Would you please stop wining?
It was just past 8pm, and I went into the kitchen with P following close behind. Next to the sink was our wine decanter, almost empty of its well-aired bottle of 1997 Château Musar, a truly gorgeous red wine made in Lebanon. As I set my glass down on the counter, P’s voice spoke up behind me.
“You have to finish that,” he instructed. As I turned around, the expression on his face made it clear I shouldn’t question this.
Trying my luck, I asked, “Why?”
“So you can grow big and strong,” he said, then paused for a moment, choosing his next words carefully. “So you can run.”
“Run? Where?” I asked, puzzled.
He gave me his family’s patented eye-roll of contempt and replied, “To the park, Dad.” Oh.
Putting the remainder of the wine into my glass, I asked,”Would you like to taste it?”
My sommelier gave it a gentle sip. “Yuck!” he proclaimed, his face scrunched up like he’d found red wine vinegar. “The rest is for you.”
I just looked at him for a moment, trying to hide my smile.
“Really,” he insisted. Nodding with a brief “yes,” he dismissed me and returned to the livingroom.
