Love, Through Rosé Colored Glasses

Having reached the ripe old age of 37 with zero romantic prospects, I’m clearly not the person you should be seeking for Valentine’s Day advice. I may not know a thing about conventional relationships, but that doesn’t stop me from celebrating love in all forms. The traditional view of love feels the most foreign to me, defined more by what it isn’t than what it is, reserved for just one, rather than all. Beyond fireworks and butterflies, grand gestures and soul mates, love is in the details; love is as simple as kindness.

Cheers, to All Forms of Love

I’d like to raise a glass to love, to those with and without partners. Even if you’re alone on Valentine’s Day, let’s not forget about self love, which is arguably the most important kind of all. Selfish? Yes, and it’s important to be selfish at times. As many have told me when I grouse about the idea of “deserving” x, y, or z, you can’t pour from an empty cup. To that, I’d suggest you fill your own champagne flute first.

French 75, with a Twist

One of my favorite drinks of the moment is the French 75. Classic, classy, and always welcome at any party, it’s been described as a Tom Collins in a Tuxedo. That is to say, a combination of gin, lemon, and simple syrup topped off with champagne. Variations are endless given that simple start: A French 95 swaps gin for bourbon, and a French 125 opts for cognac instead. Personally, I’d like a rosier outlook for a lovely little indulgence.

The Pink of Perfection

Prickly Pear & Rose Waterloo Gin was the inspiration, lending a floral flavor and tint to the drink. Finishing with sparkling rosé instead of plain Brut Champagne was only natural, softening the hints of juniper to an incredibly nuanced, gently blushing spritz. The prickly pear adds a subtly rounded sweetness, the rose wafts through like perfume on a silk scarf, and the bubbles do what bubbles do best, by lifting everything up.

If Valentine’s Day feels heavy, complicated, or hollow, let this be your permission to reclaim it. Make something beautiful just for yourself. Toast to the people you adore, the ones who lift you up, and the version of you that’s still growing, learning, trying. Love can be as soft as a pink drink in a chilled flute, enjoyed in your own quiet company.

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Newman’s Old Cookies

Twenty years is an incredibly long time when it comes to the lifespan of most products, and even the brands themselves. Combing through the archives to revisit the blog’s first years of life, it’s striking just how few of my earliest review features are still on the market. Rest in peace, my beloved Sweet & Sara marshmallows. May your memory be a blessing, Sunergia soy feta. Until we meet again, Luna tea cakes. I’ll see you in hell, Righteously Raw bars. I could go on, but there was one remarkable finding that snapped me out of that sad spiral: the very first thing I ever reviewed is still on store shelves, nationwide, to this day.

Newman-O’s, one of the earliest “healthy” Oreo doppelgangers that told us it was okay to eat cookies as long as they were organic, seems largely unchanged after two decades. The biggest difference is the label, bold and colorful, redesigned to capture what little attention spans shoppers have left. I thought this was the perfect opportunity to reopen my investigation to see if they still hold up to scrutiny.

Newman’s Own Organics launched the iconic Newman-O’s in 1993, the first line to expand the company’s offerings beyond their initial dressings and sauces. In addition to the Original sandwich crèmes up for re-examination today, additional flavors include Chocolate Crème, Mint, Peanut Butter, Strawberry, and Vanilla. Sadly, Ginger-O’s quietly disappeared from store shelves post pandemic, never to return. Of course, this was my favorite one. Yet again, my approval seems to be the ultimate kiss of death.

Oreo is said to be the world’s best-selling cookie, though Newman-O’s are hardly concerned about competing or dominating in any arena. 100% of the profits go to charity, which should make it a bit easier to swallow the $6.99 – 9.99 price tag, which is easily two or three times more than “America’s Favorite” cookie. Ostensibly, you’re paying for quality; organic flour and sugar, and no trans fats, high‑fructose corn syrup, or partially hydrogenated oils. Does it all add up when it comes to flavor, though?

Yes and no.

Yes, this is a solid sandwich cookie. Crisp chocolate wafers enclose a creamy white filling, balancing out the subtly bitter edge of the cocoa with a blast of vanilla frosting sweetness. They dissolve easily when dunked in non-dairy milk, melting away in the mouth without leaving a greasy residue. The two halves cleave away cleanly, satisfying for anyone that prefers to deconstruct their dessert to eat the components separately. Uncomplicated, they’re easy to love at any age.

