chardonnay

ASTROLIQUOR for June 29 to July 5—What the stars say you should drink!

My Fellow Inebriates,

Here’s your booze horoscope:

With this weekend comes an urge to cook for friends, Aries. Do your prep sober so you avoid poisoning them (again). Once the table’s spread, anything goes, and you have the choice of a Leo or a Capricorn, both amorously beer-goggled. Make sure their “go” signals are really “go” signals. If you must use questionable judgment, mix two shots banana liqueur and one shot vodka into a glass of Chardonnay. Repeat until you negate the danger of being an annoyance. Sleep it off where no one will trip over you.

Taurus, thanks to memory dropouts you forgot that your April spending would catch up to you by late June. Now you face Canada and/or Independence Day with an empty bar. OMG, what can you sell? Hurry, you must have some heirlooms or a stamp collection. Get them up on Craig’s List so you can buy some Jagermeister, rum, and bourbon. Then do what any patriot would do: shake ’em up together and pour into an ice-filled cocktail glass.

You’ve blown all your renovation money on Southern Comfort, Gemini, but you can still buy a couple of small items to brighten your space. Even a can of touch-up paint would help dress up those drunken dents in the wall. Never mind how difficult it is to get Blue Curacao out of the rug! Be cheerful about the little fix-it purchases. When you’re done you can invite friends for another house-wrecker.

If you take somebody out for lunch, Cancer, it might turn into a liquid lunch. Self-discipline is curiously elusive—these days you’re waking up to a sherry/pernod/vermouth mouthwash, and food just absorbs it, allowing you to drink more. Still, a social meal might rekindle an important friendship, especially on Saturday. Keep an eye on this person; pernod goggles are even more powerful than beer goggles. My girlfriend Dolly says she needs a lot of pernod to “keep me in focus.”

Leo, you’re watching a lot of porn without considering real-life relationships. Try not to conflate the two—no one’s really going to deliver you a pizza in a thong. (Well, you might be wearing a thong.) Dating possibilities include a Gemini, a Sagittarius, and a fellow Leo, none of whom will approach you wearing a thong. Try getting to know them. Don’t just liquor them up with banana and peach schnapps. Give the schnapps to any bears you encounter, especially if they’re wearing thongs.

This is the best week in ages for friendship, Virgo, offering the chance to mend old misunderstandings and get back an old drinking buddy. Ask yourself what the conflict was originally about. Can you even remember? Chances are it was insignificant, although it may have involved nudity. Fact is, you don’t remember. You were hammered at the time on vodka, Kahlua, and Guinness—pounded from a 2L Coke bottle.

Libra, concentration comes with great difficulty this week. Your many personal troubles include a brewing identity crisis that may prompt a domino-like tumble of your values. If you’re a carnivore, you may renounce meat. If you’re a vegetarian, you may get naked and start chowing down on another homeless person’s face. Try getting out more often, and if you do get a meat craving, here’s your drink:

  • 5 oz vodka
  • 6 oz beef bouillon
  • 2 tsp lemon juice
  • Tabasco to taste
  • Worcestershire to taste
  • Celery salt to taste

The stars are happy for you this week, Scorpio. The revolving door keeps delivering funny, entertaining visitors bearing drinks, music, and tasty gossip. Day and night they will regale you, but mind an enigmatic-looking Pisces, possibly wearing black. This person is deep. You’ll have conversations you remember forever—unless you get out of hand with the brandy and creme de cacao.

Sagittarius, you’re still under pressure this week, negotiating heavily at work and in your private financial world. You’re unusually assertive and decisive; security personnel leave you alone at airports, and for a change no one tries to put you in handcuffs. Could it be liquid confidence? Who knows what your blood alcohol level is, but if you’re ever going to attempt 10 amaretto shooters, this is the week.

Until mid-August you can expect a charmed life, Capricorn. Friends flock to you, instinctively recognizing the merriment that follows a happy person. Shake some gin up with Red Bull and pour everyone a round. You’re giving them energy, which means they have to entertain you. Enjoy it for now, because one of them might sue you in August.

Aquarius, take stock of your life this week. Honestly ask yourself: have you lost interest in your goals? Perhaps you’ve changed; maybe you’ve matured. Should you redefine your priorities and take a different path? Or are you just too drunk to be on a path at all? With all that Jack Daniel’s in your system, that might be it. Ask yourself in the morning.

Pisces, if you have any important decisions looming, you might want to wait a  while. The stars are being dickish again, serving up lashings of pessimism until August. The stars are so negative about finances and negotiations for July that they insist you hole up with the biggest supply of Malibu and Crown Royal you can muster. Wait out this bad patch on the bathroom floor, clinging to the toilet to stop the room spinning. When August comes, consider going into politics.

Get thee behind me, Fluffy!

My Fellow Inebriates,

This morning my mum drove my dad to the airport for his first-ever business trip with the corporate dark side.

