#cocktail — Public Fediverse posts

#Cocktail - Brooklyn Sour

60ml Cognac (Remy Martin), 15ml lemon juice, 10ml dbl syrup, 10ml red wine float. Shake, small rocks glass, maraschino cherry

One of those East Coast sours with a float. Tricky to get it to look just right.

Holidays in Speranza

Which fictional world would be the most fun to vacation in?

Less effort. More confidence.
Things happen naturally when you feel your destiny is to shine.

The winter holidays in Speranza always began with a thick blanket of pure white snow, turning the small Italian hill village into a quiet, shining painting. The cold wind blew through the old stone streets, but hidden under a stone arch covered in dark green ivy, a heavy wooden door kept the freezing air out. A small iron sign hung above it, reading La Pagina che Fa le Fusa.

Inside the tea shop, the air was deeply warm and smelled beautifully of old paper, fresh rosemary, and the sweet, calming scent of chamomile. Moira Hopes, the local doctor and owner of this quiet sanctuary, sat in the middle of the room in a large, slightly worn bordeaux velvet armchair. Her hands rested on the soft fabric, and a small smile touched her face as she listened to the low, steady sound of happy cats purring.

On a plaid wool blanket right next to her slept Ashwaganda, a large ginger cat with very long, thick fur. High above them, sitting perfectly still on a wooden bookshelf packed with colorful books, was Toe. He was an elegant black Maine Coon with bright green eyes that watched every shadow in the room. The shop felt like a place completely outside of normal time, where the only things that mattered were good books and hot tea.

But this peaceful holiday evening was about to break. The brass bell above the door rang with a sharp, sudden noise.

Three women rushed inside, bringing a rush of cold wind with them. They were Moira’s three best friends, and together, they were the heart of the village. First was Altea, the strong and sharp owner of the Cigar House. Her heavy wool coat always carried the deep, rich smell of the finest unlit cigars. Behind her came Anna, who ran the Coffee Taverna. Her hands were warm, and her clothes smelled deeply of freshly roasted coffee beans. Finally, there was Marisa, the careful and proud owner of Mint Choccolet, a sweet treasure house where she imported the most precious sweet products from every corner of the world.

“Moira, you must come quickly,” Altea said. Her voice was usually loud and confident, but tonight it was a scared whisper.

Anna nodded, her eyes wide with fear. “It is the grand holiday party at the old town hall. Something terrible has happened.”

Marisa pulled her white scarf tight around her neck. “A man is dead, Moira. Right in the middle of the music and the lights. And the police think one of us did it.”

Moira stood up at once. As a doctor, her mind shifted instantly from peaceful rest to sharp focus. She grabbed her thick winter coat. Without needing to be called, Toe jumped down from the high shelf with a soft thud, and Ashwaganda stretched his long ginger body, ready to follow.

They walked quickly through the snowy streets of Speranza. The village was covered in bright holiday lights, but the festive feeling was completely gone. A crowd of silent, worried people stood outside the tall wooden doors of the town hall. Inside, the grand room was beautifully decorated with green pine branches and red ribbons, but everyone was staring at the floor near the large stone fireplace.

A man lay flat on his back on the cold stone. He was dressed in a very expensive gray suit. Moira recognized him immediately. It was Lord Harrington, a wealthy and cruel man who visited Speranza every winter to buy local land and collect old debts. His face was frozen in a mask of total shock.

Standing over the body was Ispettore Salomone. The policeman looked incredibly tired, his shoulders heavy with the weight of the job. When he saw Moira, he let out a long breath.

“Doctor Hopes,” Ispettore Salomone said, his voice completely worn out. “Please, tell me this is a simple heart attack.”

Moira knelt beside the wealthy man. Her hands moved with careful, practiced grace as she checked his neck and his eyes. There were no marks on his skin. There was no sign of a fight. But as she leaned close to his mouth, her trained nose caught a very faint, strange smell. It was not the smell of the holiday pine trees. It was the sharp, bitter scent of almonds, hidden just underneath a very strong, fake smell of sweet mint.

“This was no heart attack, Ispettore,” Moira said quietly. Her voice sent a cold chill through the warm room. “He was poisoned.”

The crowd gasped. Ispettore Salomone frowned deeply. “How? He was standing in the middle of the room, talking to everyone. What did he eat? What did he drink?”

Salomone pointed a tired finger at a small table near the fire. On the table rested three items. There was a delicate porcelain cup half-full of dark coffee from Anna’s Coffee Taverna. Next to it was an open silver wrapper holding a piece of very rare, gold-flaked chocolate from Marisa’s Mint Choccolet. Finally, resting in a glass tray, was a half-smoked, expensive cigar from Altea’s Cigar House.

“He only had things from your three friends,” Salomone said softly, looking at Moira. “The coffee, the sweet, and the smoke. One of these things killed him. I have to close their shops. I have to question them all.”

Altea, Anna, and Marisa looked at each other in total shock. Their faces were completely pale. They had worked their whole lives to build their beautiful shops in the village. Now, they were the main suspects in a terrible crime.

“Wait,” Moira said firmly. “Give me until midnight, Ispettore. Do not lock their doors yet. Let me look at the clues. There is a puzzle here, and it is entirely hidden in the shadows.”

Salomone respected Moira’s sharp mind. He gave a slow nod. “Midnight. No later.”

Moira took her three friends and her two cats back to the quiet safety of La Pagina che Fa le Fusa. She locked the heavy wooden door against the cold wind. The tea shop felt like a warm fortress. She sat down at a round wooden table, surrounded by small ceramic vases holding fresh sprigs of rosemary.

