I got dough, I choose not to spend it.

Katrina moved up to wine country last year, but returned to L.A. for Thanksgiving and brought her winemaker friend, who in turn brought nearly two dozen bottles of wine. Mostly reds. A few ports. Including a madeira from 1834. 1834! I was freaking out about it. Or to quote Katrina, 'that's pre-civil war!' Perhaps this is a case of showing our American-ness, a country that is not even officially 250 years old, so our time scale of larger history and context is off. Namely shallow and short-sighted.

We opened the faux-ancient madeira post-dinner, pre-dessert on Thursday. It had a thick caramel color and consistency and taste, but that was only the beginning. It was probably one of the most complicated beverages I have ever tasted and therefore a little overwhelming, but I was enjoying the bombardment. I just kept thinking -- 1834. I am drinking the results of fruit from Portugal in 1834. What else was I swallowing? Whose energy? What dust and cells? What was happening at that time?

On Sunday night, on the last meal of the weekend, we went to our favorite Alcove, home of the amazing chocolate lava souffle, and shared a bottle of wine that is very sad. It is an Oregon pinot noir and it is hard to explain the effects, beyond just the pure tastyness of it, because there is an after effect, an emotion, a taste of sadness, the sort of beautiful sadness attempted at movies with orchestral swells that cue the one tear running down the face, or better yet, the female protagonist with long skirts running down stairs and bursting through a double door. Except we sat outside on patio furniture underneath heaters that burnt my neck on tiny folding chairs that barely held my ass and there was no excess of pathos. Well, no more than usual, I suppose.

1834! I drank wine from 1834! I can't imagine that will ever happen again. Especially after I googled it to find out the price of the bottle.