A Caipirinha

Caipirinha.

Caipirinha.

Caipirinha.

Now. Gather around as though you're here in my kitchen.

What do we need.

Winston?

What do we need for a caipirinha.

Got the box. Winston says I ought to label it. Winston's never tried finding sugar in my kitchen. Whew. Too hot to leave the door closed. Let's fix that.

There. Everything's in here now. Limes. Sugar. Cachaça. Glasses. Wooden spoon. Used to have a proper muddler. I broke it. Marvelous. Another dispatch from Scott Evers. Read for you by Geezer III. Funny thing. First time I had one of these I shouldn't have been drinking anything. I'd spent the better part of two days in Brazil introducing my digestive system to water that wasn't interested in negotiations. Cleansed me right out. Body had absolutely nothing left to contribute. Then somebody handed me a caipirinha. ... Yes. The memory's vivid. Not because I'd discovered the greatest cocktail on earth. Mostly because I finally believed I might survive Brazil. Wonderful place. Just don't drink anything that smiles back at you. Muddle lime with sugar and something starts happening. The sugar scrapes at the peel. The peel gives up its oils. The lime gives up its juice. Then the ice gets involved. Changes the whole conversation. Sharp thing gets rounder. Bitter thing behaves. Alcohol stops shouting.

And if we don't get distracted, I think I can show you how to make one. Though I make no promises. One whole lime. Commit. People always start by cutting corners. Don't. Life rewards commitment more often than moderation. Not always. Often enough.

Ends off. Now around the outside. Leave a little peel. Not much. Too much rind and you'll know it. Looks like a zombie skull now. Green guts. Little stripes of rind. Ugliest beautiful thing you've seen all morning. Quarter it. Now this white center. Get rid of it. Too bitter. Every lime's got one. Doesn't take long. Slice the quarters. Nothing fancy. Everything into the shaker. Whole lime.

Brazil and I had ourselves an understanding for a while. Mostly because neither one of us exercised much restraint. This wasn't the only caipirinha I ever had. Not by a long shot. Made a few questionable decisions. Came back with an Amazonian parasite. One other souvenir I'd just as soon not discuss. Nothing a course of antibiotics couldn't sort out. Marvelous country. Wouldn't change a thing.

Somewhere around the sugar this quits being a drink. Don't ask me exactly when. It just does.

Something starts happening in there.

Sugar. One tablespoon. Granulated. None of that powdered nonsense. That's for cakes and people with patience.

Sugar's funny. Could've come from Brazil for all I know. They grow enough of it. Used to burn the cane fields after harvest. Lord. You could smell it for miles. Black smoke rolling over everything. Stung your lungs. Didn't seem right somehow. They don't do that anymore. Probably for the best. Funny how this whole drink owes itself to sugar. Even the cachaça. Sugar cane just wandered off and got itself fermented. Shit. Little sugar on the floor. Leave it. Ants deserve a holiday too. Now we'd use the muddler. Moment of silence. Gone before its time. Wooden spoon'll do. Always does. Don't smash it. Persuade it. Gentle pressure. Twisting motion. That's it. Winston says I'm taking too long. Winston's in a hurry because Winston's never been old. There. Now a full glass of ice.

There we go.

...

Jesus Christ. Hold on. Ice tray's frozen itself solid again. That's when you get a nice sticky mess. Nothin' like it. There.

Old aluminum trays. Still use 'em. Nothing wrong with modern freezers. These remind me where I live. Two ounces of cachaça.

Yes, cachaça. That's where the trouble lives. Part of the trick. Brazilian rum. Made from raw sugarcane. But I told you that.

Winston insists on measuring. I generally agree. Today's no exception. Lid on. Now shake. Good ten seconds. No less. You want the ice to argue with everything else.

There. Whole thing into a rocks glass. Lime. Ice. Everything. No straining. You're not makin' a fuckin' martini. Little sprig of mint if you've got one. If not... You've still got a caipirinha.

There.

...

Mmmm. Never gets old.

...

- Winston.

- you'll miss the best part.

- sorry.

- this still requires a tongue.

-

- ...requires a tongue.