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Remembrance of Wines PastDec 28 '00 Write an essay on this topic.Pre-wine caution Before I begin rambling on incessantly about some bottle of wine, I’ve a task before me I must attend…where to begin? Spock (the spectacled one, not the one with pointed ears…although it’s a safe bet he too would have…) warned us of the Terrible Twos. He of course referred in his text to the age of toddlers, but that’s only because he’d not had the pleasure of having read the terrible two on wine. The experience would have prompted him to expand the caution to include all partnerships of penman such as our own Peter and Paul. Doubtless, had the good doctor lived long enough, he’d have been an on-line guru spreading his wisdom on the Epinions pages. And he’d have taken the time and the trouble to warn of the dangers of being caught in the web of trust woven by the diatribe of the deceptively charming, dynamic duo. Spock didn’t live long enough, so, I suppose responsibility for issuing the warning falls upon my shoulders. But then, isn’t it written that the weak shall inherit the mirth? Consider this epistle your friendly warning: keep your eyes open; beware the terrible two. Caught unaware you are likely to be drawn into the web they weave. Before long, you’ll find yourself trapped, forced to read through the 100 reviews they have inflicted upon us…the monsters! But, you are warned, and with the warning issued, my job here is done. Others may have something to add in praise of the duo who today record their 100th Epinion: please check out the comments by: Ermitano, Palwalrus, MSHawpyle, PeterlRuden and Sweetpaulie. A Wine to remember At eighteen I enlisted in the U.S. Air Force, immediately following graduation from high school. The good folks in our friendly forces plopped me smack in the middle of the corn fields in Illinois at Rantoul Air Force Base to complete my military training. The corn stalks, the open fields, the enormous expanse of daytime blue sky and the wonders of starlit skies at midnight were all new to me. In Newark, city lights obscured the stars and the dingy buildings reduced visibility to a city block. I was lost in the country; I was in awe of the beauty of the natural world around me. I enlisted in mid August, completed basic training in Texas by mid October, and a few days later I was in a bunk in a barracks in Rantoul, awaiting the start of my technical school. These were peace-time years, 1958, and at Thanksgiving, the school closed; I was given a four day pass and allowed to travel home. Unfortunately, I hadn’t the money to make the trip back to Newark. I was condemned to a Thanksgiving meal in the mess-hall; I hated the idea of drinking out of those brown melmac cups and the scratched plastic water tumblers. And I hated worse the idea of eating with a few hundred strangers. Woody to the Rescue Woody was one of my tech school classmates; he was from Ohio originally, but at the time of his enlistment, he lived in Minnesota. Somewhere near Rochester, he said. He was going to drive home for the holiday and invited me to accompany him, providing I agreed to share the cost of the gas for the trip (those of you too young to remember, gas was .17cents a gallon in the civilian stations back then, on base we paid .12cents a gallon). What Woody didn’t tell me was that home was a 28 foot, one bedroom trailer sitting in a field about 20 miles from nowhere…and there were no parents. He lived alone in a trailer on a corner of his uncle’s farm. Both his parents were dead; he had no siblings. His aunt and uncle were in Florida, where they had spent every Thanksgiving for the past decade. I fixed our meal that Thanksgiving…my first attempt at cooking. We bought what we could afford, ground beef, which I turned into a meatloaf. I put the loaf in Woody’s only baking pan, a huge pyrex dish about 8 inches deep and wide and some 12 inches long. I topped the meat with two cans of a cheap, store-brand pork and beans and finished that with slices of raw bacon we had bought for our breakfasts. At the end, the bacon and the beans were overdone, but when we sat down to eat the meal neither of us seemed to care. We knew only that we weren’t in the mess-hall, and we weren’t alone. As for the meal…what the hell did I know about vegetables, salads, balanced diets, or nutrition? Washing down the grub I turned nineteen in Illinois in 1958, back then the enlisted folk drank cheap beer with 3.2% alcohol content. And we considered buying beer, but this was Thanksgiving. Woody and I decided to splurge on our choice for a beverage. Woody found a bottle of New York state sparkling wine. If I remember correctly, the wine was on special for $.99cents a bottle, and yes, we knew we could have had a six pack for that amount. I have no idea who made the wine, although if I were forced to come up with a winery name, I’d have to say it was a Taylor. I also have no recollection of what the wine tasted like. We chilled it; it was cold when we drank it from Dixie cups. I tolerated the bubbles and relished the thought that I was drinking champagne, my first. Neither the wine nor the food really mattered; what did matter was that I was not in the mess-hall eating with strangers, and I was not alone. If I stop to think about it, I can remember vividly the warmth and joy of sitting at a table eating a meal, however badly made, and drinking wine with a friend who volunteered to share his home with me on Thanksgiving. Friends, food, wine, I’m beginning to sound like one of those maudlin commercials for Gallo hearty burgundy. Congratulations to Peter and Paul for their having reached their 100 mark! They both deserve a lifetime of good friends, great wine and well prepared foods…  |
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