Dream Sequence Begins: In a lovely Secret Garden I sit with perfect posture at a white table, wearing a big hat, white dress and generally looking fabulous as I sip champagne from a crystal flute held in my perfectly manicured fingers, laughing, being witty and erudite and generally head-to-toe a lady. Essentially how I imagine Nicole Kidman glides through life.
Dream Sequence Ends: Under a dying apple tree I sit on a low splintering chair, drinking cava from a bistro tumbler, three seconds away from saying something I’ll regret in 10 seconds and braying like a donkey. My bare grass-stained feet have a flaking pedicure that it looks as though my toes are bleeding, and my white tee-shirt is spotted with mustard and oil stains.
Those Riedel glasses I was given last Christmas really have no place in my life. I can’t be trusted with such expensive, pretty and delicate things, the evidence to this is that the happy quartet I started with the second week of December quickly became a solemn and watchful trio when I broke glass #1 in the sink (my cutting board crushed it like a two ton heavy thing.) Then my friend came over and we poured a very pretty Burgundy into glasses #2 & #3. When she left and I began to clean up I discovered my big, un-girlie hands wouldn’t fit in the glasses. I can cram three fingers inside, two if a soapy cloth is attached, my fingertips wriggle in mid-air like my feet used to at the movies when I was a kid. I can’t clean the glasses and I refuse to buy a special tool. So they were rinsed and left to the side of my sink for months. I keep checking my guests to see who has hands small enough to do the job, like parallel universe Cinderella, going from a princess to a scullery maid. So far, only an 8-year-old has qualified but I’m not the kind of auntie that forces her niece do chores.
I don’t know if those fancy glasses make wine taste better. I suspect this might be true for perhaps 1% of the wine drinking population, those rare folks that have gas spectrometers for tongues. And who wants to drink vinho verde with that jerk?
I just don’t have the swirling kind of life, nor friends nor parties. My parties usually end up with missing glasses that are rediscovered when the kid that mows the lawn thoughtfully leaves them on the hood of the car, all crusty with grass schmutz.
I went to a soiree where the hostess hovered around her guests, a happy bunch that filled the air with clean, pure TIIING!s as they set stemware on the soapstone. She kept cautioning them to Please be careful with her Riedel, a full time job. Not my bag,baby. My hostessing philosophy is about comfort and if you break a plate I will break another. So my stuff is cheap and sturdy.
And dishwasher safe.