Stay tuned for grappa

It's official: I am a bad influence on my mother. And I have proof. Perhaps even 80 proof.

Mom has never really been one for alcohol. To say, she gags on wine coolers and has never been drunk since she falls asleep long before a second serving would allow her to get loopy. She's a sport, though, so she will give almost anything a delicate sip. And so I have had her sipping quite a bit lately.

It started in Venice where I ordered “vino rosso della casa” -- the house red wine – with my gnocchi at the table pounding restaurant. It was a young, light, uncomplicated wine that Mom sipped – and sipped again -- and declared it one that she could drink quite a bit of, perhaps even a full glass all by herself.

Then in Dubrovnik, I ordered a local white wine to go with our Authentic Bosnian lunch served at a restaurant named Taj Mahal. I would say they need a new marketing manager but the place seemed to be doing just fine despite the incongruity of name and cuisine. Anyway, the roasted red peppers drenched in olive oil and garlic, and the seven little beef rolls tucked in a dense and chewy homemade bread pocket were marginally complemented by a Croatian white wine that started with a “P.” It was golden yellow, sort of a Chardonnay color verging towards apple juice. Actually, it reminded me of the color of white wine that has long turned to vinegar. The smell and taste – to me – were distinctively honey. A mead wine of sorts. A bit thick, a touch syrupy, and a little sweet with a bite. Mom, being game and thinking maybe house wines weren't so bad after all, took a big sip. The four photo sequence of her scrunched-face reaction is simply fabulous. To say she wasn't a fan would severely understate her assessment of Croat wines. She looked extraordinarily skeptical when I later noted the wine was improving with more sips. She declined proof.

So imagine my surprise when at dinner last night, Mom perked up when our Macedonian bar girl did her requisite sales job about the evening's specialty drink in celebration of our ship's Italian Night (complete with Asian wait staff amusingly uniformed in striped gondolier shirts and matching neck kerchiefs.) “Homemade limoncello and you get to keep the souvenir glass!” It was described as lemon, sugar, and alcohol. Yep, that about sums up limoncello. Tasty stuff if the proportions are correct; flame-throwing citric NyQuil if not. “We should try that!” declared Mom with a reckless enthusiasm I wish I had inherited.

Without any commentary or warning from me, we ordered one limoncello to share. When it arrived, our five table mates oohed-and-aahed and eagerly awaited an assessment. I took a sip and was pleased it was more sweet and less hot (alcoholy) than prior versions I've tried. As Mom got ready to sip, I passed my camera to Janet from New Brunswick (LOVE their bowling equipment!) and asked if she wouldn't mind taking a few photos. Janet looked a bit confused so I explained, “Mom doesn't really drink alcohol.” The whole table snapped to attention and got very lively with anticipation. I think a few surrounding tables were jealous of all the fun we were suddenly having. Janet couldn't quite work my camera so we insisted Mom take about four sips to allow for proper photo ops. Again, a simply spectacular photo sequence of Mom thoroughly not enjoying the strongest alcohol she'd had since she misunderstood her holiday rum ball recipe.

You would think with this bumpy track record, Mom would be shying away from the exotic alcohol scene. Nope, not my mom. She's awesome, And fearless.

Today was our first stop in Greece. We spent the day on the island of Corfu, a northern island that has a long history being occupied by just about everyone except the US and Papua New Guinea. It's a beautiful island, surrounded by the bluest water I've ever seen. Bougainvilleas, hibiscus, palm trees, cypress, and olive trees fill in the spaces between the stucco and tile and yellowish rock.

We spent the morning on our first organized shore excursion: Greek cooking lessons at a fancy-pants restaurant in the hills above Corfu Town. It was rather magical. It has been raining for the past five days, we were told, but today's bright blue skies and mid-70s temps allowed us to sit on a cozy stone patio under palm and Greek aspen trees. Our table of six Americans agreed the aspens looked much more like cottonwoods.

We sampled and then learned how to make a number of appetizers including tzatziki (yogurt with garlic and cucumbers – FANTASTIC!) and taramousalata (its base is a fish roe paste – not as horrid as I feared but I still surreptitiously wiped my fork off on my bread). The main course was moussaka – a very tasty eggplant, potato, and beef dish layered like lasagna and topped with a bechamel sauce that made it almost dessert-like.

And served to drink? Homemade wine – both red and white -- and ouzo. Ouzo? Ouzo, a very strong aperitif made from anise seeds. It is clear but is served mixed with water that cuts it a bit as well as turns it a cloudy white. I had sampled the very similar Turkish version (raki) years ago so I knew I wasn't going to enjoy it since I much prefer my licorice to be red, not black. But Mom has always liked black licorice. I thought there might be a chance she'd like the flavor but I was certain the strength of the alcohol would overwhelm her taste buds. Guess what? Mikey, she liked it! She really liked it! She actually did a better job finishing hers than I did finishing mine. Color me stunned.

Of course, the best part of the story is that in years to come, Mom will be able to join in alcohol conversations and will unwittingly earn the awe and respect of all gathered by saying, “Oh, I just LOVE ouzo!”

I'm thinking Dad might not let Mom travel alone with me ever again...

Photo score: Toni = 320; Mom = 575