because he said it best in The Dance: “I could have missed the pain, but I’d have had to miss the dance.”
We don’t get one without the other. The tears prove the love was real. The ache shows us the joy was worth it. Grief, after all, is just love with nowhere to go.
Or, as Winnie the Pooh so simply put it: “How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”
May the salt on your lips remind you of the tears you’ve shed.
May the sweetness on your tongue remind you of the joy that still lingers.
May the stories you tell bring both laughter and ache —
and may you know that even in the mixture of grief and gratitude,
grace has a place at the table.
Bar Lore
Like many classic drinks, the Margarita’s exact origin is a little blurry. Some say it was first poured in Tijuana in the 1930s. Others claim it was invented for a Dallas socialite named Margarita. Another story points to Juárez in the 1940s. But what most agree on is this: it belongs to the “daisy” family of cocktails — a classic formula of spirit, citrus, and liqueur. In fact, “margarita” is Spanish for “daisy.”
From its hazy beginnings, the Margarita grew into a worldwide favorite. Today it’s one of the most popular cocktails in the U.S. — whether served frozen (God help the poor bartender cleaning that machine) or shaken fresh over ice.
Recipe: The Margarita
2 oz tequila (blanco or reposado)
1 oz Cointreau (or triple sec)
1 oz fresh lime juice
Salt rim (optional, but highly recommended)
Shake with ice, strain into a rocks glass with a salted rim. Garnish with lime.
Zero-proof option: swap in non-alcoholic tequila and orange liqueur alternatives with fresh lime.
A Note of Care:
If you’re in recovery, please know this post is never meant to romanticize alcohol or overlook its very real dangers. The sacred can be found in tea, water, coffee, or stillness just as surely as in a cocktail glass. If drinking brings harm rather than healing — to you or to those you love — may you feel zero shame and full freedom to find your altar elsewhere. What matters isn’t what’s in the glass, but what opens your heart.
Lee Corso made a career out of three little words: “Not so fast!” Delivered with a grin, a wag of the finger, and just enough mischief to keep everyone guessing, it was part joke, part interruption, part blessing. When he said it for the final time on his last ESPN College GameDay , it struck me that those words might be the sermon we all need. Because if we’re honest, most of us are living way too fast. We rush through conversations, multitask our way through meals, scroll past sunsets we barely notice, and plan the next big thing while overlooking the small, holy things happening right now. We’re always sprinting toward “what’s next,” which means we rarely pause long enough to savor what is. In my work with grieving families, I hear a truth again and again: when someone we love dies, it isn’t the big occasions we miss most. It’s the little things . The way he’d whistle while cooking breakfast on a Saturday morning. The way she’d slip her hand into his during a TV show. The sound of her laugh carrying through the house. Those are the things that stick. The everyday moments we barely noticed while they were happening—until suddenly, they’re gone. And only then do we realize how sacred those little things really were. I miss my Saturday football bets with my stepdad—something we did almost every Saturday for years. It wasn’t about the money (there wasn’t much of that anyway). It was the rhythm: the calls, the smack talk, the friendly second-guessing of coaches who would never hear us. A ritual stitched together one autumn at a time. This year, I’m starting that ritual with my two grown sons. Different Saturdays, same heartbeat. Scores and spreads, sure—but mostly a reason to show up for each other. To hear their voices. To make the small thing big again. And I miss Scrabble games with my mom—the quiet competitiveness, the eye she’d give me when I “accidentally” used a questionable word. I miss her laugh most of all. That sound was its own benediction over an ordinary evening. Kids grow up too fast. Parents pass away too early. The calendar insists we keep moving. But Corso’s raspy little reminder pushes back: Not so fast, my friend. The Bible names this rhythm Sabbath—a weekly way of saying not so fast. Rest. Breathe. Remember you are more than what you produce. Jesus lived with that same unhurried attention: lilies, sparrows, children, a tax collector in a tree. He didn’t rush past them. He saw them. He made the little moments holy. I think that’s the secret inside Corso’s catchphrase. It interrupts our certainty and our speed. It creates a pocket of time where we can notice again—be it a goofy mascot head or the person sitting across the table. When we slow down, the little things become altars : The phone call that doesn’t have a “point” beyond hearing a familiar voice. The grandchild’s drawing stays on the fridge longer than the calendar says it should. The first sip of coffee before the house wakes up. A well-worn game board and a laugh that fills the room. These aren’t headlines. They’re sacraments of the everyday. And if we’re going too fast, we’ll miss them. Lee Corso’s farewell wasn’t just about football or mascot heads. It was about a life spent showing up, savoring the moment, and never taking himself too seriously. That’s what he gave us, week after week—a reason to laugh, to pause, to notice. And maybe that’s what made his catchphrase feel like a benediction. So maybe that’s the blessing we carry forward: Not so fast, my friend. Not so fast when grief feels like it should be over. Not so fast when joy seems too small to matter. Not so fast when life pushes you to hurry past the wonder of an ordinary day. Slow down. Breathe. Call your people. Place your tiles on the board. Make your silly bets. Laugh in the kitchen. The altar might already be right in front of you.