Like many unbalanced people, she did a thorough scan of the house, and then another identical one, looking for unlocked doors, appliances left on, liquor cabinet secured, etc. Through the window I watched them drive away. Then I went back to sleep. All the bears were asleep—Glen, Red Bear, Fluffy…

Mum dropped Dad off at the airport and Miss P off at Grade One. She and Miss V shared a ginger cookie at Starbucks and did the grocery shopping. Finally they came home.

And one of the stove burners was on.

It wasn’t a burner anyone had used that morning. They’d used other ones, but not that one. And there it was, on “Lo.”

Obsessive compulsives like my mother check for these things before they leave the house. They make sure they are last to leave, just in case anyone else has an idea about turning on all the lights or taps for no good reason. When you have OCD you look out for stove burners—even ones you haven’t been using.

My dad was incommunicado on a five-hour flight to Toronto. The kids…they would never touch the stove; my mum has frightened the living daylights out of them regarding fire. As for my mum…she didn’t use the burner, but she doesn’t specifically recall checking it, although she recalls checking three times that the front door was locked.

It has a little red light! She would have seen that! My mother is a freak about stuff like this. She couldn’t have left the house without seeing that!

Now, I was sleeping off some Malibu dregs, and although I did briefly get up to say good-bye to my dad and remind him to check in with Ravenskye for me on Facebook, I conked out straightaway after. So I don’t know about that burner…

But I have an idea.

I think it was Fluffy.

If you’ve been following, you know Fluffy is the Fleecy-marinated semi-comatose bear who arrived shortly after my Granny died. He was her bear, and some strange shit’s been happening since his arrival. Cold spots. Noises. Fearful kids.

I’d like to say this all seemed benign, but it was creeping me out. And now! Finding stove burners on is a seriously sinister development. Somebody is trying to get our attention—as though being offensively redolent of fabric softener wasn’t sufficient. Fluffy, I don’t know what you want, dude, but you are seriously giving me the willies.

So here’s what I proposed to my mum: buy some chardonnay. Granny and I had a history of occasionally drinking chardonnay together, particularly some nice unoaked ones and a Semillon blend once. We had some good chats over her chardonnay, and she didn’t mind me dipping into her glass.

My mum has company coming this week anyway, so she did visit the booze shop. But she didn’t buy chardonnay; she bought sauvignon blanc.

I told her she is messing with things we cannot even comprehend. She is thumbing her nose at powerful spirits by buying the wrong booze.

She said she prefers sauvignon blanc and that the wine consultant recommended it.

Good enough for me, but will it keep Fluffy out of mischief?

If I don’t post for a few days, it’s because he’s set fire to the house.

GRAY FOX CHARDONNAY (2010)—choice of sociopaths

My Fellow Inebriates,

Last year my mum caused me spasms of horror by pouring a bottle of Henkell Trocken over the roasting Christmas turkey. (Henkell Trocken is really not for that, people—it’s citrusy and dry with good acidity.) I died inside when she did that, so this year she had a little mercy on me and opted for a dirt-cheap bottle of chardonnay instead.

Gobbling up a hand

I did try to persuade her not to do it at all. But my mother can be very cutting. Her eyes narrowed, and she said, “Sometimes I look at you and suspect you’re inanimate.” Then she opened the oven and poured a bottle of GRAY FOX chardonnay all over the bird.

I did get a small glass before the culinary sacrifice. But I wasn’t optimistic; $6.99 is just about as cheap as wine gets at my local booze shop, and at that price I expect a tastebud offensive, a chorus of plonky mismatched notes with manure and hell-knows-what-else in the background.

So it was a relief to find that GRAY FOX chardonnay tastes like…white grape juice. Really.

With orchard fruitiness dominating the nose and very little of the excessive oak that’s typical of a try-hard California chardonnay, GRAY FOX qualifies as mostly harmless. It won’t make you retch, nor will it appeal to you with complexity and butteriness. At 12% alcohol it sure kicks Welch’s Grape Juice’s ass, yet it seems like too much of a kissing cousin to that kid-friendly beverage. Forgive me, but it doesn’t taste done. Now, you guys know I’m an idiot with a furry mouth and not a ghost of an oenophile’s qualifications, but this wine tastes like it needed to ferment a little longer. It’s grapey, and I’m not sure how intentional that was on the part of the vintner.

I told my mum GRAY FOX would make a good gateway wine for children, only to get the obligatory reminder that I mustn’t encourage irresponsible drinking. So I’ll put it this way: Kids would really like this wine, but don’t give it to them.

But don’t throw it all over a turkey either—OMG, what a waste of alcohol. The fact that my mum thought it made good gravy doesn’t make it okay. But when a sociopathic hausfrau covered in giblets and poultry grease seizes a wine bottle, you just have to let her do her thing.