Amongst all the Rural Myths of the South---Cat on the Table, Bobcat in a Bag, Going to See Margie---one seems to be all too true---Trash Can Punch.
I'd always heard of it, but had had neither opportunity nor inclination to try the vigorous stuff. It seemed the province of Frat Houses or Tractor Pulls or REALLY off-the-chart weddings, and even if (not confirming, you understand) I were a habitué of any of the above, I doubt I'd have partaken. As my Mother said one patio lunch when I'd served on Melmac and was pouring the tea into festive plastic tumblers, "I just don't think I can drink anything out of a little teensy GARBAGE CAN."
Besides, I'm goofy enough sober.
And therein, apparently, lies the charm. You just get a big ole can and throw in a lot of fruit and juice with enough ice for a Dangerous Catch run, pour in copious amounts of an unfortunate rocket-fuel booze called EverClear, and then you drink it. Some folks actually use a trash-can LINER (either for authenticity, which I'm all for, despite what must make the finished product taste at least a LITTLE like Enron effluvium, or for sanitary purposes when the probity of the container is questionable---which I simply refuse to think about).
And some hearty imbibers go for the simple life---straight into the Coleman, carry, cool and quaff---as big as you please.
Once upon a time in our far-ago days, Caro was asked to help her work supervisor cater a home wedding reception (the supervisor's home, and her daughter was the bride). The young lady was marrying a nice young sailor at the Pensacola Base Chapel, and the reception was to be on the beach-front slope down from the home.
Since Chris and I were to be out of town that Thanksgiving weekend, Caro was pretty much on her own (take that literally---she arrived at the house on Friday after work, to find that none of the grocery shopping had been done, so Caro "could pick out just the right ones."
She was expecting an all-night cooking stint, but it didn't cross her mind that she'd have to venture out into a strange city to an open-all-night-supermarket before starting in the kitchen. Another story, but quite a presage of things to come).
The lady of the house and the groom DID disappear in the pickup to go get the groceries, and Caro busied herself with the decorating and the quilts for the lawn and the getting-readies that she could do alone.
So it was clean clean clean the kitchen and dining table, get the dishes out of the sink and clean that, and generally ready the house for party preparation. Most of this tale save the ending is lost in the merciful mists of Time, but just say it was one of those "it'll just be a few people---would you please help me with a few things," which turned into work quietly all night because everybody else in the house is asleep.
After many hours, MOB and Groom drove up with the back of that truck loaded with a can that would hold mead for a Viking wake, or even the guest of honor---corpse, pyre and boat. The size and unwieldy shape and heft of the thing were not the major drawback.
It was one of those huge ole flappy-top ones, like you dump your cup into as you walk into a store. And not just LIKE. WAS.
They'd been so late getting back to WalMart to buy a can, it was closed. But undeterred, and thinking of those fifty thirsty sailors of the morrow, they simply dragged the bag of trash out of the one on the sidewalk, left it propped against the door, and loaded 'er up.