Yesterday I went on a day-long tour of Muir Woods to see big trees, and then on to Napa and Sonoma for good wines.
It was a fun day. Because wine and giant trees.
The first winery we stopped at made the most delicious dessert wine, which come on, wine made especially for dessert equals win. But this particular wine was really good, good enough that I purchased two bottles of this port.
Every time I think of port wine, I remember my friend who was totally off, in a "goes perfect with me" kinda way. We were like the wine with dessert people version. Anyway, this friend, we'll call her Becky, because that is her name, loved loved loved port wine cheese with crackers.
And then she joined the Army. Where they don't serve port wine cheese on crackers.
While in the Army, she wrote me a poem. This was thirty years ago, Reader. Thirty. And I still remember these lines:
"I dream of nights with port wine cheese on a cracker"
"And now all I can think of is some guys* pudwhacker"
She rhymed cracker with pudwhacker.
Reader. I hope you can appreciate the genius of that kinda poetry.
And now every time I encounter port wine, that verse runs through my head.
I think that is the hallmark of a great poet. One who makes you think, long after you've read the poem.
Kudos, Becky the Poet. Walt Whitman's got nothing on you.
*I changed the real guys name that she referenced in the poem, because it's kind of a common name and I don't want anyone to get confused thinking that maybe it's their pudwhacker, so we've been mysterious on purpose.