I have a confession to make: I’m not a big Negroni drinker. It’s a little too bitter for me. I’ve heard bitterness is a taste you can develop, so maybe one day I’ll get there. For now, though, I’m defintely in the minority. You see, plenty of people love the Negroni. In fact, Drinks International recently asked a hundred bars across 33 countries to list their most popular classic cocktails. For the second year in a row, the Negroni took the crown. And it’s more than just a drink — it’s become a movement. Back in 2013, Imbibe Magazine launched Negroni Week , both as a celebration of one of the world’s great cocktails and as a way to raise money for charity. What started with about 120 bars has grown to thousands worldwide, raising over $5 million for good causes. Not bad for a drink that began as a twist on the Americano in Florence over a century ago. Still, I’ll be honest: bitterness isn’t a flavor I usually chase. Sweet, sure. Strong, definitely. But bitter? That one’s harder to love. And yet bitterness has a way of finding us. It comes with the end of a relationship — no matter whose fault it was. It can creep in when a father walks away and leaves silence in his place. It can root itself in the wounds of an abusive relationship, or in the words you can’t unsay, the moments you can’t undo. On its own, bitterness can consume you. It narrows your world. It makes joy feel impossible. But here’s the thing: bitterness doesn’t have to have the last word. You can choose to carry it forever, or you can choose — slowly, painfully, bravely — to let grace meet it. To let healing do its quiet work. That doesn’t mean the bitterness disappears. It will always be part of the story. But it doesn’t have to be the whole story. When it’s held in balance — with sweetness, with strength, with the surprising mercy of grace — bitterness can deepen you instead of destroying you. But let’s be honest — finding sweetness in life’s bitterness isn’t easy. Sometimes grace feels miles away, and the sharpness lingers longer than we’d like. I know in my own life there are seasons where it’s hard to believe anything good could come out of the pain. Healing doesn’t happen overnight, and balance doesn’t arrive with one stir of the spoon. And yet — sometimes all it takes is one crack in the dam. A song that brings back a memory. A friend who listens without fixing. A prayer whispered when you’re not even sure you believe it. Or even just a single tear finally allowed to fall. In those fragile moments, bitterness loosens its grip. The heart softens. And somehow, the edges of grace begin to shine through. Grace doesn’t erase the bitterness. It sits beside it, carries it, and whispers that this isn’t the whole story. Over time, sweetness and strength begin to mingle in. And what once felt unendurable can, somehow, become part of a story still worth savoring. That’s the beauty of the Negroni. It doesn’t try to hide its bitterness. It wears it openly. But when it’s paired with the right companions, what once felt harsh becomes something worth savoring. And here’s a little fun fact: by the strict 1806 definition, the Negroni technically isn’t even a cocktail. Back then, a “cocktail” meant spirits, sugar, water, and bitters — which makes the Old Fashioned the textbook example. The Negroni? It cheats. Instead of sugar and bitters, you get sweet vermouth and Campari, pulling off the same job in their own way. Turns out even cocktails don’t always fit the rules. And maybe that’s how life really is — it doesn’t always fit neatly either. It’s a mixture of bitter and sweet, good and not-so-good. Yet somehow, when it’s all stirred together, there’s still something to be savored. And maybe that’s the unlikely altar the Negroni offers us: the reminder that even bitterness can belong, and even sharp edges can hold grace. So, may the bitter not consume you. May the sharp edges soften when the tears come. May the cracks in your heart become openings for grace. And may you taste, in time, the sweetness that still waits to be found. Bar Lore The Negroni is believed to have originated in Florence, Italy, around 1919. Legend has it that Count Camillo Negroni asked his bartender to stiffen his favorite drink — the Americano (Campari, sweet vermouth, soda) — by swapping soda water for gin. The simple tweak caught on, and soon everyone was ordering their Americano “the Negroni way.” Even James Bond had one. In Ian Fleming’s short story Risico (part of For Your Eyes Only), Bond orders a Negroni — made with Gordon’s gin — long before the Vesper Martini became his signature on screen. Apparently even 007 wasn’t immune to the drink’s sharp charm. Recipe: The Negroni 1 oz gin 1 oz Campari 1 oz sweet vermouth Stir with ice, then strain into a rocks glass over fresh ice (or serve up, if you prefer). Garnish with an orange peel or slice. Zero-proof option: swap in non-alcoholic gin, NA bitter aperitif (like Lyre’s Italian Orange), and NA vermouth. A Note of Care: If you’re in recovery, please know this post is never meant to romanticize alcohol or overlook its very real dangers. The sacred can be found in tea, water, coffee, or stillness just as surely as in a cocktail glass. If drinking brings harm rather than healing — to you or to those you love — may you feel zero shame and full freedom to find your altar elsewhere. What matters isn’t what’s in the glass, but what opens your heart.
