The Bartender’s Guide to Uncommon Wildlife

At least one snow owl--possibly two, according to an observant resident of the south end—is keeping us all entertained this winter. Sightings of our new island mascot and sacred totem animal are not even that rare this year. A quiet walk toward the beach offers a halfway decent chance. The Phone Man’s method for locating our visitor is to listen for the obnoxious racket of crows as they noisily “mob” the owl. We assume our friend from Canada is eating well. There are dead rabbits all over the place. There are owl pellets—or if not neat pellets, at least hocked-up mouthfuls of rodent fur and claws and teeth and bones—evident here and there. There have been no mice in our bucket trap yet.

This owl just might be bouncing the iconic puffin from its place of honor as local symbol. Everybody thinks a puffin stands up tall like a penguin. They do not; they’re cute little fellows who fly over the water with the graceful aeronautical finesse of a plate of steak and eggs. At sea most of their lives, Atlantic puffins are intrepid mariners, to be sure, but let Matinicus Rock, a different island altogether, have the puffin as its symbol; we are enjoying our astonishingly beautiful owl. Surely the cold-weather folks here deserve some bonus scenery unavailable to the summer-only crowd.

In mind to raise a toast to this honorable bird, I looked on the internet to see if there already was any good thing called the “Snow Owl” or “Snowy Owl” cocktail. A name like that seems irresistible and must surely be some very elegant potation, handsome, creamy, and served with style. It sounded like it ought to be expensive.

I found only a revolting-sounding mess from Amsterdam involving yogurt and Lychee liquor and maraschino. The Dutch bar called it the Snow Owl. Nope; not going to order the supplies to make that here.

Thinking it wouldn’t be hard to do better, we conceived to begin with one made from Bailey’s Irish Cream and snow. We had no snow. I have one of those fairly powerful blenders, the kind that can blend a whole coconut or a small baked ham or a two-by-four if that’s what the recipe calls for, and I rarely get to use it because nobody in this house likes spinach smoothies. I put some ice cubes through the blender as though a frozen daiquiri was in mind. A hint of drizzle of chocolate syrup around the inside of the glass, I guess, makes it a female owl, or an immature one, where a full-grown male--I hear-- is very white and likely would expect no Hershey’s syrup. Anyway, my blender snow was more like a fine gravel of ice pellets, maybe sleet or hail or graupel, so the drink sort of resembled more an homage to mud season. The Frosty Pothole. It would have been a lot more refined with real snow.

The Snowy Owl cocktail is still a work in progress. I also checked for the existence of a “Puffin” cocktail. It has a tomato in it, and pink grapefruit juice. Whatever.

If we are going to start drinking to the rare birds, we’d better come up with something we can name after the Steller’s Sea Eagle. Maine’s most exotic tourist is exciting every bird nerd in New England this winter. It belongs in Siberia, or maybe northern Japan (where it is rare enough,) but for some reason has been spotted in the approach to the Sheepscot River. It is tempting to get all wise-aleck about how we ought to mix up some very large combination of Russian vodka, Suntory, and whatever they like best at the Grey Havens Inn down by Five Islands. That doesn’t mean I’m volunteering to drink it.

The Phone Man and I were watching Nature on PBS a few days ago and saw something about the extremely rare Quito rocket frog. If the Andean volcano called Cotopaxi were to erupt, we learn, “the rocket frog’s little creek would be transformed into a hot mudslide.” I felt terrible for the cute little Ecuadorean frog and his several dozen last living kinfolk, but did think that a Hot Mudslide sounded like a pretty good idea. Looking up the rare frog online, it is referred to as “chocolate-striped.” Let’s say a hot chocolate base, then, with the requisite Kahlua and Bailey’s (which, as it happens, some very nice person whose initials are Peggy Murray gave me for Christmas). I do hope the little rocket frog survives the volcano.

They never did tell us why it was called the rocket frog. Here’s hot mud in your eye. Happy New Year and keep an eye out for that big Siberian eagle.

Published in the Rockland, Maine Free Press, January, 2022.