Caipirinhas. Good for what ails ya.

If there was one thing my Dad knew, it was booze. And his drink? Caipirinhas, an artifact of the dozen or more years he spent living at least part-time in Brazil, during his import-export phase. (He claimed he was importing and exporting textiles and sneakers and such, but considering the number of times he made side-trips to Colombia...I'm just sayin'. He lived a fairly colorful life, even for someone with bipolar disorder.)

And so tonight, right before heading out to our not-to-be-missed Sunday Music in the Park, I ran to the supermarket where, much to my surprise, they actually sold cachaca (pronounced ca-sha-sa), the main ingredient in caipirinhas. I bought a bunch of limes, and came home to whip up a big old batch of the stuff.

Once I had all my homegirls gathered round--including yet another guest-starring appearance from my beloved Po herself--we raised our glasses to my Dad, and wished him happy trails. For the first time since I'd gotten the news, I felt like I was doing something right...something appropriate to the occasion. Dad totally would have approved. Hell, Dad totally would have finshed off the pitcher before anyone else could have thought about pouring seconds...and then launched into hours of hysterical, off-color jokes and bald-faced lies, each one of which he would have claimed was a "totally true story, I swear."

Cheers, Dad. L'chaim.