Sea Smoke Sunday

Tonight he opens a bottle of Sea Smoke and says, Well, once a year.

Sea Smoke- such an evocative sound.  How I would love to call a horse, Sea Smoke.

The first time we spoke on the telephone, he could not understand why I had blindly called him.  In his (rightful) mind, he was trying to get a sense of this illogical long-distance conversation, and fashion perhaps, an idea of, me.

Er.  I am S's friend. 
Who is S?
Er.  C's younger sister.  You know, your friend, C...
Oh...Why are you calling me?   How may I help you?
Er.  It's Thanksgiving.  S says you like wine, a lot.  What should I serve with the turkey?

Sometimes in life, one has to grovel to get out of a hole.

Sometimes I think, what cements this marriage is my ability to drink.  I stay up most nights waiting for him.   He comes home.  We drink.  We talk some.  And drink.  And talk some more.  Then we drink a lot more.  I am grateful for good genes, and my grandmother's liver.

Before I became his wife, I would read Robert Parker, memorise useful information from the Wine Spectator magazine religiously perused at Astor Wines off St Mark's Place.  Once I became his wife, I easily forgot vintages, harvest years, and the right way to spell you know, Sassicaia.

I am going to miss him.  I am glad Bruno is going with me.  Then I look at Bruno, and I remember, only two birthdays ago, he had said-
 Lets adopt Bruno.   I know it will make you happy.

And then I think-
Baby? Save the last drink for me.