No, it’s not vastly different from the experience of eating an Oreo. Maybe it’s the placebo effect that lends them the impression of having a cleaner finish and flavor, or that you can feel better about making a “smarter” choice. Eaten side by side, without the respective logos embossed on top, it might be difficult to tell them apart. That, however, is honestly a win for Newman. To offer the same addictive qualities as such a well-loved cookie, without sacrificing quality ingredients is a certain kind a coup.

I’m amazed, impressed, and relieved that Newman-O’s remains exactly as I remember it from my first foray into reviewing food. Before sponsorship, work for trade, influencers, and all the other noise muddying up the field, this is one I chose to buy with my own money, and still do.

Emerald Anniversary: 20 Years of BitterSweet

Twenty years. Two decades. I’ve already said it again and again, out loud and in my own head, and the numbers still don’t make sense. True, I was never any good at math, but I just don’t understand. How could it possibly be twenty years since BitterSweet began? I’ve been blogging longer than I haven’t, more than half of my life, a constant thread tethering me back to the world when I felt I could just as easily disappear. Looking back, I’m not entirely sure if it’s the blog that shaped my life, or my life that developed around the blog. They’re simply too deeply enmeshed, impossibly intertwined, to pick apart.

How it all started; the earliest form of BitterSweet

I never went into this with any bigger picture in mind. The only goal was to share the things I loved, and hopefully use that as a conduit to connect with more people of like minds. While the golden era of blogging is long past, as evidenced by the rarity of finding a dinosaur of a twenty year-old blog, I’d say I’ve been wildly successful in that regard. When publishers shot down my pitches, when brands turned me down for TikTokers who sing and dance, I still had this space that encouraged my creativity, supported my madness, and kept me going when the world at large told me to stop.

I’ve spent the better part of the past six months agonizing over how to commemorate such a huge milestone. The big two-oh only rolls around once, and I can’t begin to imagine if blogs will even exist another twenty years from now. Watching the date drawing ever closer, there was no idea grand enough, nor reasonably attainable, to do my beloved BitterSweet proper justice. Maybe it was time to make a mini cookbook, the Best of BitterSweet, available in print, or at least a zine? Or just an e-book? Barring that, perhaps a twenty-layer cake?

Emeralds Aren’t Forever, But Potentially Delicious

Finally, in the eleventh hour, it came to me: I was taking this entirely too seriously. The reason that I’ve been able to sustain this living archive, feeding it thrice weekly, every week, is that I just do whatever I want. I don’t do SEO properly, I don’t monetize it enough, I don’t use social media to its full potential, but you know what? That’s not what feeds my soul. I just need this to be my creative outlet, full of weird, wild, sometimes off-putting things. To that end, I strongly considered making an Emerald Salad Ring to honor the traditional 20-year anniversary gemstone, but ultimately, something sweet (and less repugnant) felt more fitting.

Edible Gems

Pandan candy emeralds, a stylized take on Japanese kohakutou, are essential shards of sweetened agar that are aged until sugar crystallizes on the outside. The interior remains soft like jelly for a crave-worthy textural contrast. Using pandan flavoring means the green color is already built in, bringing the ingredients list to a grand total of three, water and edible glitter not included. Brilliantly simple, recklessly creative, unconventionally delightful; Sounds like BitterSweet, alright.

I’m not one for grand gestures so I leave you with this, at least until the next regularly scheduled post. I’m sure as hell not stopping here. Twenty years is just another chapter in the larger story. There’s still a lot left to this story, even if no one knows how it will end, including the author.

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Gin is In

Texas is no stranger to strong spirits, boasting nearly 200 distilleries statewide, with a clear penchant for whiskey, tequila, and vodka, in that order. Gin isn’t one I initially associate with the Lone Star State, but here in Dripping Springs, Waterloo Gin has planted their flag, extracting the most distinctly Texan brew being bottled today. Juniper is only half of the equation.

What Makes Gin, Gin?

Originally used medicinally to treat everything from indigestion to gout, scurvy, and malaria, the key ingredient granting it these supposedly restorative properties was, and still is, juniper. The name itself is derived from the Dutch word jenever and/or French genièvre, both of which mean “juniper.” It must have a predominant juniper flavor to qualify as gin, and certain styles (like London Dry) lean much more heavily into these evergreen berries.

