At our annual Christmas dinner at my brother’s significan’t (Diane’s) country house, my wife, Lynn, and I joined the pair for a couple of bottles of white Bordeaux and a Sancerre (which I had brought for some unknown reason), 1983 Climens Barsac with foie gras and then the goose itself with some rather old Bordeaux: Chs. Bouscaut 1976 (sweet floral), La Fleur Cloquet 1979 (rubber) and Villemaurine 1982 (sweet tea). I would have expected these wines (especially the two from the ‘70s) to be more mature and even fading, but they were bright and very enjoyable. Obviously sweet tea flavors are associated with golden years, but the Villemaurine still tasted vibrant and good. I love these kinds of older, less-than-First-Growth wines.
After a bit of dessert with the remaining Barsac Sauternes blend, Lynn and Diane decided they were thirsty and went back into the cellar to find another nice Bordeaux: 1985 Meyney. It was a work night for me; so, as much as I would have enjoyed the continuation, I just took a couple of sips to compare the 1985 to my 1989 Meyneys, at home, and let the two women finish the bottle. (The ’85 is very classy, but not funky; my 1989 is more similar to the pungent, evolved Montrose of that year.)
My brother drinks very little wine, so all of these bottles were mostly consumed by three people. While I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer today, after four days of holiday wining and dining, I feel fine, – and Lynn feels great, partially because she retired last week (it won't last) and has nothing pressing to do. It’s really quite amazing how well fine wine digests, compared to average plonk.
The weather in this Albany, New York area is still very mild. Geese are flying in circles, what there is left of them. The extended forecast predicts temperatures remaining in the 40s and 50s into New Year’s weekend. We apparently won't see any snow or ice in December for the first time I can remember.
I caused and predicted this situation, however, when I put our Wenonah (named 'Rider') up for the season last month. I remarked to Lynn that putting the canoe away so early insured that there would be no untoward weather for the rest of the year. In past years, we continued to paddle through the ice, freezing rain and blowing snow to catch an after dinner Port at the Friends Lake Inn at the north end of the lake. We liked to pretend we were the tough 19th Century Adirondack Indians and trappers that we like to read about. Lynn thinks we are too old for that kind of heroism at this point. I think it was the occasional falling into the ice water while getting in and out of the tippy canoe that finally turned the corner for her. It wasn't so bad at the end of the trip, but it was no bargain when we arrived at the Inn's dock.
