Put A Cork In It

Now that I have my land legs back, I could tell you about sailing on the Rhone River through the heart of Burgundy and Provence. I could regale you with stories about sumptuous cuisine, world-class art, breath-taking scenery and legendary history--- but I won’t. Because, after a week of gazing, swirling, sniffing, sipping and surreptitiously guzzling French wines, I will share with you some wine tasting tips I picked up along the way.

First of all, when pouring a glass of wine, you fill the goblet about one-third full, so when swirling and tilting the liquid, you won’t dump the elixir into your lap. This is a no-no, especially if the wine costs $80 a bottle. But I need to back up.

There is a term called, “stemware awareness.” When tasting wine, it is much more desirable to use a tulip shaped glass, rather than a paper cup. After pouring the wine, the first thing to do is to gaze adoringly at the wine to study its color. It is preferable to hold a white sheet of paper behind it and tilt the glass a little. If you haven’t gotten out of bed yet, you could use your bed sheet. If the wine is brackish brown or slimy green, don’t go to the next step.

It is advised that you hold your glass by the stem, because if you hold it by the bowl, your hand will warm the wine. I don’t understand this rule because I never hold my wine long enough to let it get warm.

Okay, so now you have studied the color of your wine, it is time to start swirling it in the glass. The swirling lets oxygen penetrate the wine and releases its vapors. This is good, because the next step is to stick your nose into the glass. But before you start sniffing, you need to look at the glass to study the little streaks of wine that appear on the inside of the glass. They appear because of the swirling and are called “legs.” It is enjoyable to watch them run back into the wine. Don’t worry if your legs are wrinkly. Now, you can smell your wine.

The smelling part is rather tricky. There is a difference between a “first nose” and a “second nose.” This does not involve plastic surgery, but the smell will change the second time you stick your nose into your glass. It is considered bad form to stick your nose into your neighbor’s glass.

The sniffing is rather arbitrary, because when asked people don’t smell the same fragrances. One man in our group said the wine smelled like fruit loops, and another man smelled garlic, which I suspect emanated from his breath and not his glass.

Now that you have studied the color, swirled the wine, examined the legs and stuck your nose into the glass, it is time to take a sip of your wine. However, before you swallow, it is advised to let the wine linger a bit in the mouth. If you are a champion wine taster, you can tighten your mouth and breathe in over the wine, and send the aroma back into the nasal cavity. Of course if you aren’t a champ, this could also send the wine down into your windpipe and you will die.

Finally, it’s time to say “A votre sante!” and savor the wine. At this point, purists spit it out, pour another glass from a different bottle and start all over again.

Are they nuts!

Esther Blumenfeld (If Shiraz smells like leather can you serve it to a vegan?)

It's Been Quite A Ride

I was my mother’s weird child, and more than once in exasperation, she’d exclaim, “I hope you get a child just like you!” Well, she got her wish. Only, I’m proud to report that my son, Josh was always much better at “otherness” than I ever was. Of course, his Dad was a strange and wondrous fellow, who used to tell me, “It’s good that we found each other, because I doubt if anyone else would have us.”

Josh is approaching a special birthday, so indulge me when I introduce you to this young man, who, over the years, has taken me on quite a parental ride. Even as a child he had a wry sense of humor and a gift for understatement. I learned early on that he will begin a statement with information such as, “The trip to camp was fun,” and then it becomes more complicated when he adds---“after we put out the fire on the bus.”

When he was a graduate student at the  Institute for Environmental Studies at the University of Wisconsin, he told his Dad and me that his major professor had invited us to his home for dinner, so naturally we dressed appropriately for the occasion. However, Josh failed to mention that his famous professor lived at the edge of the wetlands, and that we were going to slog through the marsh looking for rare plants and beasties. His Dad, dressed in a suit, helplessly sank up to his ankles in muck, and I never did see any critters, although I could hear them, and later found a creepy crawly in my shoe.

Then Josh took flight lessons. When I telephoned to ask him how he was doing he said, “Great! I love flying. I just have to perfect my landings.” A mother does not want to hear that!

When he was Editor of Publications at the National Wildflower Research Center in Austin, Texas, Lady Bird Johnson invited him and his co-workers to her house for lunch. After lunch, she said, “The television in my bedroom isn’t working.” Then, pointing at Josh, she said, “You, please go fix it.”  Josh is almost as handy as his father, who once changed a light bulb in our apartment in Chicago---and the entire city went dark. Gamely, he ventured into the bedroom, stared at the television set and noticed that one of the connections was loose. Triumphantly, he reported that he had fixed the set. However, from that day on Josh said, “I live in constant fear that her washing machine will go on the fritz.”

