port

I celebrated my fortieth birthday in May. Forty years! It was a fantastic celebration, with some nice private dinners and some stupendous gifts, as well as a giant party hosted by my parents. Catherine asked me what kind of cake I wanted: I said, "Outdo yourself." She came up with a tangerine blueberry cake with — weird, but perfect! — rosemary baked in. Perfect as usual.

After the celebration, we went back to our beautiful mansion. Alas! We'll miss that place. Jason and Erin were staying with us, two of the too-few guests in our Rose Bedroom. When we got home, I did something I'd been waiting to do for several years now. I opened up the Porto Rocha.

Some time ago, Paul gave me a gift that I vowed not to open till my fortieth birthday: a 1967 tawny port, bottled the very year I was born. It's not too often that you get to drink something older than you (though I've smoked a pre-embargo Cuban). Erin took a picture of it that should be in a magazine, I opened it up and poured out some beautiful tawny liquid, and we all sat back and marveled at a complex, beautiful wine. It attacks the tongue with a peppery spice, then gets a bit smoky, then just blossoms forth with a garden of tastes. I've never had anything like it.

Apparently, 1967 was a great year for the sui generis.