Happy B'day Donna - The Days of Riesling Wine and Roses - Poem: Purdue Chicken Livers

Here's a birthday card I made today for my sister Donna. I'm always trying to pawn off my New Yorker mags on various friends but no one has time to read it.

They arrive every Thursday. And none of them contain any of my short stories or poems. Yes, yes, I realize I'm not all that good yet.

Of course when I had my first mania at age 38, I did call them up on a Saturday. Heaven knows what I would've said, but the man who answered said No one was in the office. I was totally off my rocker.

I apply Elmer's glue with a Q-Tip to stick em on the pre-painted heart.

And off it went with a 46-cent stamp.

Visited Mom today. Brought my salad to eat over there. Donna stopped over for a minute, dropping off her grandson Tyler to do some gardening for Gram.

When we left, Donna gave me this Tazo tea, which is delicious. Orange blossoms and green tea, which should keep me alive another 40 years, by which time, maybe I'll get my work published.

Also shown are dying basil leaves, newly planted yesterday. Basil and I do not do well together.

We live in a culture of drinking. I pretty much gave up all booze when I went on lithium at age 38. But recently I've had a hankering to drink a little wine.

So last night at the Willow Grove Giant I went into the adjoining wine store and Virgil, the manager, let me taste various dry wines.

I told him I have diabetes and don't want anything sweet. I bought this Riesling, which is made from grapes in the Lehigh Valley.

At least I think it's from grapes. Maybe it's from kiwi fruit.... or apples... or yams.

Afterward I looked up the carb content online..... a 5 oz glass has 6 carbs.

Perfect.

Sipped it upstairs in bed while I was watching Perry Mason reruns.

Quick! What's his Gal Friday's name?

Barbara Hale plays "Della Street."

Hale is still alive at 90, born in 1922, same year as my mom.

Here's one of my old poems.

PURDUE CHICKEN LIVERS

Note: I gave up liquor, except for tiny sips, when I went on the drug lithium.

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,
Who simmered her fatty marrow bones
Till the pot frothed over, then ate them
On the upstairs porch.

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!

ACCEPTED by the New Yorker.
You wish, girl!