Last winter, John returned to Michigan in January while I stayed on in North Carolina for a few more months. It occurred to me after we parted, while he was driving back to Traverse City, that I should tell him not to open certain bottles in our wine cellar (it’s just a closet in the basement). Some I had set aside for special occasions or aging. One I was thinking about in particular, which was the most expensive bottle in the cellar. It didn’t seem like something I should call him to say as he was driving — what was he going to do, go to the basement and get a bottle as soon as he got home?– so I decided it could wait.
When we next spoke, the day after he returned home, I said, “Oh, by the way, let me know before you open in wine from the cellar. There are some I’m saving.” He said it was fine, he had only opened one so far, that evening to eat with his spaghetti. Which one was it? He couldn’t remember. Which shelf did he get it from? It was a red, the second rack from the top. Uh oh, French. A couple of those I was saving, and one in particular. “Go look at the label,” I said. I keep an inventory of our wine on an app (I know, a little extreme). I knew I had about 70 bottles in the cellar. The odds that John had randomly opened the one in particular to eat with his spaghetti were low.
And yet that was the very bottle he opened. The Domaine de l’Hortus L’Ombrée. Leah and my mother heard my cry of pain and thought someone had died.
I know this tale does not do me credit as it is very much one of those privileged people problems, but I have to be honest.
