Ahhh, the old folks... I'm fascinated by their weird eating habits, their love of golf, and their apparent desire to experience life without any ventilation. If you've got parents or grandparents who live in Florida, you know exactly what I'm getting at and have probably fought the associated battle of eating "dinner" at 2 in the afternoon, or having to argue to get the windows opened on a beautiful Spring day. Not to say that everyone on the AARP's mailing list is just stewing in their own juices until either death or an early meal dictates otherwise, but there's certainly enough evidence out there to keep the stereotype fixed in popular perception. In my case, I need only to spend a few hours with my parents to be reminded of this. In their later years, they've revealed a subtle type of insanity where the symptoms include thermostats being set to 80 degrees, vegetables being intentionally cooked down to a lifeless paste, and the rationalization that driving two hours to buy a particular kind of honey is a perfectly good way to spend a Saturday. (I've had this honey, and think it tastes just like the kind from the supermarket. They seemed really insulted when I revealed this.)
Ultimately, I consider myself lucky. My folks are pretty healthy, they're much more active than a lot of their peers, and their mounting eccentricities make for great discussion behind their backs. (Guess who's never going to read this because they don't have the internet at their house?) In a lot of ways, they defy the stereotypes laid on many people their age, and subsequently, they've got a spirited relationship with their kids and grandchildren that keeps us all guessing as to what they might do next.
But the refusal to open the windows is an old-timer habit that I just can't wrap my head around. This is chief among my father's daily battles with his wife -- any sensation of moving air is, as far as he's concerned, a draft. As such, he ritualistically strides through the house in his robe to close windows, shut doors, draw curtains, turn off fans, and check thermostats like some kind of third shift security guard. Not only do the windows rarely get opened, but even at the peak of summer, the air conditioning won't kick on until things reach a stifling, near-tropical temperature. This routinely relegates my mother to some distant corner of the house, where even on a cold day, she can be found planted in a cross breeze created by two open windows, glass of white wine in hand, industrial strength fan blowing straight at her chair, and somehow, she's perspiring.
Sometimes I think the lack of ventilation (and by extension, the lack of breathable oxygen) is what makes people get so weird in their old age. In my father's case, I think it's more about him being in control than it is an effort to keep the cold at bay. I know I'm never going to convince him of anything so simple as the fresh air being good for him, so my methods tend to be a bit more devious in nature. Like convincing him that his stubborn ways have ruined something... Something that could have been enjoyed by his whole family were it not for his desire to live inside a blast furnace. Case in point: A 1971 bottle of Bolla Amarone (pictured) which was rendered utterly undrinkable thanks to his improper storage of it in a hot house for more than a quarter century. Frankly, I could tell by the way the cork immediately disintegrated under my wine key that this lauded wine from Italy's Valpolicella region was a goner. It didn't smell good. It didn't look good. And it really didn't taste good. Yet so great was my desire for substantiation, I simply couldn't resist choking down a few wretched sips. With much to be said regarding the difference between old wines and new wines, and how untrained palates can mistake complexity for spoilage, the reality in this case was unmistakable: this was bottled filth.
I quit when I started feeling sick. Samples were poured for my wife, and then my sisters -- all of whom responded with horribly contorted facial expressions and demands for glasses of water, or cookies, or cigarettes, or anything to rid their mouths of this most foul taste of the ages. (My mom tried it too, and thought it was OK, but this is a woman who pours Sabra on her ice cream and calls it "lunch". Her viticultural opinions are not ones we assign much authority to.)
Brokenhearted that my first experience with old wine had been such an epic failure, I poured the remainder of the murky liquid down the drain, and snuck away to exact revenge upon my father's thermostats. As I gleefully watched his target temperatures plummet in one room after another, I vowed to an unseen god that I would one day have my own subterranean wine cellar, so as to prevent these unfortunate events from ever being repeated. Because carelessly allowing wine to go bad is as much a crime against tradition as it is against art and intelligence. My wine cellar will be cool, dark, and will boast custom wooden shelving, hewn from the most majestic trees in the forest. It will be a place of respite from the chaotic world, and I will spend hours wandering its many aisles. Lost amongst the shelves, I shall thoughtfully consider which bottles will best accompany the grand feasts to be prepared in the upstairs kitchen. My wine cellar may even have a window -- which I will never open, because there will only be dirt on the other side.
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For much more accessible (not to mention enjoyable) drinking, allow me to recommend this 2003 Recorba Crianza, which normally sells for $18 a bottle, but which our local shop recently cleared out for ten bucks each! (And before you email me to ask, yes, we bought everything they had left. But I'll bet there are still some around your neck of the woods.)
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