I
rarely share details of my life on this blog (frankly, I am not
important enough to think that anyone really cares). This story,
however, makes me laugh (usually at inappropriate times) at least once a
week, so I think it may be worth sharing.
My
husband has been on a very strict diet recently that has drastically
decreased his consumption of beer and wine (though he was never more
than a "pint or two after work" guy anyway). This story takes place in
the beginning of the year, and during said time period wine was
definitely a rare and special occasion beverage for him (sad but true). He had decided to
have his very rare allotment of wine one day after work before our date might dinner. I happened to
get home early. Knowing this would be a big deal for him, I wanted to
open something special and decant it so it would be perfect when he got
home.
I carefully selected the Terra Valentine Amore 2005, a SuperTuscan blend that is right up Jeff's alley. For him, bigger is better when it comes to red. [As you know by now, I am an equal-opportunity lover of all good wine.] Strangely enough, I cannot find our decanter anywhere. After driving myself bonkers searching high and low, I settle for a stainless steel pitcher that I used for a business cocktail event I hosted the week before. An unconventional choice, I quickly Google to make sure that it won't ruin my wine. Though I know wine is often aged in stainless steel barrels, I'm not taking a chance on this beauty. I'm in luck! All systems go. I pour it into the pitcher, leaving it on the kitchen counter, and then pour myself a small glass. I have a dorky habit of wanting to taste wine at several stages of "opening up." After a taste, I deem it scrumptious but cannot wait for it to mellow out.
I settle in to do chores, pay bills, and execute the other elements of domestic bliss until Jeff gets home. Like most women nowadays, I am a multitasking machine. In fact, I'm feeling pretty gosh darn proud of myself at this point. The next sequence of events still replays over and over again in my head:
For give the subpar grammar, but this is exactly how it happened: Husband arrives from work. Goes into the kitchen. Proceeds to make noise that sounds like he's doing dishes. ?? Comes into the tiny corner of our sun room that I call my "office" to say hello. Leans forward to give me a peck on the cheek: stops short, seeing my glass. Straightens up, saying cautiously "Where is the rest of that wine....?" and looks at me with pleading eyes.
With my eyebrows raised (why is he asking me this? Does he want some? What's wrong?), I start to say "In the-- (pitcher on the counter...)" but he stops me and says "Uh oh. I thought that punch looked too dark..." As his voice trails off I look at him, trying to convince myself he's not saying what I think he's saying. He poured out that gorgeous bottle? No! Amazingly enough, I refrain from saying anything, instead just looking at him and waiting fot him to finish. He continues, "I poured it out thinking it was the leftover punch you served last week at the cocktail party." I take a deep breath as he adds "...it wasn't good stuff, was it?" (again, the pleading eyes). I mumble something under my breath and then do my best to say something reasonably reassuring (memory escapes me here). After a few minutes, when my heart rate slows to normal(ish), we both end up laughing VERY hard as I walk down to the basement and grab another (slightly less special) bottle to decant. C'est la vie!
With my eyebrows raised (why is he asking me this? Does he want some? What's wrong?), I start to say "In the-- (pitcher on the counter...)" but he stops me and says "Uh oh. I thought that punch looked too dark..." As his voice trails off I look at him, trying to convince myself he's not saying what I think he's saying. He poured out that gorgeous bottle? No! Amazingly enough, I refrain from saying anything, instead just looking at him and waiting fot him to finish. He continues, "I poured it out thinking it was the leftover punch you served last week at the cocktail party." I take a deep breath as he adds "...it wasn't good stuff, was it?" (again, the pleading eyes). I mumble something under my breath and then do my best to say something reasonably reassuring (memory escapes me here). After a few minutes, when my heart rate slows to normal(ish), we both end up laughing VERY hard as I walk down to the basement and grab another (slightly less special) bottle to decant. C'est la vie!
Cheers to faux pas! I hope yours don't result in a beautiful wine casualty.
