My grandfather died last week-on Memorial Day. He was old, not very mobile, and never stopped missing my Nana who died years before. He was a World War II veteran that would have been pissed to see a flag next to his name in the obits. He didn’t like talking about THE war–you had to drag it out of him. He hated to see it glamorized in the now. Remembering all of those that died as canon-fodder then, seeing it happen all over again today…

He was a naturally cranky guy, the classic curmudgeon, and funny as hell when he ranted. He was always up for a good argument. He was the only boy, the youngest of 7. He always flirted with the waitress-every single one. He never ordered dinner without at least one cocktail downed-god help you if you had to turn his table. He was there to D-I-N-E. But if you could flip a little shit back at him, he was a big tipper–too big, my Nana always said.

He believed, as I do, that there was only one kind of Martini, that chilled marriage of gin with vermouth–irrespective of garnish or any filth flaring flare. Everything else should find another name, he said. 3 cubes of ice, 3 fingers of Tanqueray, one capful of dry vermouth. That’s the first drink I ever mixed, for my Papa.