How big is your decanter?

After last’s week’s soap opera of lust, social castes, marital infidelity, suicide, and the power of curses, today I turn to a lighter more frivolous side.

First, a confession: I am a man that doesn’t mind shopping.  Don’t Judge Me. 

During lunch a couple of months back, a couple of my boys from the office and I went shopping at a local Home Goods store.  Home Goods is the kind of place where you are likely to find bored suburban housewives looking to furnish their suburban palaces with some decorative kitsch.  Also the place, where bored office mates go for some entertainment, apparently.

What were three mates doing there?  Well, um, Home Goods has a small if interesting gourmet and kitchen section.  In the past, I have scored some Le Creuset pie plates, non-stick roasting pans, and the like at very reasonable prices.  And two of us, being the types of guys who don’t mind spending time in the kitchen, we thought to see what was new. 

That day, we scored some Smoked Spanish Paprika which I use in a number of dishes as it adds a layer of complexity to marinades and the like.  But being at Home Goods, we I also toured the tabletop aisle (plates, glasses, soup bowls, etc.) and the adjacent decorative aisle where you would find things like glass vases.  Not that I need any vases.  But it wouldn’t hurt to look, would it?  

As I did so, I came across a large vase in an unusual shape.  Now, as a vase, it was marginal, in my opinion.  But with its tall long neck, flared lip, and bulbous base, it is the perfect shape for a decanter even if it was a bit freakishly Frankensteinesque.  And though large, it is not too heavy.  And I think it should easily accommodate a magnum of wine (like I need an excuse to open a large format bottle)!  Moreover, it being Home Goods, I got it for about $10!

Of course, when I get home with this glass monstrosity, Ms. R, in a fleeting moment of practicality, looks at me, shakes her head, and asks where I planned to store the thing. 

Well, I actually had not thought that part through, to be honest.  But being all over it, she immediately thought that my new “decanter” would make an ideal vase for some sunflowers or other long-stemmed varieties.  Really, a vase?  Why would I buy a vase?

I DON’T THINK SO.

Long stemmed whatevers might be fine for the Bored Housewives of Home Goods (coming soon to A&E).  But this is me we’re talking about.  And while I have vases aplenty, till that day, I had but two decanters.

I’ll show you my decanter if you show me yours.  Never mind, I’ll show you mine since it’s so big I have nothing to be ashamed of. 

As the change of seasons approaches, it’s good to know that we will be prepared to decant whatever wines make it to our table.  However, today’s wine needs no such special treatment.  A Spanish rosé from Penedes for these waning days of Summer and the crisp Autumn days ahead.  Perhaps I will take that smoked paprika and make a nice little marinade for some grilled shrimp…

Pares Balta Ros de Pacs 2011  ($11).  To the eye this hardly seems to be a rosé, this is so dark.  But with juicy, sprightly berry flavors, and a touch of earth on the nose, this is a great example of a rosé that can be drunk year round.  Though made of Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon, it has vivacious fruit due to its stainless steel fermentation, maintaining pleasing levels of acidity that will have you coming back for refills time and again.  While it does not have the finesse of some Provencal rosés, it represents a unique style that can hold its own with the better rosés in the marketplace.  Rated **1/2 

The little guy in the photo at the top of this page doesn’t have a guilty bone in his body.  Neither should you.  No-Guilt Wednesday (NGW) is not about compromising on quality.  It’s all about drinking good wine that does not break the bank ($15 or less), eating good food and of course, it’s about sharing with the ones you love.

Do you believe in the power of curses?

1.

The sun was hot and sweat was trickling down the small of his back.  Felix spotted the young woman, Marcela, in the puny town square one late summer afternoon.  His family, owned much of the farmland surrounding the village and as such he had rank and privilege.  She was brown-eyed and raven haired– but just a girl, really.  Born to a poor family, her eyes spied on him from behind the strands of dark hair that fell across her sun-stained face.  Though she was but 14 years of age, she looked spectacular to him.  And she was smitten, though he was in his mid-twenties.  

