When your birthday comes around, friends think about what you really love in life, and then proceed to find gifts that reflect your passions and interests.
Mine was last week and these gifts were thus bestowed upon me by a small collection of astute close ones.
In the left corner, from Spain— standing sedately is a short but confident bottle of Pedro Ximenez sherry. This one could be stowed safely in your sock, attached to your leg with a little duct tape and taken on a brisk winter walk down by the tracks.
Next up, a muscular California Zinfandel which would fit nicely in the glove compartment of my pickup, as a precautionary measure in case of a breakdown, either nervous or God forbid, mechanical. It would pair well, according to my sources, with a plate of cold Kentucky Fried Chicken.
Center stage sits proudly a soon to be sampled Pommard from Burgundy, equally at home with a good book by an open fire or a freshly strangled goose from the Platte river.
Tucked between the elegant Burgundian and the brash American lies the Italian job— with the ribbon around its neck— filled with innocence, excitement and the vigor of youth; just off the boat from Piedmont and waiting for its fruit to be ravished with a fleshy lasagna tonight.
And on the far right an unusually rustique Mendicino County Carignane. This one is ready to be passed around and enjoyed straight out of the bottle or for formality's sake, a glass, I suppose, would be acceptable.
In the foreground, a book that you would think was written by paranoid mormons bent on hoarding and preserving for survival in the Obama age. So far I have found no religious agenda in its pages. It's all about hanging hams and stringing up salamis for months at a time in the privacy of your basement.
Harmless craftsman/womanship.
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