Please cast the first corkscrew. This is the bottle which LadyZen gave me in March. It has a real cork. [Philistine that I am, I was assuming a cap that came unscrewed.] I have not needed a corkscrew in thirty-four years.
But I have it on good authority that I have executive ability; remember the fortune cookie fortune which I framed? I figured something out.
Pictured here with the biography of Marcella Hazan which I found on sale for $4.98.
Well, I thought I had solved the problem. I got the corkscrew in just fine. I have drilled all the way through to China, as a matter of fact, but I don’t have strength to pull the cork.
Where is Monica when I need her? Oh, yeah. Home, sleeping, or maybe getting ready for work. And Trainman is probably stepping off the TRE as we speak; he is usually at his desk by 6:15.
Sigh...
I even tried pulling the corkscrew out carefully and dribbling a cupful out through the mangled cork. No dice. I guess I had better cancel my enrollment in sommelier school.
But wait. I think it budged. [At least ten minutes later...] Success!
Now you are sitting there, wondering why a good teetotaler like me needs a glass of virgin white Zinfandel at 6:01am.
Lace blocking, my dears. Lace blocking. Rebecca brought her blocking wires to Knit Night.
And after taking a sip of my hard-won Zin, me no like. Into the crockpot this will go, with a quart or two of chicken stock and who-knows-what else. It shall not be wasted. It shall also not be tasted, except as condiment.
Trying to remember why I liked wine, back in the day. [But at least I got to use the blog title, which like the wine has been parked since March.]
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