Blackberry Basil Moscow Mules

Harlan summer — green so deep it looks black at noon. Worked at the construction company in Lexington this week. The body holds. Most days.

Connie at the vet clinic, four shifts this week. Her back is tired. She does not say so. I see it. Mama is 86. She is the toughest person I have ever known. She still cooks every day in the company house in Evarts.

Cornbread in the cast iron. No sugar. Buttermilk. Crisp edge. The way Mama made it. The way Mama's mother made it before her.

Travis called Tuesday. The landscaping company is busy. He sounds tired in a good way. Amber called Sunday. Things are good. James sends his regards.

The creek was running clear. The turkeys were back. The week was the week.

Sunday service at Harlan First Baptist when we go. Pastor preached about Ruth and Boaz. The choir sang. Connie wore her gray dress.

Drove to Pineville for parts Wednesday. The hardware store man knew me. We talked about the weather and the price of feed. Forty minutes for a five-minute errand. That is rural Kentucky.

Amber sent the kids' school photos this week. Nadia is taller every year. Marcus has Amber's serious face. Little Betty has Mama's eyes.

Travis sent a photo of Earl Thomas riding on the mower with him at a job site. The boy is wearing a Hensley Landscaping T-shirt that's too big. Three generations on a mower. I saved the photo.

I checked the truck oil Saturday. The mileage on this truck is criminal.

Worked on a basement remodel job in Lexington. The work was good. The pay was good. The body is tired.

Drove the truck to the dump Saturday afternoon. Saw three deer crossing the road on the way back. The mountains have been giving back this year.

I split a half-cord of wood Saturday. Slowly. The back does not let me work fast anymore. It got done. The wood was for the smokehouse.

The dog — old Beau, fifteen years old — slept by the wood stove all afternoon Tuesday. He used to be a hunting dog. Now he is a heating pad with opinions.

I went up to Earl's grave at the Evarts cemetery Saturday. Brought a beer. Drank half. Poured the rest on the dirt. Some traditions are mine alone.

Connie cut my hair on the porch Tuesday afternoon. She has been cutting my hair for forty years. The barber in Pineville cannot do what Connie does, which is also love.

Connie read aloud from a novel Tuesday evening while I worked on the bench. Some Appalachian writer she had picked up at the library in Whitesburg. The voice was the voice of where we live. We listened together.

Connie made jam Saturday afternoon. Wild blackberries from the patch up the hollow. Twelve jars. The pantry is filling for winter.

Read the paper at breakfast Tuesday. The county news is not great. The mines have not come back and they will not come back. The young people leave. The hollows empty. We stay.

The neighbor up the road — Old Roy, eighty-seven, lives alone — had a small heart scare. We took him soup beans Tuesday. Cornbread too. He cried a little when he ate. We all cry over soup beans eventually.

I sat at the kitchen table Tuesday night working on the recipe project. Mama's soup beans. I cannot get the words right yet.

My back was tight after the wood-splitting Saturday. Took an Aleve. Slept eight hours. Got up.

I sat on the porch with bourbon at sundown Friday. The fog rolled into the hollow the way it has every fog of every year. The porch was the porch. The bourbon was the bourbon.

Connie put up twelve jars of wild blackberry jam from the patch up the hollow on Saturday, and there were always berries that didn’t make it into a jar — the ones you eat standing over the pot, the ones that stain your fingers before supper. Friday evening, when the fog rolled into the hollow the way it always has and always will, I thought about those blackberries and the bourbon already in my hand, and figured the porch deserved something a little more considered than a plain glass. This drink is for the end of a week like that one — tired in the back, full in the heart, watching the mountains give back what they always give.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 5 minutes | Total Time: 15 minutes | Servings: 2

Ingredients

1 cup fresh or frozen blackberries, plus extra for garnish
6–8 fresh basil leaves, plus extra for garnish
2 tablespoons sugar (or to taste)
2 tablespoons fresh lime juice (about 1 lime)
4 oz vodka
1 cup ginger beer, chilled
Ice (crushed preferred)
Lime wedges, for garnish

Instructions

Make the blackberry basil smash. In a small saucepan over medium heat, combine the blackberries, sugar, and 2 tablespoons of water. Stir and cook for 4–5 minutes until the berries break down and the mixture thickens slightly into a loose syrup. Remove from heat and let cool for 5 minutes.
Muddle the basil. Divide the fresh basil leaves between two copper mugs or heavy glasses. Gently muddle the basil 4–5 times to release the oils — don’t shred it, just bruise it.
Strain the blackberry syrup. Press the cooled blackberry mixture through a fine mesh strainer or cheesecloth into a small bowl or measuring cup, discarding the seeds and solids. You should have about 1/3 cup of deep purple syrup.
Build the drinks. Fill each mug generously with crushed ice. Add 2 oz of vodka per mug, then divide the blackberry syrup evenly between both. Add 1 tablespoon of fresh lime juice to each.
Top and stir. Pour 1/2 cup of chilled ginger beer into each mug and give a gentle stir to combine without losing the fizz.
Garnish and serve. Tuck a few fresh blackberries and a sprig of basil into each mug. Add a lime wedge on the rim. Serve immediately on the porch, before the fog gets too thick to see the hollow.

Nutrition (per serving)

Blackberry Basil Moscow Mules — From the Hollow to the Porch Glass