Albuquerque cherries.

An adobe house on the way to Taos, New Mexico. Photo by Callie Neylan, 2008.

Albuquerque isn’t really anything to write home about. Urban sprawl in the high desert. Where the car is king and the sidewalks are bastard stepchildren. The barren starkness of the landscape always depresses me, no matter how sunny it is. And in Albuquerque, it’s always sunny. There are mountains, though. At least the Sandias are pretty. You’d probably like Old Town, too. Most people do. Locals and tourists alike.

My sister, who by this time was over 200 pounds, didn’t need to be consuming cherry malts. But she had a cherry tree in her backyard. Her sunny, sandy, crisp backyard – I was like a pale jícama roasting on a fire sitting out there under the dry New Mexico sun. My Irish skin flushed sanguine faster than you could say “Land of Enchantment”.

Seth, get off the roof! He was known from toddlerhood to climb up ladders on to the flat adobe roofs of Albuquerque. Drive three-wheelers up piñon trees, striking never-before-known fear into the heart of his young mother. Fearless, agile, nimble towhead. My full-time job was to prevent the little blue-eyed beauty from killing himself.

Roooooooo-saaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! Rosa, bring me the scoop. Bring Gian a diaper. No, don’t let him have that! Take it out of his mouth, Rini.

She was always hollering directives. Bring me this, bring me that. No, not that one. I told you to bring me the other one. Now, where’s the remote? Thank you, honey. I love you. You know I do. Now go eat some banana cake.

Michaela, on the other hand, was sweet and docile. Golden-spun and delicate. Except for those times when she’d scream like an Alfred Hitchcock movie every time we’d go into a big box store. I never could figure out why she did that: she’s 21 now, I guess I could ask her. It wasn’t covered in the parenting books. But most stuff you encounter parenting isn’t. Not really. Don’t let Dr. Spock fool you.

She had a cherry tree, a blender, and a wicked penchant for Häagen-Dazs ice cream. So while the cousins played with petroleum-infused, thick plastic toys on the Crayola-hued lawn, we sat on the patio, almost every night for a month, measuring our firm, aristocratic vanilla ice cream, whole creamy milk, chalky malt, and chubby, expectant cherries into the blender.

Plop, plop, plop. Whir, splash, puff, gurgle, slide.

Cherry malts on a hot summer’s night make you remember why the world is a wonderful place, even if it isn’t. And grateful for everyday objects like spoons and glasses and Öster blenders.

Cherry Malts
At least twice as much vanilla Häagen-Dazs ice cream as milk. Maybe even three times.

A tablespoon or two of malt.

A handful of ripe cherries (don’t blame me if you forget to take the pits out).

Put it all in a well-designed, beautiful, stainless steel blender. Whip it. Whip it good. Pour into a thick, tall glass and eat with a spoon.