Easter whooshed past and on Good Friday, irredeemably, unavoidably and in a way that certainly can not be described as ”good”, I turned 39. Kicking and screaming, I might add, but won’t, since I wasn’t. But a particularly uplifting experience it was not. I’m starting to show my age, with an ever-increasing amount of wrinkles on my face and newly developed saggy skin under my chin. And the numerous little aches and pains cropping up here and there, in novel and unexpected parts of my poor ravaged body. There’s also the challenge of tidily applying black hairdye on an unevenly receding hairline, and the discomfort of finally having reached the age when one needs to shave daily. Horribly, shit like ”age is only numbers” and ”you’re only as old as you feel” starts to make a bit more sense than it used to. Still, I’m reasonably comfortable with the inevitability of growing older and see no point in moping about it more than necessary. I’m happy and healthy and my body isn’t that ravaged. I have absolutely no wish to be 20 again but I might enter into negotiations if it was possible to be 30 again. Then again, to quoth Victor Hugo: ”Forty is the old age of youth; fifty the youth of old age.” I’ve had my fair share of this ”youth” and am content with the idea of moving on.

The last time I celebrated my birthday was at 35 so it was high time to either ”throw a party” or ”hold a reception” again. I don’t know which one it turned out to be but the end result was a kitchen full of relaxed people in various states of inebriation, just like it used to be practically every Saturday evening in the days of yore, and just like it has only very occasionally been for the past several years of decreased-personal-interest-in-getting-drunk-and-going-out. It was all very nice and cozy once things got underfoot and I successfully brought to mind how to behave adequently in situations like that. But at first it felt very awkward, just hanging around, talking toot and dipping into the punchbowl. So in that sense, and in my case, social drinking can’t be compared to, for example, riding a bicycle, because I’ve always been able to passably steer a bicycle, no matter how many years has passed, but tend to find social drinking-with-intent a bit problematic if it comes up all of a sudden. But I pulled it through. Phew.

The first of these pictures depicts me, earlier in the day, blowing the candles of my birthday cake, accompanied by my brothers’ two daughters. Later on, with the children having left the premises, I’m feeling relaxed and rejoicing the fact that it’s my birthday. And still later on, my elation somewhat withered by the realisation of yes it is my birthday and aargh it is my bloody 39th birthday. Merciless laughter at my expense is seen taking place in the background but some comfort is being provided by my dear friend mr. Mäkinen who’s already been there and survived 39. We’ve sure seen and been through a lot together, through thick and thin as some might say. In this case possibly meaning that I’ve been thicker and he’s been thinner. Nowadays I tend to have a bit more sense in my undertakings than I used to and he tends to be a bit more healthily well rounded figure than he used to be. So all is well. And the Dragon may try to devour the flower but all it’s plans will turn sour. Due to inexpert use of flour and miscalculation of power. While flying at 500 miles per hour.


Whoops, getting out of hand again with the rhymes. Moving on to the next, more sober part:

RECENT BOTTLES OF CHOICE:
Moët & Chandon Brut Impérial was the choice of bubbly beverage to sip on the sofa to acknowledge the starting of the weekend. It’s champagne and therefore impossible to regard coolly and without prejudice so I have nothing much to say of the way it tasted, or smelt like, or felt in the mouth. Except that it was very lovely. Personally I find it very hard to justify the price of something I clearly have no tools (or in this case, senses) fine-tuned enough to judge. I’m perfectly content with cavas that cost 75% less than this. In my opinion champagne needs to be reserved for special occasions and preferably not drank at all at home but in nice restaurants and dinnerparties.

Château Musar is a red wine from the somewhat unlikely winecountry of Lebanon and a good example of a bit finer wine to accompany a bit finer dinner. I would think twice before buying a bottle this expensive so it was very nice to get a chance to taste this at an Easter dinner me and The Loved One were invited to. Awesome is the best and not a very descriptive description I can come up with here. This wine certainly was full-bodied but not in a one-dimensional way. It constantly kept changing and evolving in the glass. The aftertaste was long and lingering, filling the mouth with countless amount of shades and nuances and it worked very well with the lamb it was served with. A truly enjoyable wine. Again I’m faced with the lack of proper tools to size this up with.

Castillo Murviedro is a red wine from Spain and from a totally opposite end of the scale compared to the previous one. I bought two 1,5 litre bottles of this, to make sangria for my birthday, and had a glass as a nightcap after returning from the Easter dinner. And there was nothing to complain. Of course it was quite tangy and cheap-tasting but that’s what I expected to get and that’s what I got so no disappoinment there. I have a soft spot for the distinct aroma of these low-end Tempranillos, bringing back memories of late night dinners out in the terrace of my future Father-in-laws’ house at Fuengirola where it’s impossible to purchase quality red wine from the corner shop but also quite pointless since wine of this kind somehow fits the picture just perfectly.

Williams & Humbert Collection Dry Oloroso Reserve 12 Years Old is sherry I got as a present. I’m very partial to sherries and eager to delve deeper into their complicated world where it’s crucial to make sure it’s dry and preferably clear, although this was amber coloured, which is alright as long as it’s not sweet. Sweet sherry swiftly conjures up images of grandmother sipping at a glass of sticky horrible room-temperatured liquid. I don’t know how accurate or truthful this impression is but it’s strong enough to make me want to avoid sweet sherries at any cost. But dry sherry is a different matter altogether, preferably clear like fino or manzanilla, but quite charming in an amber, whiskylike colour too, like this oloroso. The bouquet that hits the nose from the glass is really something else and almost capable of getting you intoxicated without actually drinking the stuff at all. The taste is exquisite and something to really savour, perhaps with some manchego cheese and marinated green olives like I did. It’s also very much an acquired taste and a thirst for sherry is usually quenched with a very small glass of it so it’s a good thing it’s sold in half-sized bottles. I liked this very much but a bonedry manzanilla remains my number one choice when it comes to sherries.