Josh had a successful run as an actor in New York City as a member of a repertory ensemble. In one of his roles, he played a villain in Shakespeare’s Macbeth. After the play closed, he came home for a visit, and when I picked him up at the airport, he told me that he’d have to get the stitches removed from his arm. “What stitches? What happened?” I yelled. “Well,” he began, “most people don’t know about the curse of Macbeth.” “What is the curse of Macbeth?” I asked.

He replied, “Because of all of the sword action in the play, someone usually gets hurt.” “And you got cut with the blade?” I asked. “No,” he replied, “It was the pommel on top of the grip. Another actor grabbed me, and while we were wrestling it sliced an artery.” “Don’t look so worried,” he added, “it was at the end of the play and the audience didn’t know the difference. The stage blood looked just like mine. They rushed me to the hospital, and the best part was that doctors came from all over the hospital to look at me.” “Oh, My God!” I replied. “It must have been a terrible cut.” “No,” he said, “They didn’t come to look at the cut. They couldn’t get over how real the scar on my face looked.”  

After his adventure in New York, he returned to graduate school at the University of Colorado in Boulder for a degree in Journalism. During this time he was awarded a Colorado Press Association scholarship for a summer internship at The Durango Herald Newspaper. One of his assignments was to cover the Iron Horse Bicycle Classic, and the only way to cover this 50- mile, 20,000 pedal stroke, 6,650-foot mountain climb in the most rugged mountains in Colorado was to participate.

He rented a Cannondale road bike that “cost more than my car and weighed less than my water bottle.” “By the time I reached Purgatory, parts of my body were numb that normally aren’t,” he reported. Then he wrote, “The descent into Silverton was one of the scariest rides, I’ve ever taken. Gravity pulled the Road Rocket downhill at speeds faster than the posted speed limit.” With only a lightweight helmet, a thin racing jersey and shorts, Josh rode 35m.p.h. down the mountain. He earned bragging rights. I got a rash.

After graduation, he became an, On Air, Tornado Alley Meteorologist, and I could watch him on my computer being whipped about in blizzards and drenching storms. “Don’t worry, Mom,” he said, “I’ve had storm spotter training and severe weather workshops.” He was literally on the fast track.

He blew out of that job and is now in Washington, DC with his new bride, Barbara. So what did they do on their honeymoon? Sounds as if it was lots of fun!  “We swam with the sharks and stingrays.” My new daughter’s life will never be boring.  I think the adventure is just beginning. Happy Birthday, Son!

Esther Blumenfeld (Hear that beat? It’s the different drummer)

How Old Are You?

Yesterday, I met a friend for dinner and as we looked at the menu, she said, “I need to order something that will help me lose 5 pounds by tomorrow.” I suggested that she order a cake made of Ex-Lax.

 Later we went to a club that featured a new comic who was quite funny. I noticed that everyone in the small theatre was laughing heartily except one woman whose face was frozen. Her eyebrows were locked in the up position, her eyelids couldn’t blink or wink and her mouth resembled the grimace worn by Batman’s nemesis, The Joker. “What makes her face so tight?” I asked my friend. “Botox” she replied. “That woman is chock full of Botox.”  Ouch!

Children are eager to grow up. “Can’t wait to be 16 so I can drive.” “Can’t wait to graduate from high school so I can go to college.” “Can’t wait to be 21 so I can drink beer.” Then the desire to age comes to a screeching halt. “Oh, my God, I’m 40, and only have 50 or 60 years left.” Most people love Mother Nature’s elixirs that promise eternal youth, but they intensely dislike Father Time.

A few months ago, while hiking up Heartbreak Hill, I saw a man stop and gasp for air. I took one look at his grey complexion, gave him my bottle of water and forced him to sit down on the nearest boulder. He said, “ I feel faint,” so I made him put his head between his knees. When he came up for air, his color was better, but I noticed a heart monitor. “Do you want me to call 911 or your wife?” I asked. “He begged me not to call either one of them. “My wife would be worse than 911,” he said as he admitted, “My doctor told me not to do this yet.” “So why are you doing it? I shouted at my patient. “Because I have been hiking to the top of this mountain since I was 17-years-old,”he replied. “Well,” I said, “Obviously, you aren’t 17 anymore.” I insisted on accompanying him to the parking lot, and scolded the “Bloody Fool” all the way to his car. I also threatened to call his wife if he ever did anything so stupid again. Turns out that my charge was the CEO of a big corporation, which did not prevent him from being a 70-year-old birdbrain.

I met a nurse who used to work for a plastic surgeon. She said, “I had to quit when I saw an 87-year-old woman crawl across the parking lot to get yet another face lift.” As my mother would say, “She might look like a gymnasium from the rear, but she looks like a mausoleum from the front.”

Old age is not contagious but it is inevitable and carries no shame.  It is smart to maximize on our genetics with healthy habits (you know what they are), but the body is a wondrous machine that will, with time, wear down and out.  In the meantime remember that the best face-lift is a smile, and the best diet is a dose of laughter with friends. Being the thinnest, unwrinkled person in the cemetery is not a memorable accomplishment.

