Rummaging around my wine closet
recently, I realized it was turning into a vinous elder hostel. 25% of the
wines were 25 years or older, with the oldest one approaching 89 in the fall. With
that, I took a stool and sat down and had a little chat with some of the golden
agers. I know, it’s a discarded practice these days to sit at the feet of the ancients
and glean for any wit and wisdom. But it was a long, hot summer day outside,
and the cool dark room of the wine closet was a refreshing change from the
tumult of the external world, these days filled with so much hair-trigger
melodrama. I figured I had nothing to lose. Boy, was I in for a jolt.
