Watermelon margaritas are good for the soul.
I’d forego chicken soup for the rest of my life if Jamie would just promise me one of these whenever I’m down & out, ready to party or just in need of a little 5pm pick-me-up.
They’re featured on the cover of our cookbook, listed on page 215 and I’m pretty sure they’re the first proper cocktail that Jamie ever made for me (six– yes, six) years ago.
He puts a lot of unnecessary TLC into the margs. (Ding, ding, ding! Girls, this is the kind of man you’re looking for when you’re in the beginning, parse-every-word, dissect-every-move dating phase!) He squeezes the ruby red flesh by hand (instead of carelessly tossing it into the blender), mixes it with France’s finest (Cointreau instead of triple sec) and makes a humble drink ridiculously beautiful by serving it in nature’s own punch bowl–a hollowed-out watermelon.
If there were ever any doubts that I, the single girl running loose in Manhattan, would marry the Alabama chef and he’d be the hunka hunka burnin’ love man of my dreams, this drink should have calmed all fears and sealed the deal.
Well, I guess it did. And here’s the proof in her American flag bikini.
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