As the aristocrat son of the landowner, he did not need to ask permission to court the girl.  In time, she bore him two children, both girls, Merin and Evangelia.  Because of his status, Marcela’s parents Tomasa and Juan, did not interfere.  Girls were married off young then and if she was to be with Felix, at least her station in life would be elevated.  But there was to be no marriage.  And though he did not need her parents’ permission to bed the girl, his parents were not so pleased with the union.  Exercising the power of the purse, they prevailed on him to withdraw from the relationship and he soon went into hiding.  Had he refused, he likely would have become a Latino Ivanhoe: disinherited, poor, excommunicated from the family.

But a line had been crossed and Tomasa, driven by protectiveness of her daughter and perhaps by seeing that her daughter’s status and by extension her own standing in the community, were dissolving right before their eyes, became enraged.  But she could not strike out at the landowners– at least not physically.  They were too powerful.  Instead, she knelt under a large tree and in the presence of Felix’s mother prayed that his family would be denied the sight him just as Marcela had been so deprived.  What she meant by that, no one really knew.

Merin and Evangelia, grew to be pretty girls, much like their mother.  Felix’s family, while never disavowing the girls, did not interfere in their upbringing. 

2.

In time, Felix emerged from hiding and he and his Brother Pedro courted and then married two sisters, Guita and Belica, respectively.  Theirs was a tight-knit relationship and the brothers and their brides moved into two homes that lay next to each other.  Felix and Guita in one and Pedro and Belica in the other.  They were family; but more importantly, they were best friends.   

During the week, , Felix would rise in the morning and after washing with some rough handmade soap, he would shave with a straight-edged razor with a carved bone handle, its finely honed edge scraping off the previous day’s stubble.  He would enter the kitchen where Guita would have his morning cafe con leche, piping hot and sweetened, just the way he liked it, waiting for him.  He would nibble on a buttered soda cracker, gulp down the sweetened elixir and energized, go off to work.  Pedro would similarly do the same in the house next door.

In the evenings, the two households would gather for a meal and talk of the day’s events.  The food was typical– platanos maduros, arroz con habichuelas, carne de cerdo, asopao de pollo, mofongo, arroz con gandules, bacalaitos, ropa vieja.  This was not a light cuisine and despite their daily regimen of work, the brothers were beginning to put on weight.  The sisters, were happy to see it and be part of it.  All that was missing was children.

Guita, of course, knew about Felix’s two children with Marcela.  Didn’t everyone?  That notion that Felix had two children, albeit illegitimate children, in close proximity, weighed heavily on Guita.  Felix’s past life cast a shadow on the house.  Merin and Evangelia were also potential heirs. 

Moreover, in this community you were defined by the number of children you had.  This was also the only real form of social security at that time.  And she wanted desperately to have her own in order to secure her future well-being as she aged.

At nightfall, the two couples, bellies full, would retire to their respective homes, undress, make love and slip into marital slumber.  In the warm tropical air, the mosquitos would arrive to draw out their daily allotment before flying off to feed their own larvae in a dark pool of still water.

3.

Returning home early from work, one afternoon, Felix thought he would surprise Guita and spend a little quality time with her.  They did not have children, though they hoped to start a family soon.  As he approached the house, he thought that perhaps today would be a good day to make more progress on that domestic project.  Ever since he had broken off the relationship with Marcela, he did not really see that much of his two girls, Merin and Evangelia.  And he felt this void in his life.  It was a wound in his life that had not quite healed and now he was hoping that he would have a second chance to heal himself by having a child with Guita. 

As he entered the house, he heard Guita’s voice in the bedroom.  “So, she speaks to herself when I’m not home,” he thought.  Hers was a delicate voice, her laughter was lightly carried aloft as if on hummingbird wings.  He opened the door, and entering the sleeping chamber, he heard a familiar man’s voice.  A stunned silence fell on the room.  Two figures, entwined and frozen by the harsh light of discovery.  Their mouths went arid as the weight of the moment began to crush them.

