I am the tiniest bit, ahem, buzzed at the moment, having just bellied up to the tasting table at work. I always feel a little bamboozled when I drink before 3pm. We're working on a "shockingly perfect wine pairings" piece, matching some down-market foods with nice (but not too expensive) wines. The results are fun and surprising, but I can't spill the beans. We know where that leads.
I can't say we drink a lot at work (and we do spit). But it came as a shock. We're drinking? At work? In the middle of the day? And not getting fired? But then I realized, duh. We're in the West. They make wine here. We write about it.
You don't realize how much you've absorbed the values of one place until you leave it, and I see Boston's puritanical streak more vividly now. When I first moved there, you couldn't buy liquor on Sundays (that law was repealed in 2003). And I didn't realize what a New Englander I was until I came here, where every supermarket has at least three wine aisles, and found it--to my chagrin--kinda shocking.
I enjoyed wine in Boston. I am Italian, after all. Gotta, um, represent. But on some, nearly inaudible level, the glass came with a voice that said, "Ah, partaking of the demon liquor, are ye?"
This way is better.
(and I keep having to go back and edit this piece. Blame the demon.)