Saturday was not meant to be a feast, and yet a bottle of wine and a lot of exhaustion made it so.
I spent most of the day re-painting the backyard fence and bolted late in the afternoon to do some quick grocery shopping. But I was too lazy to buy wine, thinking we must have something at home to drink. We did, but most of it was wine bought during a former life, meant to be saved for a special dinner, not burgers and chips. But I did find this:
a bottle of 1997 Domaine Maume Gevrey-Chambertin.
I and some former colleagues at The Wine Source each bought a half case or so of this wine six or seven years ago when the distributor was trying to get rid of it at a rock bottom price. Some bottles were surprisingly good then, some were already well past their prime, and the last few bottles I had, I'd had to dump. This one bottle lingered, and out of desperation, I opened it, expecting nothing.
But it was lovely, a little faded, but soft and supple with just a shadow of cherry and a little rose petal. This was not a profound wine experience, one that changes your perceptions of red burgundy, Pinot Noir, life. Rather, this was a gentler experience, like the touch of a hand on sore muscles or the reminder of the potential grace in age.