Felix’s heart sank.  There, before him, Pedro and Guita lying in a nude embrace, their tanned bodies in bas-relief against the freshly laundered taut white sheets.  Of course, he had seen each of them nude before.  But not like this.  The unwanted smell of human perspiration was lingering in the tropical air.  To be a cuckold was shame enough for a man of Felix’s stature and nature.  To receive the horns at the hands of his own brother was impossible to accept.  It was a double betrayal by the two people he loved the most in the world.  He walked over to the tall dresser where his shaving mirror sat on its mahogany stand.  He gazed at his own face– angrily sanguine.  He reached down and picked up the bone handled straight razor.  It felt smooth in his hand.  He gripped it tightly and his knuckles turned white with waves of loathing and nausea.  Guita, looked at him and begged for mercy, but she was too frightened to get off the bed.  She had never seen this expression on his face.  Pedro, swallowed hard and offered a stuttered and hollow excuse as he started to rise from the bed. 

Felix stared them both down for what would perhaps be the last time.  Then overwhelmed, Felix fled the room, tears streaming down his face and a scream choked off in his throat.  He had to get out of that house.  He made his way down to the creek that Pedro and he used to play in when they were younger– images of water fights, skipping stones, fishing for minnows, talk of local girls ran through his head.  And of  Guita– what could she have been thinking to let this happen?  

Arriving at the water’s edge, his heart beating wildly and short of breath, he became aware once again of the shaving tool he held in his hand.  Unfurling the blade from its bony shell, the glinting edge caught the blinding sunlight as it reflected off the water in the creek.  He stared at the blade and a strange smile came over his face.  He pushed the blade into the flesh on his wrist, tearing at the tendons, slicing deeply, the skin opening up, exposing his veins, in a wide red smile.  Warm liquid poured out of him, but he felt nothing except an emptiness.  Sitting on the edge of the creek he watched as the crimson liquid spilled out of him, staining his slacks and streaking down the muddy brown bank, before trickling in and mixing with the current for its downstream journey.  Alone, he let out a small sorrowful cry.  It was the last sound he ever made.

4.

After they interred him, the family never saw Felix again.  They had probably forgotten Tomasa’s words, even if Tomasa and Marcela did not. 

However, now that Felix was beyond anyone’s grasp, the two families settled their old differences.  Marcela and Tomasa agreed that Merin, would be taken in by Felix’s family and raised as one of their own.  Marcela would continue to raise the other daughter, Evangelia, in relative poverty.  However, the girls would continue to see each other and there is no doubt that this benefitted Evangelia as well.  It was a way to acknowledge, Felix’s paternity, which pleased Marcela and Tomasa.  But it was also a way for the Felix’s  family to catch glimpses of Felix’s spirit in the children they should have acknowledged from the start. 

          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

There is not much off a segue between this story and today’s NGW, other than to say that it provided some inspiration as the words started to flow.

This one shows that there may still be good values out there in French wines even from the 2009 vintage.  This has a Cru Bourgeois designation which in a great vintage like 2009, may actually mean something.  Pay attention to your labels.

Chateau Lalande Listrac-Medoc 2009 ($14).  Lovely aromas of crushed berries.  Red and black fruits intermingle with an herbal quality.  Minerally and a little grippy with 60% Merlot, 30% Cabernet Sauvignon, 10% Petit Verdot.  The finish tells us this can age for a few more years with no harm.  It over delivers at this price.  Rated ***

In Morocco land of Sultans and Scimitars, I was with ID, my then girlfriend.  I was hoping the trip would be more Road to Morocco than Casablanca.  But in truth, I got a little bit of each and a smattering of The Sheltering Sky for good measure.

There is Morocco though a Hollywood filter:  The Road to Morocco, with Dorothy Lamour, Bing Crosby and the brilliant Bob Hope.  As a little Sybarite-Hipster-In-Training (yes, you know the acronym), with its Hollywood-movie lot scenery, I was taken with the place.   Later, I became enthralled by the place once again during a Casablanca phase.  Darker, yes, but it is not as existentially challenging as Paul Bowles’ The Sheltering Sky– a marriage collapsing amid danger.

