This part of the year has come (and will go) again when only my face doesn’t age. Ha ha. Yes it’s my birthday tomorrow and I’m not supposed to write anything about it but I did and oh, actually not about it but something else. It’s about the thing they call age that people especially ladies don’t want to declare on their birthdays.
So this post is not about where I would go for dinner tomorrow or what I will wear on the occasion rather about something more intricate (is it?).
They said that age is just a number but I think it’s not. Age is a delicacy. Like a wine served to pair a meal. Velvety. Earthy. Dense. Full of flavors brought about by time, by maturation. The taste that is distinctive, superior and unrivalled. The unraveling of its characteristics, sip after sip takes you back to the day when it was just fresh grapes piled into large wooden casks squeezed by barefooted virgins stepping on it, crushing and extracting every bit of juice that is to be poured into oak barrels waiting for their flavors to be imparted to the young wine. The dark dungeon will be it’s home for a while. We’ll leave it there to be fermented, to ripe, to mellow.
Crisp, with a hint of herbs or fruit or nuts or spices. It whet’s our appetite or compliments our meal. It could be a dessert, an after or a late night dinner drink. It tells us stories of long ago, of vintage times, of summer picnics by the lake, the fresh wind, the sunflowers and the green grass with cheese and sandwiches laid down on the red and white checkered picnic mats, of badminton rackets and kid’s bike, of a laughing mom and a stern dad.
Bitter, with a dark charcoal red color and a strong and rich aroma of experiences of lust and of love, of laughters and of tears, of cigar rolls and black hats, of red high heels and dark eye lashes. A luxury served to the host of a table of eight by a waiter in black coat set and white gloves delicately uncorking the bottle of wine with that stainless angel corkscrew. That first drop carefully poured into the clear glass, he’s not allowing a single droplet to spill on the white table cloth. That bouquet savored by a clandestinely tainted past, smelled by the host presented with the wine bottle’s cork, the grandeur of the night.
Age is a delicacy.
Like a wine.
We sip, we swirl, and we swallow.
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