Kids and I tried driving out to coast but they were in a heated dispute surrounding territory and possession, refusing to eat lunch, and we got in the car only getting as far as Occidental then turning around. Watching some more Scooby-Doo then deep into Lego creative.
Jack and I in office now. Not sure what he’s playing on his screen. I need time to write and get to 3000 words, however I can. Just because you have kids and are perceptively domesticated does not mean you can’t have what you want.
Sipping a Roussanne from Westwood. Much better than I remember. That is, more engaging and conversational, demonstrative of whim and creative. When I have the shop, open, ready to move bottles, this and all of its Westwood bottle-cousins will be there. Have a list going, what bottles are in inventory, vendor partners, what be…
An even 100 now. Jackie watches baseball highlights now, and I take out my camera to look for old vineyard and pictures associated with anything inferring wine….. Wine journalism, essay, all wine writing.. nothing else. With three kids I will have to be more even more singularist and stationed than ever. I decided that I write wine, that’s it. And people. Looking back at Jack like I did this morning while he was on the couch I admire his simplistic steps. There’s nothing excessively complex or layered about his way. Direction, direction, simplicity, About Everything.
Pretzel Goldfish, paired with the white. Haven’t had these in a while, and as you might know already I’m not superbly emphatic about wine-food pairings. Some are but me, well…. I don’t know, this is perfect. Heard the announcers in the clips my son watches, some snacks I bought for them, paired with this white one of my closest wine amis brought to the house.
Jack asks me if there’s a baseball game on now. Tell him I don’t know. He civilly demands I check. I do, he comes over then attacks his sister as she comes in