Shots Shots Shots et al: Green Molly

Shots Shots Shots et al: Green Molly

I don't recall the first shot that I ever did, only that I did a lot of them. And, technically, I don't even recollect the actual act of doing them.

In fact, the only thing I do remember was waking up in a bedroom I didn't recognize. After peeking out the window and seeing the physics building I was able to gather that I was in the dorms on the southeast side of the campus. 

Oh yes, and there was the guy who was also in the bed with me. His bed, I assumed.

I rolled him over and, in spite of my haze, I was able to place the face. It was a close friend of one of the other dorm residents from down the hall in my dorm building and whom I fancied because of his impossibly black hair, his rebellious eyebrow piercing that rebuked my WASP-y upbringing, and the color of his eyes — like icy fjords reflecting blue sky. His hair was mussed to hell but still unbearably charming and his skin effused with the reek of cheap liquor.

The shots were likely to blame. That and my own inebriated judgment. My guess was that the shots weren't anything fancy, let alone good. I imagined that as of this morning the Brita pitcher of cheap vodka that lived in my fridge empty. Being 18, I purchased via a 21 year old friend the most bottom shelf, plastic jugged, antiseptic booze I could afford and would run it a few times through a Brita filter to take off most of the burn. Afterwards I would add lemon peels to infuse it. The results weren't terribly bad.

Normally, I saved this and mixed it with Mike's Hard Lemonade (which was all the rage in 2001, FYI), but having just completed our first semester demanded a real party and a real party meant shots. Lots of shots of Brita filtered lemon vodka.

I backed from the window to the bed and stumbled on red solo cup with a few pieces of bitten lime wedges laying forgotten. Apparently, tequila might have also been a player.

And, next to the cup, a small pile of used condoms.

So, you know, yay for thorough Middle School sex ed classes sticking with me in the moment I was most mowed ever. Remember kids, abstinence-only education is bullshit because drunk fucking is a thing.


I looked over to see him semi-awake. "Hi."

"We were safe," he said, mostly into his pillow and less to me. Though I couldn't see his face I could tell he was attempting a smile through the hangover.

"Thank you. Good. Yeah. Um... God, I'm sorry. I think I'm actually dying right now." I gripped my head as the veins around my brain began to squeeze with hate.

"Me too. It was a lot of shots. Like, a lot."

"Tequila? I think I smell lime on my fingers," I sniffed my hands.

"Possibly? I don't know. Maybe? Lemon vodka definitely happened." So one mystery solved. He pulled me over and kissed my hand. "That part was your fault, I know."

We laughed and then both fell back asleep. I woke before he did and before I left wrote my number in sharpie on his inner thigh, which I hoped he would think was adorable and quirky. Really, I just couldn't find scrap paper in his mess of a dorm room what with the world still terribly bright and all spinny-like.

He called. On the second date he proved to be terribly boring and unnervingly obsessed with Nelly Furtado. There was no third.

Be sure to join the newsletter and get all the drink recipes, stories, and boozy links from around the web twice a month!

Sophistication never looked to delightfully inebriating.

Sophistication never looked to delightfully inebriating.

Green Molly

Let's be honest: most shots are terrible. Either they're straight shooters of awful spirits that one generally doesn't choose to drink, or they're made of layers of ill-matching, over-sweetened liqueurs that rot your teeth on contact. They were almost always composed of the few available liqueurs bartenders could find in the 90s such as peach schnapps, butterscotch schnapps, kahlua or terrible mixtures of all three.

Today, more spirits are available and so drinks have become more refined. This begin the case, why not give some class to shooters?

This shooter is composed of gin, some floral St. Germain, and a touch of Chartreuse for depth. A spritz of lime lingers at the end so you start sweet, carry on with an herbal punch, and end on a sour note. Rather posh, I'd say.

Also expected of a shot? A raunchy or offensive name. As this is a slight riff of a Russian Quaalude, I've decided to honor/mock my own generation and call it a Green Molly.

You may sharkface a teeny-tiny bit, but that's to be expected of any shot. Though the reason here is simply due to lack of dilution as shots don't get shaken or stirred. Take this recipe and stir it in a cocktail glass with a bit of ice for 10 seconds and it'll transform into a lovely after dinner digestif well-suited for warm weather.

What You'll Need:

What You'll Do:

Place the liquids into a shot glass. Spritz the lime over the top. Shoot. Repeat until you forget the recipe.

Cats and Violets: Scattered Clouds

Cats and Violets: Scattered Clouds

Lazy: Sparkling Rosé Lemonade

Lazy: Sparkling Rosé Lemonade