“We are innocent, Moira,” Marisa cried, covering her face with her hands. “I imported that chocolate myself. It was perfect.”

“My coffee is roasted fresh every single morning,” Anna said, her voice shaking.

Altea crossed her arms tightly. “And that cigar was hand-rolled. No one touched it but me.”

Moira raised a hand for silence. She walked over to a special shelf and reached for a very specific book. It was not a grand, scary book of magic, but a deeply personal, beautiful object that felt like a secret friend. The cover was made of very soft, aged leather in a faded peacock-blue color. It had no title written on it, only a silver picture of a sleeping cat curled tightly around an old, detailed key. The silver was dark in the deep lines, showing its great age.

This was Days of your Dreams, a strange and magical book Moira had found in the dusty village market. The edges of the thick, creamy-yellow pages were old and uneven. When Moira opened it, the pages made a soft rustling sound and released the dry, quiet smell of pressed flowers and old dust. The words inside were not printed in normal black ink, but in a shimmering silver ink that caught the light of the small table lamps.

Moira turned the pages carefully. She was looking for a very specific kind of poison, something that smelled of bitter almonds and fake mint.

Suddenly, Ashwaganda jumped onto the table. The fluffy ginger cat stared down at the open book with his wise amber eyes. He tapped his soft paw on a page filled with short, poetic paragraphs and small, hand-drawn pictures of stars in the margins.

Moira read the silver writing out loud. “The sweet bite takes the blame, but the truth is cold. Look not at the food on the plate, but at the ice that holds the snake.”

“Ice?” Anna asked, looking confused. “There was no ice in his coffee.”

Moira closed her eyes, thinking deeply like a master detective putting pieces together in her mind. She thought about a classic Hitchcock movie, where the real danger is placed right in front of everyone, but hidden in plain sight. She remembered the small table by the fireplace.

At that exact moment, Toe, the black cat, let out a sharp cry from the floor. He was batting wildly at something shiny he had found near the bottom of Altea’s heavy wool coat. Altea reached down and picked it up. It was a tiny piece of silver foil, exactly like the wrapper from Marisa’s chocolate. But this piece of foil was wet and smelled strongly of harsh, bad chemicals.

“Where did you get this, Altea?” Moira asked sharply.

“I… I bumped into Lord Harrington’s young helper, Leo, right before the party started,” Altea explained, looking at the wet foil. “He was carrying a silver tray with a large ice sculpture for the center of the room. He bumped into me and dropped a piece of trash. I guess it stuck to my coat.”

Moira’s eyes opened wide. The pieces of the puzzle slammed together in her head.

“The poison was not inside the coffee, the cigar, or the sweet chocolate,” Moira said, her voice rising with sudden energy. “The poison was frozen inside the ice sculpture! As the hot fire in the town hall melted the ice, the poison slowly dripped down onto the table. It soaked into the wrapper of the chocolate. It splashed into the coffee cup. Leo set it up so that no matter what Lord Harrington touched on that table, the poison would get onto his hands and into his mouth!”

“But why?” Marisa gasped.

“Because Leo knew Lord Harrington carried a very special key,” Moira explained rapidly. “A key to the old village vault where he kept the deeds to all your shops. Leo wanted to steal the papers, take the money, and let the three of you take the blame for the murder!”

They had to stop him. The clock on the wall showed it was almost midnight.

Moira, Altea, Anna, and Marisa ran out of the tea shop and back into the freezing night. The two cats ran fast beside them, their paws quiet on the deep snow. They did not go to the town hall. They ran straight to the old stone vault at the very edge of the village square.

The heavy iron door of the vault was slightly open. A warm, yellow light flickered from inside.

Moira pushed the door open. Inside, surrounded by stacks of old papers and boxes of stolen money, stood Leo. He was holding Lord Harrington’s old key in one hand and a lit lantern in the other. When he saw the four women and the two cats, his face twisted into a mask of pure anger.

“You should have stayed in your little tea shop, Doctor,” Leo hissed, his eyes cold and dangerous.

“It is over, Leo,” Moira said firmly, standing tall in the doorway. “We know about the ice. We know about the poison. Ispettore Salomone is on his way right now.”

Leo did not drop the key. He did not look scared. Instead, a terrible, dark smile spread slowly across his face.

“You figured out the ice, Doctor,” Leo whispered, his voice echoing in the cold stone vault. “But you are much too late to figure out the fire.”

Leo suddenly threw the heavy iron door shut right in their faces. The heavy lock clicked with a loud, final snap, trapping Moira, Altea, Anna, and Marisa completely inside the vault with him.

Leo raised the glass lantern high above his head. He looked down at the floor, which was suddenly soaked in a dark, strong-smelling liquid that was definitely not water. He looked right at Moira, his smile growing wider and more terrifying by the second.

Then, he dropped the lantern.

Frank & Nancy SINATRA - Something Stupid (1967) reprise

🎧 https://youtu.be/0f48fpoSEPU

#musicselection #1960s
#easylistening #crooner #cocktail

@Backstage Moin gute Fee, das sieht ja wieder schick hier aus. Danke für deinen Einsatz.

Falls noch ein Tropfen Koffein übrig ist, nehm ich einen Espresso zum Start. Ach und ich bin mir noch nicht sicher, ob dieser Claudia Cocktail von gestern wirklich mein Getränk zum Feierabend ist. War da Mango drin?

#Mastondon #Cocktail #musicspots