Early in the trip, we stopped at a roadside stand to purchase some large amethyst crystals.  Offered some lukewarm mint tea—a staple of Moroccan hospitality– I drank it without thinking about what might be lurking within the dulcet liquid that had not been killed by a good boil.  A day later when arriving at our next destination by rail, I felt a twinge of queasiness in my stomach, within minutes, I had broken into a cold sweat.  Trembling in the 85 degree heat, I grabbed a seat in the station.  Our driver arrived and crammed us and our luggage into a compact car.  Making our way to the Riad al Bartal (our hotel), I could feel the nausea building in unpleasant waves as he navigated the twists and turns of narrow medieval streets choked with pedestrians and motor scooters spewing blue burnt oil exhaust from their tailpipes.  We arrived at the Riad.  Decorated in traditional Moroccan zillij tile work, the place exceeded all of our expectations– but I did not notice that at first.

We were led to our room— and I was feeling some relief in that I was not going to redecorate the hotel lobby in a shades of vomit.  As our driver escorted us to our room, he lit an unfiltered Moroccan cigarette and the fingers of dense smoke reaching deep into my nostrils.  My body shook, as a wave of nausea came on me along with that salty taste that accompanies it.  I was green in the gills as they say.  As he unlatched the door to our room, I pushed past him into the W.C., and made an offering to the porcelain goddess.  “Welcome to Fes!” whispered the goddess. 

Thus, on this our first day in Fes, we decamped to the rooftop of the Riad where I rested under a tent overlooking spectacular views of the mountains surrounding the city underneath a blanket of pristine cerulean blue skies.  Views that were interrupted by intermittent bouts of sickness.  Nothing brings you to the brink of existential alienation like a good puke.  

The next morning I felt well enough to have a breakfast of strong coffee and sweet pastries. 

Morocco is like that—a blend of the sweet and bitter– and I wouldn’t want to remember it any other way.  I should have been paying closer attention to the Road to movie—because it also has that quality—with adventure and danger lurking around many corners balanced by the kindness of strangers and sweet kisses of Dorothy Lamour or was that an overly friendly camel?

Later that day, I felt well enough to explore the medina in Fes.  The medinas in these old Moroccan cities are special places, the centers of commerce and community, stretching back over a thousand years.  A place where you can buy everything you need to run a Moroccan household and get the news of the day.  Rugs, meat, nuts, perfume, dates, olives, pastries, mint tea, leather, knives, cooking pots, tagine crockery, cous cous, herbs, lanterns, woolen pillow cases, milk jugs and local gossip.

We had heard that the Moroccan King Mohammed V was in town entertaining a foreign leader.  This we learned in the first 10 minutes in the souk.

Mohammed’s father was Hassan II, who with his almost mythic ability to avoid assassination had captured the imagination and loyalty of his people.  He had eluded two assassination attempts including an attack on his palace and an attempt to shoot down his aircraft, giving him an air of invincibility.  During the attack on the palace, where nearly 100 guests were killed and more than 125 wounded, the King hid in a bathroom.  When the firing died down, he emerged to find himself face to face with one of the rebels.  Keeping eye contact, he recited the opening verse of the Koran.  The rebel knelt and kissed his hand.  Later when pilots of his own air force attacked his Boeing 727 jetliner, the King, himself a pilot, seized the radio and shouted, ”Stop firing! The tyrant is dead!” — fooling the rebels into breaking off their attack.  Though he probably would not have appreciated the comparison, he was clearly a resourceful guy who had more than a little bit of Bob Hope in him. 

That day in Fes, we found ourselves overlooking a square and were surprised that the dirt paths, and dusty squares of the Medina were being carpeted with a sea of red area rugs—the ultimate red carpet treatment. 

We were informed that Bashar el-Assad, leader of Syria, was also in town visiting the King.  Word was that the King and Assad were going to be touring the Medina together and in an age-old tradition, the merchants laid out one or two carpets in front of their establishments creating a carpeted path for the foreign leader. 

About 30 minutes before the walk through, two men came walking through the Medina with tanks strapped to their backs.  As they walked past, they released puffs of mist from the tanks.  How odd, we thought, what could that be– a disinfectant?  A rose-scented cloud descended on the Medina covering up the less desirable odors of Moroccan commerce– a mixture of tanning leather stench, donkey urine, smoke-charred meat, desert dust, trodden carpets and sweat.  There is nothing like it that I have ever encountered in my other travels.  Then the advance security team came though.  We were identified as tourists, but were cleared because we had fortuitously hired a local guide that day who vouched for us (the only time that we took a guide during the trip).

