Now that I am finally grown up enough to uncork things on my own I can drink in private and at my convenience and own diligence. It's pretty comforting and for the most part healthy if you don't count that my eyelids and eye underbags are tons uglier the next day if I overimbibe. Anyway, it probably matters more that I use my favorite glass than what goes in the glass, that's pretty goofy of me. (I also get a little bent if I can't find my favorite spoon, or fork, or if-like-Sheldon-someone tampers cruelly with my very own couch cushion.) The wine glass looks like cut crystal (no idea if it is crystal or just glass though, ha, it's probably from Mexico and has authentic lead in it that's leeching out into me with my every dainty swig), and is the shape that there's a myth of that it was designed to the contours of Marie Antoinnette's boob, to drink champagne from. But I've no idea if it was her left or right boob, though, and I've heard that since then it has been discovered that a flute shaped glass disperses the aroma bubbles better anyways. But in spite of such new and improved drinking sciences and all I still prefer the shallow bowl shaped stemware. Even though it makes for way sloppier sousing, esp for a clumsy sort like me, I still think it's just about the classiest looking luxury I have ever snapped up from a junk shop.
Here's a little whine I tasted several years ago at a restaurant's wine dispensary. All you had to do was slide your wine card through a slot and put your glass under a spigot and depress the corresponding button to your choice. Pretty cool, I like vending machines, but the old fashioned way of accessing booze is still good too, now that I've finally learned how to do it.
Dr. Loosen’s Wurzgarten
Six brick pavement circles
--winter wilted palms between—
each with its gaggle of empty iron chairs,
except for one with only one there
where the late sun nestles, of all places.
Two glasses of Riesling, one for myself
--one waits for my promised lover—
after all these years he is yet sure and true,
both pitiless and fair.
He and I will always have our courtyard ways
and I will want him all my days.
Ghost children, dream children, come to me!
Remember now that spiked-blond son from the Far East,
timid and intrepid turn by turn,
or that second girl-child,
whispering earnestly away to no-one.
Call up if you can that once and future
street waif with her face pressed to the wind.
There is water in the basin but the fountain’s still.
Leaves that are dry and fallen gather eddying and shy,
then dart out from the wall for all to see—
they are like children rushing toward me.
Thursday, December 07, 2006