On this blog, every time I write something about New Directions, the support group I founded 22 years ago - or is it New Beginnings - or New Dimensions - I can't remember - anyway whenever I write something on this here blog about it, I end up deleting it cuz it just doesn't fit. This is my "everything else" life. Did you know I have a life apart from my work?
Actually everything I do I consider work. Everything important equals work, whether it's preparing a fantastic dinner for Scott and me, concentrating on the latest film we watched together - the phenomenal The Visitor - studying the NY Times photos of tonite's Oscar candidates. I just sink my teeth real hard into everything and breathe.
Bob, dyou think I'm nuts?
Yeah, but we love you anyway, Ruthie.
I'm nervously biding my time. An hour before the noon deadline today, I posted the next chapter of my novel on MediaBistro.com. Am waiting for novelist Erika Mailman to critique it. Scuse me while I take a peek & see if she's gotten to it yet.
Stop it, Ruthie! Exert some self-control!
Must I?
Yes, tell them about your chicken liver story.
Oh, thanks for reminding me.
The humongous new Giant Supermarket, the crown jewel of my town, Willow Grove, opened up a small softly-lit wine shop near the check-out aisles. I bought a ten-dollar bottle of good cheap wine. In fact, I'm gonna go right upstairs right now to have a sip. Nothing can stop me.
I bought it for two reasons. First, to pretend to have a glass of wine every nite like my 90-year-old friend Walter does. Everyone should have as good a sex life as he does. Two, to make my chicken liver recipe from my early days.
Just your luck, Dear Reader, that I actually found an old poem I wrote about the sad state of affairs when I was diagnosed with manic depression, put on lithium, and banned from drinking. Actually, most docs say it's fine to drink in extreeeeme moderation, but, being an extremist, I decided to stop altogether.
This poem is about my formerly abstemious lifestyle while also alluding to the magnificent chicken liver dish I used to make. Thing is, no one would eat it! My kids, Sarah and Dan, couldn't stand liver, and I never had no husband, not even now - oh! I forgot! there was a husband one time but he wouldn't eat no liver, that's cause he was a Texan and they only eat beef - anyway, I had to eat the whole dang thing myself.
You cook the livers until they're still slightly pink in the middle. Then when you bite into them they're as soft as eating a handful of roses. After I made this dish for the first time in, I would say 15 long years, I sat at the kitchen table, took a couple bites and was a-moanin and a-groanin with joy like I was having great sex.
Scott liked it too but his enthusiasm scale doesn't go as high as mine.
CHICKEN LIVERS & FRIENDS
It's easy to make. Simmer in butter n olive oil in a large skillet: onions, mushrooms, red pepper, and whole garlic.
While still crunchy, add a pound of chicken livers and stir well.
Cover. Keep your eye on it. Cook until livers are slightly pink inside. Serve over brown rice or nodules (that's what my kids n I used to call em).
PURDUE CHICKEN LIVERS
They are frying in the skillet
even though in this ever-diminishing household
I shall be dining alone tonight.
Never let it stop you, said my grandmother.
As the chicken livers darken toward completion
I catch a whiff of wine.
How can it be? There is none. A racial memory, perhaps.
Perfection would be to pour it on - an inexpensive Paul Masson
would be lovely - straight from the bottle into the pan
sizzling and smoking and creating a great sensation.
Is it possible that ten long years have passed
since my drinking days came to an end?
Ten years in which I have not set foot in a
modern serve-yourself package store, save to salvage
cartons?
Never since that day
to buy
nor sniff
nor sip
nor swirl
nor heft
in the crook of my arm
a bottle?
They are frying in the skillet
even though in this ever-diminishing household
I shall be dining alone tonight.
Never let it stop you, said my grandmother.
As the chicken livers darken toward completion
I catch a whiff of wine.
How can it be? There is none. A racial memory, perhaps.
Perfection would be to pour it on - an inexpensive Paul Masson
would be lovely - straight from the bottle into the pan
sizzling and smoking and creating a great sensation.
Is it possible that ten long years have passed
since my drinking days came to an end?
Ten years in which I have not set foot in a
modern serve-yourself package store, save to salvage
cartons?
Never since that day
to buy
nor sniff
nor sip
nor swirl
nor heft
in the crook of my arm
a bottle?