Esther Blumenfeld (one day older---so what!)

Faith, Hope And You've Got To Be Kidding!

I am on every charities hit list. Every time I open my mailbox, it is filled with new solicitations. Don’t get me wrong, I choose to give a fair share of my yearly income to worthy causes that I want to support. Sometimes, in a weak moment, I even give additional donations to bell ringers, groups who want to improve our planet or kids who sell unhealthy stuff for their school or scout troop. However, I draw the line when people I don’t know want me to send them money to save my soul. Their tracts get recycled—“dust to dust,” as the saying goes.

Who do you suppose, designs those address labels that accompany solicitation letters? I have received pictures of dogs, cartoon characters, flowers, ships, butterflies, and more flowers. If you like flowers, send those folks $1.00 and you’ll receive many more labels---enough to plant a garden. Most of these labels don’t know what to call me, so I end up being a “Ms.” whatever that means.

The more heavy-handed approach to asking for money involves “free gifts.” I thought all gifts were free. I have received greeting cards, notepads, calendars, pens and my very favorite free gift---an actual “In God We Trust” American nickel. These unsolicited items are supposed to invoke guilt, which in turn, will transform the favor into an un-free gift. I don’t know how many nickels are mailed to strangers, but I do know that 20 nickels make a $1.00. If they are rich enough to send people free money, why do they want more?

Although I have a “no solicitation” order on my telephone, occasionally a numbskull, who can’t pronounce my name, gets on the line. The last conversation I had with one of these folks went something like this:

Hello

Hello, is this Mrs. Blumper?

No. There is no one here by that name.

That’s okay. Would you be able to send money to our charity?

I don’t take phone solicitations. Can you send me information about your charity?

No. But could you send us some money anyway?

Why can’t you send me any information?

We don’t do that, because we don’t have any information to send.

Why do you think that I’d send money to an organization I’ve never heard of, who has no information about itself?

Because other people do.

Well, they are stupid.

In that case, could you send us $5.00?

NO! Not even 5 cents! Take me off your list.

Can’t do that. We don’t have a list.

Esther Blumenfeld (stick it to me)

Roommates

Unless you are a hermit, you will find yourself sharing living space with other people. In family situations, this can cause disharmony between brothers and/or sisters. When I was a teenager, my friends all thought that my little brother’s first name was “Get out of here!”

When I went to college, my freshman roommate and I were quite compatible. We even had matching laundry bags. But the girl next door---the one with the machete under her pillow---was sent home. In my sophomore year, I joined a living situation where we were required to change rooms every semester. The rationale behind this moving decision was to prevent cliquishness. There were quads, triples and a few double rooms, but no one lived alone. Consequently, upon graduation, I had shared living space with18 roommates. I think they assigned me several quads, because I can get along with almost anyone, and I spent most of my time on campus.

Only one of these girls is still stuck in my memory and craw. Crystal was a cute blonde with big blue eyes, and the boys were wild about her. They didn’t know her dirty little secret. Crystal was not so cute to live with. She was unclean. She rarely showered, dropped her clothes on the floor, never made her bed and was not acquainted with a washing machine. Our quad was a bit bigger than submarine quarters, but when Crystal’s mound of clothes, wet towels and what-nots invaded my space, I threw the mess on her bed. Crystal didn’t seem to mind the lumps because she slept right on top of them. 

Finally, I had enough of the Crystal invasion. I picked up all of her leavings, put them into a super-sized bag, hid her falsies on the bottom of the pile and tossed the whole slew on top of her bed. She slept on it, but complained about the loss of her enhancements for six months. I don’t know whatever happened to unwashable Crystal, but I certainly hope she came clean to the man she finally ended up with, or that they bought a bed big enough to accommodate her, him and the dirty laundry.

Upon graduation, I got married and lived with the almost perfect roommate for 40 years. I equivocate because my compatriot suffered from piles. He had piles of paper here; piles of paper there---piles of paper everywhere. A brilliant researcher and author, he wrote every thought down. The ideas kept flowing and forests kept dying to feed his creativity. His office at the university was worse than the one at home, and his students would tentatively knock on the door, peek in at the teetering paper mountain and whisper, “Professor, are you in there somewhere?”

At home his office was in the dungeon under the main living quarters. I placed a sign to warn intruders of the, “Disaster Area.” Two desks, leather chairs, several cabinets and an exercise machine were all covered with paper, but he claimed he knew where everything was---unless he didn’t. However, unlike Crystal, he smelled good, his clothes were clean and he had a good sense of humor. He was flattered when I submitted his office as a contender in the “Messiest Office in Atlanta” contest. Unfortunately, he came in second. A guy from IBM won. The prize was a clean-up crew with a bulldozer.

Esther Blumenfeld (“Never trust anyone with a clean desk”--- WSB)