Dear glass of 2008 cockfighters ghost Pinot noir,
I saw you at the Sofitel hotel bar with another woman, and I couldn’t take my eyes off you. When I’ve met you in the last seven months, you had terrible taste, but tonight…well I just knew things would be different.
It was a brief encounter, and I planned at first to only spend half of it with you, then hand you over to another woman. But you were so smooth, and looked so good in the waiter’s hand, and the way you chased around the wasabi peas and complimentary peanuts on my palate, I was powerless. Gumby started kicking when you sat down and joined us.
Now I know that they say that no level of alcohol is safe in pregnancy. And you are the seventh glass I have spent time with these past 7 months. The first was on the worst day of my life, the 1:21 risk of downs and painful cvs placental biopsy and why not have another hemorrhage while we’re at it day, the second was the very next day (champagne) when we got the all clear, the third was on our second wedding anniversary (champagne), the fourth was at viability (champagne), the fifth at thirty weeks (champagne), the sixth at Gumby’s happy hour last Sunday whilst unwrapping gifts (champagne, are we sensing a theme here?), and you, my friend, were the seventh. You were possibly the last.
In my defense, lest I sound like I’m really getting around, it’s been a rough pregnancy. And, by way of counterattack, my mother was quite committed to a one or two beer consumption and a bit of chateau cardboard most evenings during her pregnancy with me, and as a double degree qualified uni lecturer I think it didn’t do too much damage for me in the IQ department, and if it took me down a couple of points it was probably a good thing saving me from certain social ostracism.
After I was done with you, Cockfighters Ghost, a brief but torrid 2008 vintage affair, I moved on upstairs to the restaurant and took up with a decent sized rack of lamb, a ratatouille stack, and some dauphinois potatoes. Don’t think that I forgot you though. You lingered on my palate. The lamb had to be well done, so while it was amazing, it wasn’t the forbidden fruit that came with your territory. My niece decided to have a bit on the side; there were chips with white truffle oil . (Which coming from my chick pea lentil and low GI low fun diet and foodie history were like lacing my meal with crack cocaine).
All too briefly it was over, the blood glucose sitting quietly just under the safe ceiling, the memories of your middle palate (and slight heart
acheburn) waking me in the night as I lay in my pillow fortress, a thousand miles from hub-in-boots and memories of our fling at the Sofitel hotel. I hope we catch up again soon.