The '77 Port Moment
‘This is for our Christmas Day.’ The Chap rolls a bottle of port before our boggled eyes.
1977, vintage.
The price tag says what?
‘It’s my new tradition.’ He says, perhaps because he’s eighteen years old. Time will let us know.
Christmas Day gathers just the three of us this year.
The port is opened; the old cork crumbles, we utilise a tea strainer, two decanters, hide them in the pantry, next to the oats.
Breakfast is a slab of hot brioche with extra butter.
Clear dry cold sky, a platinum light: we wrestle old bicycles into it, dust them, plump up tyres. Dog runs and somehow avoids an accident. We stop at the house of Grandchild 2, swap gifts, legs gently steaming.
Dog commando-crawl sneaks onto the front room carpet from the kitchen tiles. Everyone smirks.
Wrapping paper makes a comforting debris.
We take the long road back, because of the sky, because of fun.
‘Our mission today,’ I shout, with vibrato over potholes, ‘is not to get too trolled before we start the port!’
So while the turkey spits, the gravy potion simmers, we play cards, pour little heavenly glasses.
Mindful consumption, shared.
‘I like your new tradition,’ I say. Light through the glass is honeyed, antiqued.
‘It’s not as good as the ’63-’ He places a card, he is almost laughing.
‘You didn’t have to tell us, we wouldn’t have known!’ My eyes are wide: a mock-horror face he is not unfamiliar with.
He is laughing. Dog thumps her tail.
We decide to keep the old bottle. Maybe stick a candle in it, there’s some old school recycling. Keep it on a memory shelf. Laugh whenever it’s lit.
1977, vintage.
The price tag says what?
‘It’s my new tradition.’ He says, perhaps because he’s eighteen years old. Time will let us know.
Christmas Day gathers just the three of us this year.
The port is opened; the old cork crumbles, we utilise a tea strainer, two decanters, hide them in the pantry, next to the oats.
Breakfast is a slab of hot brioche with extra butter.
Clear dry cold sky, a platinum light: we wrestle old bicycles into it, dust them, plump up tyres. Dog runs and somehow avoids an accident. We stop at the house of Grandchild 2, swap gifts, legs gently steaming.
Dog commando-crawl sneaks onto the front room carpet from the kitchen tiles. Everyone smirks.
Wrapping paper makes a comforting debris.
We take the long road back, because of the sky, because of fun.
‘Our mission today,’ I shout, with vibrato over potholes, ‘is not to get too trolled before we start the port!’
So while the turkey spits, the gravy potion simmers, we play cards, pour little heavenly glasses.
Mindful consumption, shared.
‘I like your new tradition,’ I say. Light through the glass is honeyed, antiqued.
‘It’s not as good as the ’63-’ He places a card, he is almost laughing.
‘You didn’t have to tell us, we wouldn’t have known!’ My eyes are wide: a mock-horror face he is not unfamiliar with.
He is laughing. Dog thumps her tail.
We decide to keep the old bottle. Maybe stick a candle in it, there’s some old school recycling. Keep it on a memory shelf. Laugh whenever it’s lit.
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