Lemonadey

Lemonade. That was it. My wife and I figured that one out. Cold and as lemonadey as we could get it, and we had to get it to the people where they wanted it and that, obviously, was where people were concentrated.

It was not until she’d finished the second can that she remembered that this lemonadey clear yellow soda was actually full of caffeine, and she closed her eyes, knowing that another night of despair lay ahead.

And on top of all this, a cynical drinks industry is forever bringing out lovely, sweet, lemonadey, fizzy, harmless-looking alcopops to tempt this market, even though they pretend aloud that it is really adults they are after.

I love a good glass of lemonade (and pecan pie, hamburgers, bread and butter pickles, and my mom’s spaghetti sauce; but those are other stories). My favorite kind is the type you get from county fairs. It’s freshly squeezed and deliciously sweet, and quenches your thirst on a hot and lively summer night. I would like for you to feel the same lemonade-y goodness from photo restoration: taking old or damaged photos and making something better out of them.

She’d had to sit out the rest of the race, a handkerchief filled with slightly lemonadey ice pressed against her swollen ankle.

After all, between the jet lag and the crying I’m probably a little dehydrated, so this lemonadey concoction is likely just what I need.