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More Drinks & Cocktails
Fig French Martini
This fig French martini is my favourite twist on a classic cocktail. I blend fig vodka with pineapple juice and Chambord for a drink that’s smooth, fruity, and just the right amount of fancy. It’s perfect for dinner parties, date nights, or when I just want to treat myself to something a bit special. The fig adds a rich, jammy sweetness that takes the edge off the tartness, making this cocktail both elegant and incredibly easy to sip.
Ingredients
- 1 lime, quartered
- 120 ml Fig flavoured Vodka
- 60 ml Pineapple Juice
- 30 ml Chambord liqueur
- 1 fresh fig, sliced for garnish
Instructions
- Add the lime to a cocktail shaker and muddle well.
- Fill the cocktail shaker with ice and add the liquid ingredients.
- Shake vigorously for about 10 seconds until the drink is cold and well-mixed.
- Take the glasses out of the freezer and pour the drink into them evenly.
- Garnish with sliced fig, and enjoy!
What I Cook With
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Nutrition Information:
Yield:
2Serving Size:
1Amount Per Serving: Calories: 174Total Fat: 0gSaturated Fat: 0gTrans Fat: 0gUnsaturated Fat: 0gCholesterol: 0mgSodium: 3mgCarbohydrates: 29gFiber: 3gSugar: 22gProtein: 1g
Please note, this nutrition information is to be used as a guide only. Nutrition information isn’t always accurate.
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Festive Fatigue and Fig French Martinis
A Not-So-Jolly Lead-Up
It’s a few days before Christmas and, if I’m being honest, I don’t think I care anymore. The tree’s up, the fridge is groaning with food, the wine rack has been replenished at least three times already, and yet the holiday spirit has well and truly left the building. We’d prepped for a full house. Mother-in-law was meant to spend Christmas with us, so we’d done the big shop. Enough cheese, enough wine, enough eye rolls to get through the day. And then she decided to spend Christmas with her boyfriend. Who has COVID. Which means she now has to self-isolate. Which means it’s just my husband and I. And I mean, look, I am grateful. I am. Because the woman is a fussy old cow and she always manages to criticise my roast potatoes, but still. There’s this weird anticlimax that hits when you go from preparing for chaos to… well, just yourself and the man you already live with every day, and spend 24-hours a day with due to lockdowns and working-from-home.
The fridge full of snacks and wine now feels like it’s mocking me. I’ve been drinking far too many Fig French Martinis these past few days. They’re dangerously good. Sweet, a little tart, with that figgy warmth that makes you feel like you’re doing something festive even if you’re still in your fluffy pjsat 2pm. They’ve become my coping mechanism. Every time I hear a Christmas carol or see a smug post about “family traditions,” I shake one up and pretend everything’s grand. Spoiler alert: it’s not. But the martinis help.
This my last Christmas in Scotland. At least, that’s the plan. The borders have just reopened and Australia is calling me home. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be here. Scotland has been beautiful, magical even, but I miss the light. I miss the heat. I miss my mum. And right now, in this strange limbo between what is and what’s next, I’m just trying to survive the season. Not thrive. Just survive. One Fig French Martini at a time.
The Weight of This December
You know when you’re so burnt out, even the thought of washing a saucepan feels like someone’s asked you to scale Everest? That’s where I’m at. I think I hit peak burnout around the fifteenth fig martini, but it’s hard to tell. This whole month has been a blur of social obligation, emotional landmines, and trying to keep the Christmas spirit duct-taped together with pastry and prosecco. The problem is, everyone expects joy. You’re supposed to beam and sparkle and make everything look effortless. But behind the tinsel and the Instagram filters, I am just so tired. And not just physically tired. Soul tired. This kind of tired feels like it’s settled into my bones.
I’ve tried the usual things. Walks, baths, early nights. Nothing’s really shifted the fog. The truth is, I’ve been drinking more than I should. It’s not something I’m proud of, but I’m also not going to pretend I’ve got it all together. These Fig French Martinis are delicious, yes, but they’ve also become a bit of a crutch. I keep reaching for them because they’re easy. Because they taste like a party even when the party’s been cancelled. Because they remind me of a version of me who still cared about playlists and table settings and getting the roast potatoes just right.
This version of me? She’s just trying to get through the week. She’s still mourning plans that didn’t happen, places she didn’t go, people she’s far away from. I know I’m not the only one feeling like this. So if you’re sitting in a sparkly jumper with a drink in hand, wondering why you’re not happier… hi. I see you. And I promise, you’re not alone. This month has been a lot. This year has been a lot. So if a fig martini is what gets you through the next few days, I won’t judge. I’ll probably join you.
Saying Goodbye to Scotland
I keep looking around and thinking, this might be the last time. The last Christmas in this flat. The last time I decorate that sad little fake tree. The last winter walk through the woods where the ground crunches and the air smells like woodsmoke and distant mince pies. Scotland has been such a chapter. A messy, magical, heartbreaky chapter. It’s been my home for years now, but it’s never stopped feeling temporary. And now, with the borders open and the pull towards Australia growing stronger, it finally feels like the end is in sight.
The funny thing is, I don’t know how to feel about it. I’m excited to go home. I miss my family, the beach, the smell of eucalyptus after it rains. I want fresh peaches and thunderstorms and to not have to wear three layers just to take out the bins. But I’m also scared. Moving countries again is huge, and I’m not the same person I was when I first left. Scotland changed me. Living with abuse changed me.
So I’m grieving a little. Even though I know this move is right, I’m still grieving. Especially knowing I have to leave Maia behind, my tiny little black cat and soul mate. And that grief has crept into everything, even my silly little cocktail routine. Every time I shake up another Fig French Martini, I’m not just pouring a drink. I’m holding onto a ritual that feels safe. It’s my way of saying goodbye to a version of myself that lived here, laughed here, cried in the corner of the kitchen floor here. I’ll carry her with me. But I’ll leave some of her behind, too. Because I have to.
Ingredients Breakdown
The Fig French Martini came to life out of sheer emotional necessity. It’s one of those cocktails that feels fancier than it is. Fig flavoured vodka forms the base, smooth and clear, and packed with that figgy warmth that makes it feel like you’re doing something elegant and celebratory. Pineapple juice cuts through the richness, adding a bright tartness that keeps the drink from tipping into syrupy overload. And Chambord – deep, moody, and full of black raspberry drama – adds just enough lushness to make each sip feel like a little velvet curtain drop.
You start with a fresh lime, quartered and squeezed right into the shaker to bring in some zing and cut through the sweetness. That sharp little hit is what brings everything into balance. I garnish it with a fresh fig slice, which makes it look far more put together than I usually feel. But let’s be honest, half the time it’s served in a glass I rinsed out five minutes ago, and nobody is judging.
So in case you fancy making it yourself (or just want to picture me flopped on the sofa with one in hand), here’s what you need: 1 lime, quartered. 120ml fig flavoured vodka. 60ml pineapple juice. 30ml Chambord. 1 fresh fig, sliced for garnish. It might not fix your December, but it will take the edge off. And some days, that’s all we can ask for.
