Wine Giques: Stocking the Apothecary

It all started a few weeks ago, the night my teenage daughter got grounded for the first time ever. I'll spare you the details over the transgression (needless to say, it involved boys), and tell you instead that it led me on a trip straight to Ralph's -- which was the only joint open at the time -- to refill my medicine cabinet wine rack.

Now, I know parenting is best performed in a sober state, but sometimes, just sometimes (especially when you're raising a child on your own, as I am), you just need to take the edge off. Especially when your grounded offspring spends the entire day begging you if she can go to a party that night. I'm serious. Every 15 minutes, all day long. Now, I've raised my kid to have a mind of her own, and to be relentless in pursuing what she wants, but Rhonda, I'm tellin' you, on that Saturday, I regretted it.

So I did what any sane mother would do. I locked myself in the garage-cum-guesthouse with a baguette, some Cowgirl Creamery Red Hawk, and a container of tiny Niçoise olives. Then I dragged out the Shakespeare in Love DVD, and proceeded to self-medicate, ignoring the pleading looks periodically cast through the French doors. By periodically, I mean every 15 minutes, all day long.

My catholicon of choice? 2007 Apothic Red, apparently named for some mythical place in 13th century Europe where they blended and stored wine. An appropriately mysterious moniker for a California blend of uncertain provenance. Pretty soon, I was wrapped up in the deliciousness of the wine and Joseph Fiennes: both somewhat forward and a bit fruity (well, the clothes they wore then were kind of foppish, weren't they?), with a smooth touch on the lips and decidedly elegant finish.

By that time, the sun had gone down, and the teenager had realized that I wasn't giving in, no matter how hard she tried. She buckled and I invited her in, and we finished off the cheese with a celebratory viewing of Jurassic Park. (I know just how that T-Rex felt, believe me. Very, very irritated.)

The cost for my mental poultice, by the way? $8.99, on special, $11.99 when not. Such a bargain that it's now a mainstay in the pharmacy, where it's been busy curing the neighbors of their own teenager-related afflictions, one lovely sip at a time.

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