I haven't a single slimey food item or hastily knitted swatch I can force you all to look at today. Last night I squandered my energy scrubbing the toilet clean (somebody has to do it and I haven't convinced Ben to hire the maid yet ~ any day now, he'll give in, I'm sure of it) while fending off the affections of two needy little cats. After this icky of the ickiest task (the toilet, I mean, and to a lesser degree, defending against the wallowing of the cats), I mumbled a lot of nasty words, scraped off the congealed cat fur that had adhered to the layer of sweat on my arms, then tidied my hair just enough to tumble downstairs for scrumptious Moules Frites Diablo and crappy-assed Bordeaux at my local brasserie without too much fear of being mistaken for a homeless person. I still kind of smelled funny, but it was a French restaurant after all.
If you check the website, my dear brasserie doesn't actually boast that they serve crappy-assed Bordeaux. It's my fault entirely, I admit, for I am occasionally attempting to branch out and teach myself a bit more about the intricacies of wine. To these ends, I have thrown myself whole-hearted into the fray and, as compensation for this, have recently managed to order lots and lots of crappy-assed obscure wine which I drink in sometimes disturbing quantities. Perhaps I should alter my tactics.
So far, I've discovered that I possess an eerily unfailing knack to choose the absolute most crappy-assed wine offered when I purchase by the glass, yet I somehow still excel at ordering when presented with a list of delightful bottles of wine to choose from. Perhaps I'm more conservative when investing in what could turn out to be not delicious refreshment but instead just an entire bottle of stinky rotting grapes.
Of course, the argument could be made that after I've drank that entire bottle of wine (regardless of its degree of crapitude), everything reeks of ambrosia and I just love you all, really I do, BFF, hugs and kisses, I have to throw up now. But I disagree. I would still know if it were crappy wine, I just wouldn't care.
Or maybe it's because when I choose a bottle of wine, I usually go for the one in the neatest looking bottle. It's a technique that works for me, so don't slam it. The ones with pictures of frolicking goats or bunnies are quite dependable in a pinch.
Of course, maybe these by-the-glass wines just suck and that's why they're serving them by-the-glass. My new conspiracy theory, do you like it?
Any sommeliers lurking about are encouraged to apply themselves forthwith to astound our tastebuds with suggestions of delicious shimmery nectar that will rip away the troubles of the day and render us all gods. Or a nice glass of Chablis to go with chicken. Informed suggestions are always appreciated. Hell, UNinformed suggestions are appreciated at this point. And, of course, samples will always be well received.
I should probably start drinking about now, in fact, for tonight I will face the mind-blowing task of choosing fabrics for my quilting course. The course materials specify "one light, one medium, one dark." I'm thinking a Riesling, a Rose then a nice Cab might do the trick.
Veronique and I are visiting Purl prior to our Spider rendezvous at The Point. I will be choosing fabrics that mesh and mingle with the existing colors of my living room (that would assume that I can remember what those colors are which, aside from "yellowish and reddish" is never going to happen). Maybe something along these lines (red)? With a dab of this? And a pinch of that or that? And I'd like some plaid.