PhialThe Archer appears in the doorway, a gentle form. She uses poise to offer a small bottle of golden syrup, something she has told stories of. It is strange to have the glass in my hand, the actual manifestation, glowing gently in the bent and battered sunlight that tumbles through the window. She grins: Sekanjabin, she says, naming it. It is but a moment before she is gone again.
The recipe she gave calls for vinegar, sugar, water, mint, and duration. The trick is this: combine the first three over low heat and then simmer for a prescribed time. Take the pot from the fire and cast in the mint; the leaves will poach, sizzle. Let cool. Strain off the syrup, and you have an Andalusian drink mix.
I am no small fan of Andalusia, and the bottle was quickly gone. I thought to make it myself, but to try honey in place of the sugar and the water, with temperature instead of time. I found a good vinegar, and put one part that and two parts honey in the bottom of a pot. Over heat, I took the mixture up to 235F, keeping the sides of the pan clean and careful. Once done, off heat and in with the mint, which chattered and spun sizzle as it sank into the gold. Some time on the counter to let out the heat, and it was ready.
To use, put a bit of syrup in the bottom of a tall glass; fill the glass with ice water and give a vigorous stir (the spoons on the stove fit this and other purposes admirably). The drink made with sugar is brighter, sharper; the drink made with honey is rounder, deeper, more golden in the sun. They both cut through the thick air of summer. They both offer savor in stillness.
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