For ages, I thought I didn’t like gin, because this was the only type I had known. Aggressively resinous, piney, and grassy, it struck me as dilute floor polish mixed with liquefied Christmas trees. To each their own, of course, as this has been the uncontested winning option for centuries, with no sign of flagging in popularity.

Proudly American Gin

Waterloo Gin branched off of Treaty Oak Distillery, gaining roots of its own as the first official brand of gin made in Texas, surprisingly not long ago in 2009. Theirs is a proudly American style, less juniper-forward, sourcing botanicals native to Texas. That means that despite being bottled at 94 proof, it’s remarkably smooth, balanced, and easy to drink. The brand’s flagship Waterloo No. 9 Gin uses nine botanicals, as you may have guessed, including but not limited to lavender, grapefruit, and pecan, all locally sourced. This was the first gin I genuinely enjoyed drinking straight, and even more so when mixed into cocktails.

Neutral Base Spirits, Full-Flavored Results

Limestone-filtered spring water is another key to their success, crafting the cleanest, purest base spirit distilled from corn, which could just as well be sold as upper shelf vodka before infusion. Made in small batches and blended for consistency, they’ve just begun their push further afield for greater distribution in stores across the US. Though the production floor isn’t open to visitors, I was granted a private peek behind the scenes to see how it all happens. Fortunately, the mercantile across the plaza is ready already a destination for all, but more on that in a minute.

The Whiskey of Gin

What immediately captured my attention, and imagination, is their Barrel-Aged Gin. Not just taking a page from whiskey-making but honoring the traditional process, this is what happens when you take the classic No. 9 and age it for two years in new American white oak barrels. Even after a relatively short rest, the transformation is astounding. Gently smokey, honeyed, and sparking with warm spices, it’s unlike any gin or whiskey I’ve ever had, in the best way possible. There’s an uncanny sweetness to it, though absolutely no sugar is involved.

More In Store

Not to tease, but for the real gin and whiskey aficionados, it would serve you well to stay tuned to what Waterloo is working on next. I had the privilege of trying limited runs of gin aged for 4 and 12 years, respectively, that absolutely defy all expectations. Despite being wildly high proof, they’re impossibly smooth sippers. Somehow, notes of vanilla, custard, nutmeg, and mace develop over all those years, tasting almost like eggnog, without a drop of cream or eggs. Incredible sacrifices must be made to reach this level; being stored in an hot rickhouse (where the barrels are kept) without climate control means that aging happens at a faster rate than industry standard, but so does evaporation. By the time you hit the 12th year, very little remains. If these bottles do ever hit the market, expect to pay dearly, because they would be worth every cent.

For a more attainable luxury, don’t forget about the latest addition to the lineup, Prickly Pear & Rose Gin which joined the standard trio in 2025, perfect for anyone craving a lighter touch. Hibiscus, rose, and prickly pear are added to the essential base to create a pink elixir that’s more than just a pretty face. Bright, fruity, and floral, it challenges the status quo of traditional gin with a gentle touch.

New Old Fashioned

The Old Fashioned had been my go-to drink since I first started hitting the bar. The version being served at the mercantile bar here, anchored by Treaty Oak, takes the spirit-forward body, aromatic bitters, the faint glow of citrus, and reframes it through the lens of Waterloo Barrel Aged Gin. Swapping bourbon for this two-year-matured expression doesn’t lighten the drink so much as sharpen it. The gin’s toffee hue, gentle smoke, and spiced depth slip seamlessly into place, creating a cocktail that lands somewhere between the familiarity of whiskey and the brightness of botanicals. An orange twist brings the whole thing into focus, amplifying the gin’s soft vanilla and toasted pecan notes.

The Gin-uine Article

Gin has never been just one thing. It was my mistake to underestimate the category so severely for all this time. Evolving from the crisp austerity of London Dry to the soft, citrus-forward American styles, each bottle reflects the landscape, culture, and imagination of its makers. Waterloo takes this idea and runs with it, rooting their approach in staunchly Texan sensibilities. This new generation of gins don’t take themselves too seriously, and yet turn out serious winners left and right, expanding what the category can be. Waterloo stands as living proof that gin is still evolving, and Texas has something entirely its own to say about it.

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