Shortly thereafter, Assad and his attractive new wife, Asma, came strolling through.  Mohammed V, called away on the business of the Kingdom, did not accompany them.  Given that we were obviously American, we stayed in the entry way to the shop and watched the procession of security personnel, Tyrant, Spouse. 

It’s easy to lead when you are not being challenged.  But strong men, like Bashar Assad are eventually destined to fall.  Recently with the turmoil in Syria, there are rumors that the comely Mrs. Assad has fled the country and for Russia.  And news that high-ranking public officials and Syrian army generals are also fleeing. 

Assad and I made eye contact—but that was it.  Asma made eye contact with ID.  We were just three steps from the two of them. 

Later I picked up a few souvenirs including a blue painted bowl that adorns my house today.  I now call this the Assad bowl because some of the glaze has chipped off.   These days, Assad’s image is bit more than chipped than my bowl and I wonder how much longer he will remain in power before he is ousted.

Travel sometimes takes its toll on us.  Of course, there are the stories of the Mysterious Amethyst Illness and Tyrants in Fes.  Toward the end of the trip, there was a fissure in the relationship with ID.  You go to bed, with errant words repeating themselves in your mind, not sure whether everything is fine and you wake up as the sun starts to peek between the cracks of the shuttered windows knowing that it is over.  That’s just the way it is.  But “we will always have Fes…” and a Sheltering Cerulean Sky.

Today’s NGW wine is a little French number with a gimmicky name.  But no less of a gimmick than a Morocco setting in Hollywood.  If I’m wearing a hat, keep your bowler and give me the Bob Hope Classic Black Cap (see below).

Petit Chapeau Bordeaux 2009 ($10).  This has a rustic quality that smooths out with food.  Green notes with a touch of bell pepper and tobacco notes.  This wine is a blend of 60% Merlot, 20% Cabernet Franc, 20 % Cabernet Sauvignon.  The grapes are sourced from the Entre-Deux-Mers region of Bordeaux – from a single estate which uses organic practices.  Rated **

The little guy in the photo to the left doesn’t have a guilty bone in his body.  Neither should you.  No-Guilt Wednesday (NGW) is not about compromising on quality.  It’s all about drinking good wine that does not break the bank ($15 or less), eating good food and of course, it’s about sharing with the ones you love.

NGW on a Saturday?  This past week was a rough one for our family.  Two surgeries on Tuesday for Ms. R and my Dad.  Unfortunately, I couldn’t be in two places at the same time.  Everyone is on the mend, but blogging and work did not seem so important.  Though I did carry my laptop with me and have been working on a few posts during time spent in hospital waiting rooms, they just seemed terribly unfinished to publish. 

So here we are on the side deck, an overcast Saturday morning, humidity rising, the cicadas of August scratching out their love songs and everyone is still asleep in the house, except for Jake the Wonder Dog and me.  He is all about the nonverbal communication.  He is unswervingly affectionate and he would love nothing more than to be a lap dog– all 30 pounds of him.  Though he wants to jump up on her, being a pretty smart boy, he has been especially gentle with Mr. R these past few days.  

About Jake.  Several years ago, Ms. R agreed to dog sit a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel for a weekend.  Our daughters loved that dog and had in fact had a short list of the kinds of dogs that they thought we should have.  The CKCS was at the top of the list even before the dog sitting weekend.  At some point we decided well maybe we are ready to have a dog for the girls’ sake.  Thus we found ourselves at the local animal shelter.  Being brought up in households where money was never plentiful, it cuts against our grain to spend thousands of dollars to purchase a pet.  At the shelter there were many wonderful dogs and we actually took a couple out for a walk, but they did not seem quite right for us.  We, therefore, decided to wait.  However, on our way out of the shelter, Ms. R decided to put her name on a waiting list– a handwritten waiting list of all things– for a CKCS.  Right.

Here is a critical difference between Ms. R and me.  She believes in Magic.  I am… how shall I say this… more skeptical.  I thought, “We will never hear from them.”  And that is the last I thought of that.

