Fontanafredda Barolo 2007 – my mortgage broker gave me this bottle as a gift when I bought my first home few years ago. It was a big deal.
Big enough that I stashed the bottle, and marvelled at the fact that I was now the kind of person who actually had a bottle of wine to open on a “special occasion”.
So… not exactly an everyday bottle of wine. [That label currently applies to Pelee Island Cabernet Franc 2011-2014 and Beringer Founder’s Estate Cabernet Sauvignon 2012-2014].
Yet we opened this baby last week.
After more than a year of shopping for houses, liking houses, hating houses, putting in offers on houses, walking away from offers on houses, losing out on houses to other offers.. Houses, houses, houses… we finally closed on a house.
I’m almost too tired to be excited.
The leftovers of post-Soviet paranoia prevented me from sharing any details publicly, yet, I feel like for the past year I have been operating at half brain capacity.
There’s always been yet another house in various stages of decay and destruction. Yet another form to submit to the brokerage firm. Yet another line of budget to prove to the bank.
Through all that, there was not a single house that was THE ONE. I am not a romantic, not when it comes to real estate anyway, but I did remember walking into my condo, and knowing that was it. And this time… nothing.
Until this house came along. The first time I walked through this house, I felt ill.
Ill because I realized I couldn’t stand to lose this one. This was it.
Weeks of water tests, application forms, inspections, more water tests, proof of income, proof of employment – having to prove… what I don’t know.
And it is now closed.
So yes, we opened the freaking Barolo, and drank it, sitting on the floor in front of a fireplace. Dinner was a combination of random snacks we picked up at the supermarket, and takeout – blue corn chips, grapes, cheese as appetizers, burger and Indian curry for main courses.
I ate butter chicken, which tasted nothing like butter chicken (hello, small towns!) with my fingers, because the server forgot to include plastic utensils.
Good thing I am pretty good at eating Indian curries with my hands. Or, to be exact, with my hand – you only use your right hand. Obviously. The way to do it is to hold your fingers just so – as if you are picking up a huge pinch of salt – you can mix up rice and sauce, then pick up a generous pinch with your index and middle fingers and your thumb, and use your thumb to flick the food in your mouth.
It totally works.
To make this long story short – next time I eat Indian food at my house, I can use utensils; the 2007 bottle of Barolo is gone, and I get to use my entire brain now.
Impossible is… NOTHING.