Oldest winery ever

Discovery of the world's oldest winery confirms speculation that wine production started in Armenia, then moved south to Egypt.

Never really thought much of rosé. Until now.

I'm into the hard stuff: dark chocolate, red wine, espresso, and (until recently) rare meat.

But we had a heat wave last week. And I fell from grace. Well, we both did.

We started drinking rosé. Specifically, Ménage à Trois, from Folie à Deux Winery in St. Helena, California.

So tonight, we had to get through the evening somehow. We took the tots to a park where there are sprays of water. And we let them run naked in the jets while we sipped rosé in our stainless steel camping wineglasses (very classy).

And I started to feel... so happy. Light and silly. And we laughed at the funny people who passed through the park: that guy in his speedo on the bicycle, and those other two guys who had shoulders big enough to fit a whole Jason inside each one. And the tots jumped under the spraying water and I watched the trees waggle their tiny friendly branches.

Who knew rosé could be so much fun?

Playing tag with the tots

We were in a sort of controlled figure-8 pathway with lots of hiding places and stuff. Mr. Nibs and Imogen were racing around. There were other people there, and cats. I was hiding by lying down on the grass. Neither tot could see me, but I was hardly hiding. Finally, I got up and went to find them. I slipped slowly into conciousness. It was 7:11am.

No more wine.

No more wine.
No more wine.

Book as dream

We watched the films, now I am reading the books.
Millennium. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.
I read this 850 page book in under a week.
I would wake up in the middle of the night and burn through a hundred pages, lying on the couch.
You just fall through this thing, I tell you.
Not a deep book. Not a complex book, finally.
But a helluva ride. A dream of a book.
I wonder how autobiographical this book is?
I wonder if it will spur a new kind of journalism.

Mysterious house guest: Benjamin Brunet Rasteau

Lately I've been getting off on wines that come in the door with a little dust on their lapels. I think the adjective would be musty... but in a good way.

And this round little darling (Benjamin Brunet Rasteau Côtes du Rhône Villages 2007) was just one of those mysterious house guests. It came in all discrete, the French wine sitting so quietly but so conspicuously at the table. And at the appointed time it beguiled us with tales about the meaning of time and experience. Much enjoyed.

Number 23 Wine

Cracked a bottle of red wine last night, first in weeks.

Funny little wine, that one.

No comments, really. It was definitely red.

Shooting strangers in the Square Mile

Hmm. Strange dream last night.

Must have been all that Grand Theft Auto over the holidays, coupled with the acupuncture I had yesterday.

Discovering a horrific plane crash

I was with some people from work, going somewhere vaguely work-related when we saw smoke, emergency vehicles and lots of people up on an overpass. As we got closer, we saw that a massive passenger jet had crashed onto an elevated highway.

We walked up onto the overpass, among the police and ambulances, looking at what happened and vaguely wondering if we could help. There were bodies scattered on the rocks that surrounded the broken body of the plane.

Near the front of the plane many of the seats were intact. We walked up to the front row, where three well-dressed people in their 60s were still buckled into their seats. At first, I felt this horror feeling and thought they were dead. Then they started to move and fumble with their seat belts.

They were in shock, but could speak to us and move about. They were very gentle, with the nicest manners, thanking us for helping them, etc. At first, I attributed their gentleness to their state of shock. But as we led them away from the plane into some kind of room or building, it became clear that they were simply very genteel, refined people.

In the dream, I realized that I never wanted to fly again, after seeing first hand what a plane crash looks like.

I woke up still believing I was in the dream, thinking about how the passengers we helped were travelling first class, since they were sitting at the front of the plane.

Wine and the Concrete Banquet

Lots of wine was drunk tonight at the Second Concrete Banquet, but I couldn't tell you what vintage.

5 groupuscules met at 5ish at a park on the Plateau, just before sunset, in high costume.

We dressed as if the Queen of England would join us.

Each groupuscule was to make a contribution to the dinner's entertainment: Bacchus and lanterns.

We brought hot buttered rum: there was an October chill in the air, and that helped. The sky was a brilliant blue and the leaves yellow, gold and red. Until the sun disappeared behind the mountain.

Our geodesic dome helped create an atmosphere of sorts, and the Wild Children played there safely. For a while.

It will be even better, next year.

Les Palombrieres -- Complicated. Surprising. Lovely.

Okay, so first we bought a couple of acceptable bottles of wine at Costco. For the party tomorrow. And then we drank them. So today I went out and bought another bottle for the party tomorrow. An eleven-dollar bottle of French wine. The usual.

Golly. What a surprise. Admittedly we popped it, or rather, screw topped it, before the party tomorrow. But that's okay. Right? I mean, it was kind of a rough week...

At first sip, Les Palombieres (Tannat/Merlot, Cotes de Gascogne 2007) was... totally surprisingly absolutely delightful. It tasted like raspberries. So fresh. But not young. Kind of innocent... but not really. You know what I'm talking about.

It's like, they took a Merlot and then cuddled all the macho out of it. So that it's all sweet -- looking at you doe-eyed (blink, blink). And then you realize that it never was macho; it's something else altogether, completely original.

But after a couple glasses, it starts to get a little dull. You look for that spark, but now it just seems like all the others. What happened?

Matt Bisonnette head of business development at SSMU

Yeah, so where did THIS dream come from?

My old friend from highschool, and Brian Mulroney's nephew, was head of business development at SSMU. I chanced to meet him, walking into the student union building at McGill. (A lot had happened before this part of the dream, but I will relate from here...) So he shows me how SSMU had decided (on his advice) to intensify the student union by building housing up on top of the 3-storey enclosed area, that they owned (nothing like what is there now, in the real world, by the by..., but hey, this is a dream! whaddya want?). I could see where the forms were. He explained that he wanted to go up 8 storeys, but only got permission for 6. I was impressed at the foresite, and his business acumen.

