The last time somebody made me a strawberry daiquiri was in mid-summer 2010. Pappa S and I were at a traditional Norwegian “hytte-tur” (aka – drinking binge) with some “friends” (aka – fellow bingers) in the mountains.

Except that he was not yet Pappa S and I was not yet The Mommy. In fact, I had only two days earlier met for the first time a little blue stripe on a little blue pee stick that signaled that the times, they were soon gonna be a’changin’….

Anyway…. hyttetur.

Pre-Pappa-S and I were in a room full of friends and one particular friend (he-who-shall-not-be-named-but-who-just-got-engaged-yesterday) had the incredible foresight to bring his blender, some rum and lots of strawberries to an isolated cabin in the middle of the Norwegian mountains.

So there we were, with friends, far from anywhere, and rum, and one HUGE little secret among the two of us.

As glasses were passed and our friend’s alcoholic foresight was toasted to the heavens, I managed to sneak myself into getting a virgin version by professing to dislike even the slightest hint of rum. (This proclamation, from a girl who used to pressure big, strong Norwegian men into competing against her with tequila shots was of course not to be trusted. But one must try anyway.)

The point of this story is that when Pre-Pappa S and I finally did announce our pregnancy a conservative three months later, everyone on said hytte-tur was quick to connect the dots.

And the second point of this story is that today, 22 months after that infamous hytte-tur, someone made me a real strawberry daiquiri.

Rum and all.

And it was goooooooooood…..

May all of your Tuesday evenings be filled with daiquiris of all shapes, sizes, color and content!