I went to a garden party filled with appealing people, wonderful bottles of wine and fabulous food. What I love most about living in wine country is meeting Wine Makers. These are the sprites of our time. Nearly make believe characters that are real in my dreams. They take a bit of fruit, a bit of chemistry, add magic and their heart and come up with a bottled piece of heaven. All winemakers I have met are very special people. They have a sense of life that others do not possess. They are magicians who laugh often and much and live well. That doesn’t mean that they are all affluent, just rich with life.
I was surround by dream makers and their products, thirty bottles of the best of the best was there for me to sample. In addition, a chef from Kansas City was BBQing in the back yard, wild salmon on a wooden plank, spicy shrimp, and pork ribs. He also made the best rum cake these Caribbean driven lips had ever sampled. The light drizzle of California rain only added to the ambiance of people coming together to eat, drink, tell stories, but mainly to laugh. Laug
hter with this group comes fast and often. I am an outsider, with no knowledge of wine except of what I like to drink. My palette not my pocket book is my chief. They gratefully let me in their circle because of circus stories I offer and my cute husband.
Parties are funny entities, usually starting in the kitchen and then swelling to the other parts of the house as the wine loosens inhibitions and people want to see the intimate details of the host’s lives. Is that where she sits and reads? Was the stuffed bird shot by him? How did she talk him into a pink bathroom? I wanted to know the story of every mineral aggregate on the mantel and our host was kind enough to enlighten.
The wine was overwhelmingly good; the food was out of this world. The company perfection. These are the parties you remember and talk about when you are old and attempting to explain to your children what life was like “back then.” I had to leave for my yearly vestige to the Academy Awards, armchair referring every frock and suit.
I am so excited to be part of this special group and hope they don’t grow tired of my stories or my husbands’ cuteness.
I was surround by dream makers and their products, thirty bottles of the best of the best was there for me to sample. In addition, a chef from Kansas City was BBQing in the back yard, wild salmon on a wooden plank, spicy shrimp, and pork ribs. He also made the best rum cake these Caribbean driven lips had ever sampled. The light drizzle of California rain only added to the ambiance of people coming together to eat, drink, tell stories, but mainly to laugh. Laug
hter with this group comes fast and often. I am an outsider, with no knowledge of wine except of what I like to drink. My palette not my pocket book is my chief. They gratefully let me in their circle because of circus stories I offer and my cute husband.Parties are funny entities, usually starting in the kitchen and then swelling to the other parts of the house as the wine loosens inhibitions and people want to see the intimate details of the host’s lives. Is that where she sits and reads? Was the stuffed bird shot by him? How did she talk him into a pink bathroom? I wanted to know the story of every mineral aggregate on the mantel and our host was kind enough to enlighten.
The wine was overwhelmingly good; the food was out of this world. The company perfection. These are the parties you remember and talk about when you are old and attempting to explain to your children what life was like “back then.” I had to leave for my yearly vestige to the Academy Awards, armchair referring every frock and suit.
I am so excited to be part of this special group and hope they don’t grow tired of my stories or my husbands’ cuteness.
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