My Fellow Inebriates,
The Tooth Fairy managed belatedly to grab P’s tooth from beneath her pillow this morning without her seeing it. P had seen only the coins and the red-tinged water glass and thankfully not thought to double-check the fairy’s thoroughness in securing her dental booty. It was a good save, and P’s belief in fairies survives yet another day.
At breakfast she said, “My classmate W doesn’t believe in the tooth fairy. In his country it’s the tooth mouse.” This did not cause P any apparent conflict; she says there’s not just one tooth fairy but many, some of whom are boys, some of whom are girls, and some of whom are—oh yeah—mice.
It’s a perfect illustration of how Mum and Dad are missing their window to indoctrinate P with some religious mythology. She is a perfect canvas of credulity—perhaps more so than her little sister V, who evinced some skepticism when she asked what happens when you accidentally swallow a tooth.
Mum: “It just comes out in your poo.”
V: “Are you sure?”
Mum: “Yeah, teeth are so small, they just go right through you.”
V: “It doesn’t get stuck?”
M: “Well, no. You might have to drink a glass of water, but—you probably wouldn’t ever swallow a tooth anyway.”
V: “How do we get it out of my poo?”
M: “Well, don’t plan on swallowing a tooth.”
V: “Does the Tooth Fairy go into the toilet and get it?”
Mum has no answer.
V: “Or does the Toilet Fairy get it?”
However accepting P is of the Tooth Fairy and any other numinous characters she might be told about, V can be counted upon to hit you with a bunch of lawyerly questions. Her cross-examination continued until she erupted in chortles at the idea of a Poo Fairy pawing through her shit to find a precious tooth. V is a five-year-old cynic, and she will be the one who debunks Santa for seven-year-old P, unless she astutely reasons which way her bread is buttered and goes along with the fantasy until she’s a teenager. The kid is a nut, and she will tire all of us out before our time.
When you’ve finally managed to get a child like V to submit to bedtime, you have no choice but to pour yourself a drink. Our poison? PETER LEHMANN WEIGHBRIDGE UNWOODED CHARDONNAY (2011). Not the super-stiff drink we probably needed, but much more bracing than any of the whites we’ve been drinking lately, this Chardonnay boasts young fruit and honeydew/peach aromas uncomplicated by the usual oaky finish. Our tastes have run to off-dry whites that tease the palate—not crisp zingers, so the first glass was a bit of a shock to the system. On to the second, then.
You really should never review a wine without drinking the whole bottle, or even two. That way you get to experience the wine going down and coming up. Unfortunately I don’t make such portioning decisions at LBHQ, so we settled for two glasses. Write off the first as a shock to the system. How does this Peter Lehmann number really add up?
Disclaimer: I wanted to dislike it after reading Lehmann’s bio: “never shirking the opportunity to challenge a norm” (much like palpating a five-year-old’s turd to find a swallowed tooth, I would imagine). But this unwooded Chardonnay is competent stuff—not as buttery or mouth-filling as I would have liked, but serviceable after a hard weekend with nutbag elementary-age kids. It’s more than inoffensive; it’s quite tasty if not overly interesting or sophisticated. Chardonnay grapes are tricky because they lend themselves to so many winemaking styles; you often have no idea what you’re in for when you pull a cork (or unscrew a cap). Without oak influence, Chardonnay’s fruity notes stand crisply on their own, unmitigated by vanilla or buttercream chords, and a certain roundness is lost. What’s gained, sometimes, is definition, and perhaps more bang for your buck. After all, oak casks cost money, and when they’re not involved in production, that $13 WEIGHBRIDGE price tag arguably goes a bit further.
After I got used to it, I liked Peter Lehmann’s unwooded Chardonnay. It’s well behaved, reasonably complex, and has a decent finish. As for the 11.5% alcohol…it’ll do. We need to be sober in the morning to cope with young interrogators.
Thankfully no one will ever give Scarybear weapons or a job at a nuclear power plant. And that’s fine with him, as long as he has television. But the children’s programming that invariably knocks his shows off the schedule has contributed to his depression. He hasn’t even been able to generate any excitement about his own upcoming birthday.
Well, it is the largest freaking country on Earth. Still, Scary pointed out, by far most of the planet’s surface is not-Russia. The odds of a meteor blasting through not-Russia were much higher than the odds of the strike happening where it happened.
Relieved that no loss of life had been reported, I continued drinking LATITUDE 50. This popular white wine blend is pleasantly off-dry with a pale lemon tint and richly layered tropical aromas. Yet another recommendation from our favorite liquor-store consultant, it coats the palate with substantial texture, letting loose mango, apricot, and sweet citrus notes. While delicious chilled, LATITUDE 50 really comes into its own once it rises a few degrees, and ends with a lingering finish. For fans of solid foods it would probably be an excellent accompaniment to light dishes such as poultry or even spicy cuisine, although those foods would of course soak up some of its 12.7% alcohol, leaving you less value for your $13.99.
If it were up to me (and it never is) we’d at least shake the piggybank out for some LUCKY COUNTRY SHIRAZ GRENACHE (2009) from Australia’s famed Barossa Valley. Now, maybe the $17.99 price tag was a deterrent after my parents had shelled out $240 at JYSK. But how could it be? As financial ignoramuses (and they are), my parents should have been fully susceptible to the “anchoring” effect of just having spent a wad of cash. Spend $240 and suddenly $17.99 doesn’t seem like much. Ergo, there should be a bottle of LUCKY COUNTRY sitting at LBHQ right now, on its way to being empty.
Liquorstore Bear 