Three Dee Tank Dream...

I dreamt last night that I was playing that 3-d first person shooter video game from 1980, Battlezone. But it was updated and full scale, so I was walking around inside a virtual reality of tanks and pyramids. Rocky was with me.

Domaine de la Janasse arrives fashionably late

This is what happens sometimes in the summer. A bunch of red wine drinkers get together; but it's sweltering, inside and out, so everyone brings white or rosée. And they all confess... they'd rather be drinking red, but thought something lighter was more appropriate.

And everyone politely sips white wine. Or rosée. And it's lovely. But as the night gets darker and cooler we start to get more honest with ourselves. Now we earned the right to drink red. And red is poured and relished and things get considerably more interesting.

And that gets me to... ohhh... delicious. Domaine de la Janasse, vin du pays de la principauté d'Orange. On first sniff, first sip, it was like crackly caramel and blackberries and chocolate.

And the talk gets weirder and more intense. And we can once again claim our rightful place as dedicated red wine drinkers.

Hangover dream & the "POW" tattoo

Golly, there was a lot going on in my brain in the early hours.

I dreamed that I was getting a tattoo.

I remember explaining pop art to the tattoo artist, talking about Lichtenstein and how wanted a cartoonish "POW" on my arm.

Funny that my pre-dawn hangover intruded... in my dream, I was taking Tylenol to try and feel better. Despite reminding myself that I had popped an Advil mere hours earlier.

Wine, wine, wine, what you mean, but never say...

A tribute. A tribute. Tri-bute. Brandy: no, wine. Wine. Yes. Wine and Dreams.
I had a dream last night.
I was at City Hall.
We were invited.
Invited to present the housing plan to the committee.
City Council was meeting in the big room.
During the meeting, the committee broke out.
Four or five members of council met in a side room to discuss housing matters.
The GRTs were presenting: old familiar.
Three of us were to present: new, dynamic, focussed, different.
Our turn came.
Attention on our team of three.
Not sure who was going to present.
My colleague started: "I want to begin with a comment. Many people right now are looking for a place to rent. An affordable place....blah blah blah."
I thought: NOT the time for this speech. Not the time.
Suddenly, the committee was called back to Council.
I felt we had lost our opportunity to make the case.
I regretted not speaking out first, taking the lead.
I felt I knew better how to present our case:
Mega-hospital. Community. Bridge. Mutual benefit. Etc.
I woke up to Mr. Nibs hammering gently on his door.
It was 643.am.

Guest Blogger Dave: Bill The Red

I tried a 2006 red wine from Vignoble Riviere du Chene St-Eustache, Quebec, Canada, called "William" (from now on called "Bill"). I'm horrible at describing the flavour of wine. I'm like the guy in the film Sideways who says, "It tastes pretty good to me". Anyway, "Bill" tasted like my memory of the first time I tried Valpolicella. It ("Bill") had a bit of an edge/tartness and "muskyness" to it - one that would compliment red meat (cooked, preferably). It seemed to cleanse the palette with a slight lingering aftertaste. I would have this one with food, but something different - richer and fuller for political philosophical after dinner discussions. It cost under $15 Canadian ($13,80 to be exact).

lots of wine

Guests have been pouring in for days now and with them, loverly glass bottles green and labeled and corked. Too many to recall, really. A Kim Basinger (or was that a Kim Klein?...or a Cindy Crawford?) Anyway, a fine white wine, which improved remarkably with a little sejourn in the icebox. A hefty red fellow, for sure in a green bottle, that's all I remember. From Argentina, I think. I wish those recycling trucks didn't come so often. We drank Kim while watching Citizen Kane last night, oh that pasty faced genius. Our guests were also on Atavan, having been travelling, so the grey tones cast a strange light against our pale, numbed faces, gawking at the scenes before us.

Little Boy wine

A fine little 10$ bottle, very very subtle, was Dao (with an pinyata on the "a")'s Meia Encosta. Rich red wine taste and a true red wine colour, especially in the wineglass, this little number was selected by Imogen at the SAQ at Papineau and Mount Royal. So I says to her: "which one should Daddy buy?" and without hesitating, Imogen walks straight up to a pile of Meia Encosta, grabs one, turns her heavy lidded eyes up to Daddy and says flatly: "this one". So I bought it. She also selected a white Saumur (which someone adult confirmed will be superb: will report soon!) and a third bottle which we have already drunk, but for the life of me, can't remember....OH! yes, a Beaujolais. Forgettable, for sure. Anyway, after my first sip of the 2007 Meia Encosta, I blurted out: "it's a Little Boy wine!" Try some, you'll see what I mean!

Meia Encosta: as in, don't cost much? Any helpers, here?

Weeds

I had been helping Kirsten weed her community garden, a distasteful task for me. I think we should use some late 20th century herbicide free techniques to keep the weeds down: black plastic garbage bags, carefully layered over the soil, but with holes to let the good guys out, a technique taught to me by Chris Wrobel, my farmer friend. But K likes to weed.

And last night, I had a dream that this weed came back. A stinging weed that she thought was strawberries: it had grown ginormous and I was tasked to get it out, which is how I learned it was a stinging weed. So I used a pitchfork. So here is this weed in my dream, and I pinned it against a metal grate with my heel and cut the roots off it with a machete. Very satisfying.

Metal grate: could this have been a visual import from Terminator Two, that took us four days to watch this past week? Remember the liquid metal man who could squeeze through grates? Can't wait to see Terminator Four. But I digress.

It was a great dream. Not exciting, but very satisfying.