Back home in Australia I worked for many years for a lady whose passion for wine was matched only by my passion for handbags.
While I was more interested in amassing a vast empire of leather bags, believing 'quantity is quality', my boss taught me that one bottle of wine (costing as much, if not more, than one of my bags) could bring just as much pleasure as a fine Cellini or a vintage Olga Berg.
Back in the day, I was a red drinker, steering clear of whites only because they gave me a headache once. [Note that I vetoed Maggi 2-minute noodles for about 10 years because they made me vomit once when I was about six].
But my boss taught me to appreciate wine a little more each year, and I started to get to know some of the local producers, become familiar with varietals and vineyards, as well as learn a bit about Australian wine regions and for which wines they were better known.
And I squealed like a girl last week at "The Tasting Room" when I purchased a bottle of 1998 Lengs & Cooter Old Vine Shiraz from the Clare Valley. I had fully intended to hang onto it until Kate arrived and we could crack it open to welcome her to Chicago. But as with all my best plans, the magnetic pull of the earth would not let me do that, and I resolved to open it last night and share it with my room mates.
But the demonic corkscrew I used to break into the blessed bottle butchered the cork and threatened to ruin what would otherwise have been a beautiful bottle o'wine.
Summoning my McGyver instincts, I constructed a filtration system using a cocktail shaker, a coffee filter, and a complicated pouring technique - and I remedied the situation.
And pardon me for not having adopted the appropriate viticultural lexicon, but the wine was bloody beautiful. And no chewy bits of cork to be found.
Sorry Katie, I'll get us another one!
3 comments:
haha McGuyver! George would be proud. Prouder if it was Chuck Norris and you karate kicked the cork out of the bottle.
Nah, Chuck Norris would just stare it out - as the e-mails said: Chuck Norris doesn't have a chin. Behind his beard is another fist!
I'm so proud of you, it was ridiculous limiting your McGyver skills to toilet repairs you needed to expand and look at you go - collapsible beds, bottle opening, where will it end.
I'm guessing with the mistaken kidnapping of a person trapped in said bed and used as a lever to free the next cork?
I was contemplating just shattering the neck of the bottle on the end of the bench, but I stuck it out. Fear of swallowing shards of glass forced me forsake Chuck Norris and every ninja assassin move I could muster, and instead to think outside the square.
Alcoholism mixed with determination - it's a scary blend.
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