Frozen Siberian
There is nothing more terrifying to a fine bartender than the whir of a blender battering away at ice cubes. Yet there is nothing more calming to Smilla than being around water that has fallen to the freezing point—and drinking. Smilla wants something comforting and familiar while shuttling between Greenland and Denmark, an outsider caught in the purgatory between two cultures. In this cocktail I have Kahlua and a layer of half-whipped cream on top; the recipe for comfort is complete.
And now for the familiar. It is my theory that vodka runs through the veins of the natives of frozen lands (see under: Boris Yeltsin). So I introduce the mother’s milk of the frozen tundra and cut the sweetness of the Kahlua. The ice cannot be simply cubes: no, we need to destroy the ice in a blender with the vodka and Kahlua, remake it into something new. For Smilla, taking the ice in, feeling it in her mouth, and learning all she can from it as it dissolves is a common pastime, and one that will prove useful in her search for an artifact that some people consider worthy of murder.
And now for the familiar. It is my theory that vodka runs through the veins of the natives of frozen lands (see under: Boris Yeltsin). So I introduce the mother’s milk of the frozen tundra and cut the sweetness of the Kahlua. The ice cannot be simply cubes: no, we need to destroy the ice in a blender with the vodka and Kahlua, remake it into something new. For Smilla, taking the ice in, feeling it in her mouth, and learning all she can from it as it dissolves is a common pastime, and one that will prove useful in her search for an artifact that some people consider worthy of murder.