I have the distinct problem-troika of a) being picky about books b) being highly susceptible to any book recommendation and c) being unable not to finish a book that I don’t care for. If I overhear a stranger on the street say that the new “novel” by Bethenny Frankel’s Glammy is dope, I’ll download it before you can say boo, then spend the next week trying to dig my way out of my mistake.

All to say, when an acquaintance said the time travel classic TIME AND AGAIN was the best book ever written, I ran to the local bookstore. Perhaps it’s just dated, or perhaps I’ve just read better 60′s era Twilight Zone-esque fiction (see this!) but I failed to fall head over heels in love with it.  But it was not without its merits. There were a few whimsical passages, such as the one below (60s advertising exec is visiting 1890s NYC, and espies this comely lass).

I followed her up the carpeted stairs at the end of the hall. In order to climb them, she gathered her skirts at the knees, raising them to the ankles, and I saw she wore black button shoes with slightly run-down heels, and thick cotton stockings striped in blue and white. I glimpsed her calves, full and rounded, and, in spite of the handicap of those shoes and stockings, realized that she had very handsome legs. She’s dead you know–the thought spoke itself in my mind. Dead and gone for decades past.

I just saved you a LOT of time. You can thank me later.

Despite the fact that I have edited no fewer than three hundred and seventy nine articles on the appeal of Aperol, the Italian aperitif, I had yet to taste it, or even really wish to. It never sounded that good: The words most often deployed to describe it were “herbal” or “medicinal,” and no matter how hard an argument anyone makes about it being being tangerine, it is the headache-inducing color of Dayquil. It seems to be favored by men who wear skinny ties and who move about town on Vespas. You’re not supposed to drink the stuff on its own, which meant that after I gathered the mental energy to come up with some sort of special cocktail recipe and poured in the required teaspoon, I would be saddled with a dusty bottle to stand alongside my unloved pear liquer and creme de menthe in no time. But I guess some part of my Aperol-resistant brain knew better.

You know where this is going. Five minutes before company was expected, I caved in and bought a bottle of the stuff. Ran home, Googled “Aperol cocktails” and much to my relief discovered you can mix it with bubbly and seltzer, drop in an orange slice, and call it a day. Or rather, an Aperol spritz. And my goodness–I hope there are more of those days in my future! Diluted with enough clear liquid, Aperol takes on the happy color of a psychedelic clementine. It’s festive and fruity, the kind of drink Betty Draper’s low-rent cousin, or Brini Maxwell (pictured) might have favored.

And with an alcohol content lower than that of wine and a sugar level that wards off consumption of more than two bevvies, it is the kind of treat that comes with no regrets, and very little in the way of leftovers.

Here’s a recipe.

Would I be a millionaire if I could figure out how to marry these two brilliant concepts?

Among the many amazing gifts I received, a book of edgy short stories!

A very good houseguest showed up with this:

. . . which helped with a Christmas eve game night with some clever friends

Then we woke up for Piglet’s first Christmas

and there was a Hanukkah kidnapping too (please note the Bert and Cookie Monster yarmulke)!

You see what I’m saying, right?