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If he thinks he’s going to block my way to the ice with his butt, he better think again.
I slide the bowl underneath the mouth of the ice crusher, careful not to spill a single precious drop of my mix.
Then I cock out a hip, staring Rhett down. “I need the ice.”
“Alcohol will get you more dehydrated,” he says.
I shove his shoulder. “I said, get your butt off my ice!”
He sighs and stands, walking to the edge of the hut to look out over the debris-laden sand.
“And don’t tell me not to spill the water,” I shout when he seems like he might be about to say something.
He crosses his arms but continues to face away.
I lift the lid of the cooler, averting my eyes from the trays of oysters. I open a bag and use an extra paper cup to scoop ice out of it. I fill the metal tank of the ice crusher with what I randomly estimate to be the proper amount of ice for the mix. There’s a range of strength for margaritas that is acceptable. I will take anything.
Just to avoid more annoying corrections from my former boss, I carefully retie the ice bag and latch the cooler.
I flip the metal lid of the crusher over the ice and examine the hand crank.
This doesn’t look too hard. You clearly turn the handle so the grinders will break up the ice, and the beautiful slush falls into the bowl.
I realize it might splash my precious margarita mix onto the table, but it’s too late to fix that problem, so I go for it and begin cranking the handle.
It doesn’t budge.
Maybe I’m going the wrong way. I push it in the other direction.
Still nothing.
The crank is not at a great height for me, requiring me to lift my arm higher than I can really put leverage behind, so I stand on the cooler.
Rhett half-turns, and I can sense his desire to tell me not to break the cooler.
“Don’t,” I warn him.
He sensibly stays quiet.
At this point, it’smargaritas or murder.
From my perch, I can grasp the handle with both hands and push down. It moves a fraction of an inch, and I get the satisfying sound of ice crunching. A couple of tidbits drop into the bowl.
“Success!” I shout.
I put all my energy into a second push and get three more dribbles of crushed ice.
Hmm. That’s not much result for my effort. This is hard.
I push again, and a few more particles of ice fall into the bowl.
I step down to peer at my progress, but the few ice bits are almost melted already, given the warmth of the island-temperature mix.
I need to get this cranking.
I step back up and push the handle with all my might. This time it gets a good quarter turn, and more ice falls to the bottom.
“Yes!”
