This man was used to getting what he wanted. Here’s a story: On one of my private party piano gigs in a German castle, a gold-toothed corpulent client-complete with a Versace-clad supermodel hanging from his arm-decided he liked my rendition of “Let It Be.” I’m now hoping that same philosophy applies to sparkling water with lime. One of my favorite sommeliers, a lovely man named Silvio Nitzsche, once told me that the enjoyment of wine depended less on the wine’s quality and more on ambience and company-that the key to savoring a bottle of the good stuff is to drink it in a beautiful place with someone you love. Surrounded by shadowy elegance, flickering candlelight, and eccentric service staff who occasionally tossed rose petals on the piano, how could I resist a glass or two of overpriced swill? In former times, some of that elixir-sent to the piano by a generous guest-would be my beverage of choice for the evening. Over the years, I’ve worked alongside award-winning sommeliers in Europe’s best houses, playing piano for people willing to pay a king’s ransom for a simple bottle of wine. lip-syncing extravaganza for them, so I’m sure they required sustenance. In their defense, my sister and I had prepared a two-hour Sammy Davis, Jr. After she left, Della and Laura slinked into the kitchen and found the biggest glass receptacles in the overhead cabinets-a flower vase and an ice bucket-and made their cocktails following my mother’s “just one” instructions. Mom told both grandmothers they could each have one drink. I remember my two grandmothers showing up one New Year’s Eve to babysit for my sister, brother, and me so my mom could go to my dad’s gig at a Pittsburgh nightclub. And if you want the two-glass buzz, forget drinking with dinner. I don’t know a single drinking person who only has one four-ounce glass of wine with her meal once or twice a week. I was one of those women who, when asked by a doctor if I drank, routinely responded: “Oh, not really, just a glass of wine with dinner once or twice a week.”ĭoctors, listen up! The “one glass with dinner” lie has been propagated for so long by so many that it’s widely accepted as truth. I could easily knock back half a bottle of good wine every evening before falling into a grape-induced fitful slumber. I was never a mean drunk, a happy drunk, or a fall-down black-out drunk-I was more of a sleepy drinker. This meant staying away from the potato-chip couch and finally bailing on the booze. I decided I would strive to come out of the lockdown healthier than I was before it started. But at least, I’m focused.įollowing the onset of the cancer crisis, we, like all of you, experienced the paralyzing shock of Pandemic: Season One. It took me a year of drinking/not drinking to get onboard, but the self-discipline sobriety ship has sailed and I’m content to be a passenger, even if I’m slightly bewildered about where the damn ship is heading. John had stopped drinking a few months before he received his diagnosis, almost as if his body knew there was trouble down the pike. Alcohol turns to sugar and cancer loves sugar. Nutrition became a big part of his recovery plan. Why did I quit? Two years ago, my husband, John, was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer. Or getting through the evening without bursting into tears at least twice. Or dicing fresh ginger into impossibly small pieces. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized I need my wits about me to make sense of things that used to be second nature-playing the piano without sounding like an idiot, for instance. Nothing wrong with this plan, in principle. Wow, my brain says- time to soften my focus and loosen things up a bit. Both activities-transitions from one part of the day to another-have historically (or hysterically) been cocktail triggers for me. If I’m home, I’m thinking about dinner prep. What fun is this? If I’m at work, I’m heading into my last set of music. Shoot me now.Įvery evening when six o’clock rolls around and I’m sipping ginger-ale, I wonder if I’ve made the right call. Pass the lemongrass-infused green tea, please. But here we are-Piano Girl 2.0, steady and secure in my newfound sobriety. Those of you familiar with my tales of debauchery and hijinks from the piano lounge might find it hard to believe that I could soldier through a five-hour solo piano gig without a glass of Sancerre on the little marble table next to the Steinway.
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