Peronis

After I rake and shovel on this hot June day, I walk back to the house to get a drink.
Just as I reach my car I see my reflection in the window.  I'm glistening - with sweat - dripping down my face long beads and short beads of water all over, not the gym fake kind after running nowhere in place for a half hour or rowing a boat that doesn't move, real work, real sweat.  I like it.

Now I know why my father always had  a beer in his hand while he worked around our almost acre of  yard, mowed the grass on the steep corner hill, or weeded  his organic (before we used that word) backyard garden.
 Nothing quenches your thirst - like a cold beer.

My brother left half a dozen Peronis in the refrigerator when he visited last summer.
  The beer has not gone bad, not like all the other food left here for almost a year, even the parmagiano cheese I thought  it was going to be okay, cheese ages doesn't it, no, it also had that refrigerator taste, had to toss it, along with shriveled up hot dogs, green mold in a bowl on some unknown leftover, stale cashews, I threw (reluctantly the cheese) out everything.

Ok, I'll make a confession - there were 3 tubs of ice cream, one organic, one Friendly's, and another brand whose generic name I can't remember - they all had ice on the top.  In desperation, well, I wasn't starving, just looking for some dessert, I peeled off the ice, hacked it off, and ate some of the Friendly's chocolate brownie ice cream !  A few spoonfuls was enough, and then down the sink it went.

I'm safe with the Peronis.  The smell of beer on my breath reminds me of my father's smell after he had a beer.  (My brother said he drove cross country with a beer between his legs the entire trip !)

It's 95 degrees outside, the Peroni hits the spot, the sweet spot.
I am my father's daughter.