I’ve never been big on drinking although I do recall a romp in some poison ivy (after too many scotches) with a date whose name I’ve forgotten. That was about a million years ago.

Of course, I enjoy a glass of wine with good food and an occasional scotch on the rocks with a lemon twist with Peter on a Sunday night. I always have that Sunday night drink in one of my mother’s monogrammed old-fashioned glasses.

When the kids were little, soft drinks were off limits during the week, but we’d often have a “coketail” hour on the weekends. Normally, this was accompanied by a plate of tortilla chips with shredded cheese nuked in the microwave for one minute and fifteen seconds.

Last Sunday night Peter was in England for a conference, the second of five nights away. I’d kept myself busy all day, but when it was time to call it quits, Peter wasn’t here to have a drink with. So I got one of my mother’s glasses and made myself a scotch on the rocks with a lemon twist. I grabbed some cheese and crackers and sat in my spot in our sunroom, drinking alone for the first time.

It’s not the same.