We offered to make a batch of wine for the Wedding reception. Given the accelerated timeframe (we heard about the wedding at the beginning of June!) we were a little worried about whether a batch would be mature enough in 12 weeks, but the lady at the wine store said as long as it was an evening reception, the wine would be fine.
Mary-Jo researched custom wine labels and increased the order from 30 bottles to 45 (a batch and a half) just to be on the safe side. That was before she heard than many of Dana’s family didn’t drink.
Meanwhile Mary-Jo asked Tom to recommend a red, as we are not red wine drinkers. Armed with a list of three, she chose one and brought it along on one of our trips to my eye surgeon, as Tom is relatively close to there. Tom took about a thimbleful and pronounced it drinkable – and sent the rest of the bottle back with Mary-Jo. This became the first of my disposal duties, and to tell the truth it wasn’t at all bad – for a red!
The day came for bottling the wine and it came to 45 and three quarter bottles. Another disposal requirement, for the partial bottle. Then off to the LCBO to buy the red. Mary-Jo was obsessed with putting one bottle on each table, and her cheapskate partner (that would be me) was arguing that maybe half the people weren’t drinking and the rest would drink white with a chicken meal. As I recall we cleaned them out by buying 16 bottles and I talked Mary-Jo out of going to another store to buy more.
On the day of the wedding I was trying to achieve a state where I was relaxed enough to give a decent rendering of my speech, and sober enough to stand up. At any rate I hadn’t had very much, so after the dinner and the speeches, I had been outside socialising and came back in for refreshment to find that our table, and MY wine bottle and MY glass had been moved to allow dancing. So I went to the bar and asked for a glass, and was told it was now a cash bar!
Fast forward, and Adam and Dana brought back the empties and unused wine bottles, and six bottles of white and one of red which had been opened and re-corked. I would have much preferred that these bottles had been made available to be finished off by the guests, but I guess that’s just wine under the bridge. The red, surprisingly, was undrinkable and met its maker in the drain.
On the following Tuesday, I went to take back the unused reds to the LCBO, and when they asked for the credit card for the refund, I made the mistake of mentioning that although my card was on the same account as the card used for the purchase, the number was not the same. Well, that just wouldn’t do! Escalated to the manager, who gave me three options, all of which involved investing $150 in booze, a pleasant idea, but not very practical with the amount we drink, and the 24 bottles of wine that had just been added to our wine cellar. To make a shorter story of it, I (mostly) refrained from suggesting what I thought should happen to the auditor that the Manager was blaming for this policy – and come to think of it, I don’t think all those bottles would have fit, anyway; and stormed out. Or, I would have except the door was one-way, and the manager had to unlock it for me, which totally spoiled the whole storming out thing.
So Mary-Jo and I had to make a return trip the next day. She to bring the card, and me to carry the wine (again). We devised a cunning plan, whereby I would go in with her credit card, and only fetch her in if it was necessary – that would show them who’s the boss. Once inside, none of the cast from the previous day’s drama were there, and all went well until I looked at the card she had given me, and it was the debit card, not the credit card. Oops. So I presented my card (yes, the one with the wrong number) and no-one batted an eyelid. So much for the audit system.
And what became of the the six opened whites? Yet another disposal problem. Well, they went in the fridge with their corks pushed in more securely, and luckily summer decided to do it’s thing, the deck and a good book beckoned, and now it’s down to two bottles. It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it. After all, there’s no sense in whining about it.