About six months later– I get a call from Ms. R at work.  The shelter called and they have a CKCS and a pure bred one at that, with documentation certifying his breed.  Would we like to take a look at him? 

Now I have owned several dogs in the past and I know that they require much attention and that they do limit your lifestyle– weekends away are harder to negotiate, etc.   And if they get sick, the costs can be significant.   So I was concerned with this development.  But a CKCS?  What is wrong with this animal that someone would drop him off at the dog pound?  My curiosity was piqued and I figured, why not take a look and we can get it out of our systems, like the last time and that would be that.  Truthfully, I did not want a dog as small as a 12 pound CKCS.

The animal shelter was just a few minutes drive from my office at the time.  We arrived and entered the low slung building next to the incineration plant in town.  It is not a handsome neighborhood, to be sure.    The dog’s name was Brownie, we were told.  He was about 10 months old and his previous owners claimed that their recently newborn baby was allergic to the dog.  Sounded like a strange story to me.  Sounded like they were overwhelmed with puppy and baby at the same time and couldn’t find a shelter to drop the baby off, so Brownie had to go.

The moment Brownie came out of the cages he bounded toward us, happy to see people he could play with.  This was not a small dog– he was about 3 time the size of the CKCS we had sat for.  It did not matter that he did not know who we were.  He literally flew into our arms.  As he did so, I found my self saying, “Hey Jake!  What a good boy! Come here, Jake!”  WTF just happened!?  Before I knew it we had signed adoption papers for an extra-large CKCS– nothing “Cavalier” about him– he’s just too large.  We read somewhere that Cavaliers are the small guys.  He’s just a KCS which suits us just fine.  Even better, the adoption fee was $50. 

I guess I now believe in magic too.  Jake has been a blessing on the house– really just another kid.  He spends his entire day thinking of ways to test us to see whet he can get away with.  Well, at least that is how is seems.  But he also knows to adapt himself to our moods.  And he has taught us his own language of barks and body langauge.  He’s quite amazing really.  

And as Ms. R continues her  recovery, he continues to provide support just by being there.  Just another member of the family.

A few nights ago, I opened this nice little rose.  I am playing nurse these days and after things had calmed down a bit, this really hit the spot.

Reserve de la Saurine du Gard Rose Vin de Pays d’Oc 2011 ($8). Scents of summer peaches and with satisfying acidity and a minerally quality on the finish of this Grenache rose.  A refreshing wine that is easy to come back to glass after glass.  Another terrific value from Languedoc-Roussillon.  Rated **1/2

The little guy in the photo at the top of this page doesn’t have a guilty bone in his body.  Neither should you.  No-Guilt Wednesday (NGW) is not about compromising on quality.  It’s all about drinking good wine that does not break the bank ($15 or less), eating good food and of course, it’s about sharing with the ones you love.

It’s August and the heat is on. 

I not gonna mess around this week with some crazy story from a past life.  It’s too darn hot.   And when the weather is sizzlin’ hot, as the song goes, Mr Adam for his Madam may be not, but with a few sips of today’s wine, you’ll be all about Snap Backs and Tattoos before you know it!

So do as we do.  Get to your local wine merchant– check out their rosés and bring a few home.)  And if you see today’s NGW, get two of them.)  Ring up some friends.  Start up the grill.  Stay up late.  And if you all end up howling the words to Hotel California together at one in the morning (that never happened),  call in sick.   You’ve earned it (and the work will still be there on Monday morning)!

Domaine Houchart Cotes de Provence Rosé 2011 ($12).  A pale salmon pink that is scented with summer fruit orchard and roses with a bit of earth stirred in, this has what you want out of a rosé– strawberries with a touch of mid-summer watermelon.  Balancing acidity and a hint of minerality on the finish.  Built with Grenache, Syrah, Cinsault, Cabernet Sauvignon and Mouvedre; but made to quench your thirst with friends on hot August days.  Rated **1/2 

The little guy in the photo at the top of this page doesn’t have a guilty bone in his body.  Neither should you.  No-Guilt Wednesday (NGW) is not about compromising on quality.  It’s all about drinking good wine that does not break the bank ($15 or less), eating good food and of course, it’s about sharing with the ones you love.