Tonight I am doing something for the first time: I am drinking a glass of port.
It was another one of those days, the overcooked lentil kind of day, with the additional kicker that I couldn’t seem to get warm, except for the hour when I exercised. I came home in my gym clothes and as soon as my body cooled down I was shivering. I showered, but as soon as I was dried and dressed, I was shivering again.
I hopped under the comforter for a spell, hoping to get warm, but picked up the wrong book: a biography of Diana Mosley, the British socialite-fascist who was good friends with Hitler and spent much of World War II imprisoned in cold, damp, unhealthy conditions at Holloway. While I don’t condone her beliefs, to read of any nursing mother separated from her baby tugs at the heart and sends sympathy pains through the breasts. Yet even in prison, Diana Mosley managed to get her hands on port and Stilton. I read this fact and realized that I had never had either.
So, after supper I announced, ‘I’m going to the liquor store to get some port.” My husband, knowing I’d had a bad day, said “It’s only one day,” to which I responded “it’s only one giant bottle.”
Now, I’ve bought the stuff, have taken a few sips, and feel infinitely warmer. If I were in a dank, squalid prison, I’d endeavor to get some port too. And if I’m ever chilly again on a late spring day and just too obstinate to turn on the heat, I’ll know what to do.
Wanting to know a bit more about Port, I looked it up on the Internet:
. . .port is traditionally served at the end of the meal for port creates its own leisurely pace. It has a warm, calming effect. It has been called the "wine of philosophy." This velvet rich wine is not for fast drinking but demands contemplative sips that stimulate great conversation among a company of friends.
This idea, the idea of getting slightly sloshed in the name of philosophy and friendship, appeals to me immensely. I'd better figure out what to put on the rest of the dinner party menu.
9:37:03 PM 
|
