From time to time, we’ll invite my Babcia (in case you missed it, Babcia, pronounced “Bob-Cha,” is my 91-year-old Polish grandmother), over for happy hour. While she’ll tell you that she can no longer drink with a sad, reminiscent look in her eye, this woman used to be able to toss them back.
She drank Dewar’s, a blended Scotch Whiskey on the rocks.
She had beer delivered RIGHT to her apartment when she lived in Center City Philadelphia.
In her years before she had my mother, she played piano in bars… and was paid in alcohol.
But, she doesn’t drink anymore, thanks to a rockstar cocktail of medications that, well, have kept her in her rockstar status since her stroke eight years ago.
So, imagine when we had this conversation:
Babcia, facing the Macbook Pro we used to dial my mom: “I’m drinking Odles at Mara’s now.”
My mom, via Facetime: “You’re drinking what?”
Mom, now looking to me: “I have no idea what that is, but okay.”
Me: “O’Doul’s, Mom. She’s drinking O’Doul’s.”
Babcia, later that evening as I dropped her off, she let me know that she should have brought the leftover beer back with her, fearing that my craft beer loving husband would consume all of her precious O’Doul’s.
And much to her pleasure, I’ve reassured her several times since, that even when our fridge is almost bare, the way the fridge of two working professionals can get, one thing remains: no one, and I mean NO ONE, touches her Odles.