The greatest punch I've ever tasted, had just three ingredients.
Grandma Reynold's made the same punch for 42 years.
She bought the same lemon-lime soda, generic, the same orange sherbet and mixed it all in the same tired punch bowl.
I remember the first time she let me mix it for the annual family barbecue.
I felt quite proud, as if I was somehow the bearer of the festivities.
Everyone knew that the party didn't officially start until the punch was ready.
Sure, people showed up hours early to help prepare, set up, and gossip before any of Grandma's functions.
Children streaked through the crowd that spilled noisily over onto the acres of lawns and into the fields around the century old farmhouse.
There was the low murmur of the men in their coveralls, khakis and jeans and the musical quality of feminine laughter, random and as varied as the flowers that grew in Grandma Reynold's flower beds.
By unspoken threat and quite possibly the echo of genetic memories, the children swarmed around and through but never a tiny foot planted itself into her strictly tilled soil.
The flowers were safe and they seemed to know it, as they stood proud waving in their colorful suits adding to the merriment of the party.
I stood in the kitchen with it's dark wood cabinets, chipped laminate table with the sleepy folding chairs.
The refrigerator, brought home brand new in 1963, rounded and sturdy, was the only relief from the dark colors.
It white shine, rubbed raw in places by repeated rub downs after early dinner meals.
The brown and orange paisley of the curtains always made me smile and to this day I am a strict believer that those paisley curtains were the secret ingredient to Grandma Reynold's punch.
Carefully doling out three scoops, glug glug glug, three scoops, chugga glug glug and on and on until the foam grew, and the liquid gained that delicious stratisphere of foam, bubbles, creme and nectar that all sherbert punch imparts.
Until finally, it seemed that the bowl had sprouted a foam hat and it was time to serve the first glass.
The maker of the punch always got the first taste and that year it would be me.
Dipping in and through the foam, I suddenly knew what the birds feel as they part the clouds.
I like a bit of everything in my cup and took the first sip.
Insubstantial, then sweet cream and finally cool refreshing liquid, with it's tiny bubbles sliding the rest away.
Perfect.
I have tried to make this punch at home and while it has always been popular, it has never tasted quite the same.
I've come to conclude that the recipe for Grandma Reynold's Sherbert party punch is one part orange sherbert, two parts generic lemon-lime soda and one part brown and orange paisley, to taste.
Grandma Reynold's made the same punch for 42 years.
She bought the same lemon-lime soda, generic, the same orange sherbet and mixed it all in the same tired punch bowl.
I remember the first time she let me mix it for the annual family barbecue.
I felt quite proud, as if I was somehow the bearer of the festivities.
Everyone knew that the party didn't officially start until the punch was ready.
Sure, people showed up hours early to help prepare, set up, and gossip before any of Grandma's functions.
Children streaked through the crowd that spilled noisily over onto the acres of lawns and into the fields around the century old farmhouse.
There was the low murmur of the men in their coveralls, khakis and jeans and the musical quality of feminine laughter, random and as varied as the flowers that grew in Grandma Reynold's flower beds.
By unspoken threat and quite possibly the echo of genetic memories, the children swarmed around and through but never a tiny foot planted itself into her strictly tilled soil.
The flowers were safe and they seemed to know it, as they stood proud waving in their colorful suits adding to the merriment of the party.
I stood in the kitchen with it's dark wood cabinets, chipped laminate table with the sleepy folding chairs.
The refrigerator, brought home brand new in 1963, rounded and sturdy, was the only relief from the dark colors.
It white shine, rubbed raw in places by repeated rub downs after early dinner meals.
The brown and orange paisley of the curtains always made me smile and to this day I am a strict believer that those paisley curtains were the secret ingredient to Grandma Reynold's punch.
Carefully doling out three scoops, glug glug glug, three scoops, chugga glug glug and on and on until the foam grew, and the liquid gained that delicious stratisphere of foam, bubbles, creme and nectar that all sherbert punch imparts.
Until finally, it seemed that the bowl had sprouted a foam hat and it was time to serve the first glass.
The maker of the punch always got the first taste and that year it would be me.
Dipping in and through the foam, I suddenly knew what the birds feel as they part the clouds.
I like a bit of everything in my cup and took the first sip.
Insubstantial, then sweet cream and finally cool refreshing liquid, with it's tiny bubbles sliding the rest away.
Perfect.
I have tried to make this punch at home and while it has always been popular, it has never tasted quite the same.
I've come to conclude that the recipe for Grandma Reynold's Sherbert party punch is one part orange sherbert, two parts generic lemon-lime soda and one part brown and orange paisley, to taste.
SHARE
