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BE A FRIEND OF THE MOVEMENT!

Maybe it's because some of my favorite margarita variations were guzzled in the perpetually warm weather of Austin, Texas; maybe it's because the margarita is by nature associated with Mexico, itself blessed with a balmy climate. Either way, to me, no other beverage in the world feels as much like liquid summer as a margarita.

There's something addictive about the confluence of sour citrus, the fiery sting of the alcohol, and delicious salt that crackles on your tongue and lips. In a light way that beer, God love it, can't quite equal, margaritas manage to be both refreshing and intoxicating -- and let's face it, they come in kick-ass glasses, and for a beverage that is half the battle.

For information on the history of the margarita, the origins of which are apparently still debated, click here. My attraction to margaritas began in high school with my newfound affinity for doing tequila shots, then progressed to a Dallas Mexican restaurant that my sister Alison loved that served margaritas swirled with sangria; my adoration was then further bolstered in college by our blind devotion to the watered-down but still effective $1 versions that Chili's served every Monday night.

Austin boasts so many Tex-Mex restaurants that it's impossible to visit the city without sampling excellent margaritas, and three of the best come right in a row along Barton Springs Road: Chuy's, of the Bush twins' famed fake-ID caper, Shady Grove, and the infamous Baby Acapulco. There, you can get margaritas in actual flavors (original, strawberry, cantaloupe) that are potent but come without limits, or you can sample the infamous colored margaritas -- "The Blue One" and "The Purple One" � of which you may only order two before they cut you off for the night. They taste like� strength.

In Austin I also sampled a lemongrass margarita at a downtown tapas restaurant, Saba Blue Water Caf�, and it was almost without equal; you'll find the recipe if you click that link. That's the beauty of the drink: Its many variations are at once creative and different, yet don't rob the drink of its heart and soul. A lemongrass margarita is still a margarita through and through; The Purple One, despite its unexpected and piquant gasoline undertones, still afford you that precious taste of tequila and salt. And the original blend is like an old friend, a feeling even clumsily concocted and occasionally watered-down bar versions of the margarita can't eradicate.

In Los Angeles, my go-to margarita joints are El Cholo and El Coyote, famously the site of Sharon Tate's last supper, and arguably more famously a restaurant in which you should never actually order any of the food.

But I'm embarrassed � almost � to admit that my all-time favorite margarita comes from the inelegant Applebee's chain. Their "Perfect Margarita" really is that; two and a half years ago, during the NCAA Tournament one fine Saturday, I mixed up a pitcher of The Perfect Margarita, and by four o-clock Jessica, Lauren, and I were lying sprawled on my living room floor with our shirts hiked up to just under our breasts, begging Michael and Some Guy I Worked With (Sort Of) At The Time to decide whose belly was the whitest.

It's an expensive concoction, but it works:

� 1 1/2 ounces Cuervo or 1800 gold tequila

� 3/4 ounce Cointreau

� 3/4 ounce Grand Marnier

� 1/2 ounce lime juice

� 2 ounces sour mix

Stir, chill, and serve, and then sit back and feel the drunk fog descend.

For a variation, may I suggest the Mexican Martini? I got hooked on these at Trudy's, yet another Austin Tex-Mex establishment (considering I don't like the actual food at any of these places, the fact that I went to them so often is a real testament to the margaritas and Mexican martinis themselves).

Tequila is also splendid in shot form. In high school, I developed an affinity for Jose Cuervo silver, and a knack for downing shot after shot after shot. Lick, shoot, suck. In my more advanced age I have more trouble with shooting tequila, mostly because bars pour out the shots into cocktail glasses and you end up pounding the equivalent of two and a half shots in one desperate guzzle. That's a lot of burning liquor.

There are those who can't drink straight tequila, referring to its hard-won nickname "te-kill-ya" as ample explanation. I am not one of those people. Sure, tequila has addled my brain, but never to the point where I can't come crawling back to it. Consider: In my college apartment, a friend of mine brought over some people I didn't know, one of whom toted a giant plastic bottle of Montezuma tequila. He didn't touch it, and left it there, I'm guessing because he wanted it out of is own apartment and figured it would look like a nice gift to the host. My roommate and I knew better. It looked like the cheapest of well tequila, and we didn't have the guts to drink it � but out of respect for alcohol itself, neither could we discard it.

Fast forward to a keg party we had in honor of our friend Kevin's basketball team, which had � from a field of more than 600 -- just made it to the Final Four round of Notre Dame's enormous and somewhat famed five-on-five Bookstore Basketball tournament. My roommate and I wanted to do tequila shots, so we bought a small bottle of Cuervo to go with the keg; by eleven o'clock, the tequila was gone and I was buzzing. And the crowd was demanding more shots.

With silent, simultaneous cunning, my roommate and I poured the deadly Montezuma tequila into the empty bottle of Cuervo. "Those fools will be too drunk to know the difference, and then we'll be rid of this stuff!" we crowed.

Fast-forward again, this time a mere thirty minutes, to me doing a tequila shot. It was as I choked down the poison that I realized what I was drinking was not Cuervo, and my God, it was every bit as bad as I'd expected. Sweet tequila had gotten me so rocked off my tree that I'd fallen for my own prank.

Had "The Bucket" existed back then, I'd have earned a few of them that night. But when I woke up the next day, rather than swearing off tequila forever (as I have white rum � ohhhh, no), I smiled at the bottle and patted it like an old friend.

So whenever summer rolls around, I feel like it's time to reacquaint myself with my old pal the margarita. Sure, in actuality we never really drift apart, because I drink it in all seasons. But there's nothing as decadent as sitting outside on a hot day sipping the world's finest warm-weather cocktail.

Happy summer!

-- Heather