Note: This post reflects on a cocktail, but really it’s about ritual and grace. If alcohol isn’t for you, the altar can be tea, coffee, water, or stillness just the same. I didn’t develop a taste for the Old Fashioned until Hurricane Harvey. I didn’t lose power, but the floodwaters rose all around me, turning streets into rivers and plans into question marks. For days, I was stuck inside — not in danger, just surrounded. Restless. Grateful. One slow afternoon, I remembered something I had read — a description of an Old Fashioned, elegant in its simplicity: bourbon, bitters, sugar, orange peel. So, I made one. Not to escape, but to pause. To breathe. To anchor myself in something steady. I didn’t know then that I was stepping into a kind of ritual — that the act of making this drink, slowly and with intention, would become a quiet practice for me. A way of creating a small altar in the middle of uncertainty. Now — before we go any further, let’s talk about the name: Old Fashioned. It sounds like something your granddad might order right after telling you how gas used to be 29 cents a gallon. Or like your aunt who still writes checks at the grocery store and thinks “LOL” means “lots of love.” But the drink itself? It’s aged beautifully. Simple, steady, and still showing up on menus everywhere. Turns out “old-fashioned” isn’t always an insult. Sometimes it just means tried-and-true. Later, I learned that the Old Fashioned is considered one of the earliest cocktails, dating back to the early 1800s. Originally called a “whiskey cocktail,” it was just spirits, sugar, water, and bitters. Over time, as drinks got fancier and more complicated, some folks asked for it to be made “the old-fashioned way.” The name stuck. Simplicity became its signature. There’s something almost liturgical about the process — not in the sense of organ music or stained glass, but in the steady rhythm of it all. The slow swirl of the spoon. The clink of ice settling into glass. The careful peel of citrus, not just for garnish, but as a kind of offering. It’s a ritual that invites you to slow down and pay attention. Like any good liturgy, it’s not meant to be rushed. You don’t chug an Old Fashioned. You honor it. You sit with it. You let it open you up — not for escape, but for reflection, maybe even reverence. It’s no surprise that so many of us reach for rituals when we’re weary. Whether it’s lighting a candle, saying a prayer, walking the same wooded trail, or crafting the perfect cocktail, there’s comfort in repetition. A sacred rhythm in doing something the old way — not because it’s trendy, but because it tethers us to something older, deeper, steadier. The Old Fashioned is often seen as a “dad drink,” a grandfather’s favorite, a retro relic. Maybe that’s part of its charm. It connects us to people we miss. To stories we’ve heard at the corner of a bar or the edge of a kitchen counter. It reminds us that presence matters. That slow is sacred. In some strange way, the Old Fashioned mirrors the gospel. Because the gospel, like the drink, is simple at its heart — just a few core ingredients: love, mercy, truth. Not flashy. Not complicated. But with power that sneaks up on you. It’s meant to be savored, not rushed. Received, not conquered. Shared, not hoarded. And like any good ritual, grace is best experienced in community. Over stories. Laughter. Honest confessions. And maybe even a few regrets. You can’t microwave an Old Fashioned. And you can’t fast-track grace. Both require a kind of patience that modern life resists. You have to show up. Measure things out. Pay attention. Trust the process. Maybe even believe that slowing down isn’t laziness, but holiness. I’ve come to believe that even small rituals — especially in the moments when no one else is around — can hold us together. So here’s to the Old-Fashioned. And to all the unlikely altars we find in things stirred slowly, tasted deeply, and shared freely. May your glass be full — not just of bourbon and bitters, but of memory, meaning, mercy, and maybe a maraschino cherry if that’s how you roll. And may you always find God — not just in stained glass or scripture, but in the hush of an evening, the rhythm of a sacred habit, and the grace that still finds us, even when the lights are on and the streets are flooded. A Note of Care: If you’re in recovery, please know this post is never meant to romanticize alcohol or overlook its very real dangers. The sacred can be found in tea, water, coffee, or stillness just as surely as in a cocktail glass. If drinking brings harm rather than healing — to you or to those you love — may you feel zero shame and full freedom to find your altar elsewhere. What matters isn’t what’s in the glass, but what opens your heart. Recipe: The Old Fashioned 1 sugar cube (or ½ tsp dark sugar) Splash of soda water 2–3 dashes Angostura bitters 2 dashes orange bitters 2 oz rye or bourbon (I like James E. Pepper 116 proof rye for backbone) Garnish: Amarena cherry (never maraschino) and/or orange peel Method : Muddle the sugar cube with bitters and a splash of soda water in a rocks glass until it dissolves. Add whiskey and ice. Stir slowly until chilled. Garnish with an orange peel twist or, if you must, an Amarena cherry. Sip. Savor. Do not rush.