I had unpacked only the most important boxes, and left the others in the corner behind the rolled-up carpet and disassembled desk. Exhaustion reached through my muscles down to my bones from carrying clothes and books and lamps and kitchenware and on and on up three flights of stairs to my new apartment. My friends, at first cheery, left grumpy and tired and taking a raincheck on the drinks and dinner they were owed.
Ruffino Reserva Ducale Tradizional Chianti Classico. It had to be. I had found the Waterford wine glasses wrapped with kitchen linens and washed off one. As I had no chairs just yet, I sat on the floor in the center of my new kitchen. Just me, Ruffino, and Waterford. Together at last.
This was a defining moment. The Waterford glass was all that was left from a marriage that ended only months ago. The Ruffino was the wine of choice from my stay in Rome with friends—a magical and golden hiding place between that marriage and this new life. And, now, this new apartment with the glittering lights of New York City out my window. Yes, this truly was the beginning of a brand new life, and every element needed to be perfect, auspicious, legendary, even.
However, I had no wine opener.
I knew a bit about corks. This was the natural wood variety, made wider than the mouth of the bottle and squeezed in, ready for the screw that would puncture, grab, and remove it. I had seen the Butler’s Friend cork remover, but never in action. The Butler’s Friend has two parallel prongs that slide into the bottle on either side of the cork, and through a twisting and pulling combination, remove the cork with no trace of violence—aptly named as the house staff could enjoy wine and replace the cork without a trace.
Moments later, I was grunting and twisting and pulling a bizarre contraption of butter knives to put any butler to shame. I should not have been surprised. Really, I should have given some forethought to my plan before implementing. I should have been able to predict the consequences of my actions. I suppose it was a lesson in physics, that the force with which the cork went plunging into the bottle was equal to the volume of displaced wine that saturated my new kitchen and me.
My friends and I had rented an apartment on a cobblestone street in the shadow of the Vatican in Rome. The days were spent wandering the ruins of the once-glorious city, viewing the remains of this bastion of civilization. We would meet for dinner each night in Trastevere, feasting on soupli and pizza quite unlike the cheese piles found on every street corner in New York City. I do feel that the sun set with a different air in Rome. The city glowed at sunset, golden and mustard and I could understand how Romans must have adored their creation. I could understand how Time might have treated this city differently than others, with more reserve and respect, allowing the sculptures to remain frozen in their dazzling feats and the children to kick a soccer ball down an ancient alley.
I know the saying that happiness cannot be found in a bottle, but I disagree. Sitting on my new kitchen floor, covered in red wine, and thanking my stars that no one was there to view this scene, I still poured the Ruffino into the Waterford. I hadn’t chosen this wine because of its complementary taste to (whatever might become) my dinner, but because I remembered Rome when I sipped it. In its deep red body, gracefully offered in swirling crystal, resided a timelessness of heels on cobblestone, laughter bouncing off the churches of Trastevere, children speaking Italian complete with hand gestures, and the view from my departing taxi cab of my friends hanging out of our apartment window, waving goodbye. “Ruffino” became a word of greeting, a blessing, and a shared rare experience. And I was dripping in blessing.
I sipped the wine and called my friend. In a moment, I could bring Rome here to my unfurnished, wine-soaked apartment. Ruffino!
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