So I have become a bit of a wine snob. Like in a pinch Ravenswood is delightful enough but wtf there is a lot of really good wine I’d rather pay more for and drink less of. And just not be smashed. Pity.
So when people bring wine to things I’m like, Oh! How sweet. And it is! I am never displeased by someone bringing me wine. Because usually it is at least Decent Wine. So grateful as I was, my expectations were not rolling high for what my friends brought to an evening of pie testing.
But fuck. We flipped.
And then my friend said “I don’t drink, but it was a gift from my agency.”
And I said your agency knows what the fuck is up. With grapes. In Italy.
That’s probably about what I said.
Please don’t tell your agency you don’t drink and direct all birthday gifts my way. You will be repayed in pies and hugs.
It has this bordering on the barnyard funk thing but does not actually cross that line.
I mean it is soooo close to funk. But toes the classy line. It’s like, I could be so funkalicious but I choose to hang out and watch the funk. Vicarious funk.
Smoother than you’d ever want a man to be, lest you never trust him.
Mocha. Notes of.
Smooth. Oh I said that.
Blackberries and sage. And then some gently sizzled sage? Being burnt to appease the vino gods. And goddesses but alas they don’t hear my cries. The good wine was finite and I certainly finished it.