“Hello, this is Dr. (So-and-so)’s office, calling because, unfortunately, he forgot he has a very important 72-hole golf outing on the day you scheduled your (involuntary rectal) exam four months ago, and he’s going to need to reschedule.”

Uh huh. Because I really wanted to be there anyway. As if getting older didn’t suck enough in the sore joint and memory loss departments.

“So when might be a good day for you to reschedule, sweetie?”

“Hmmm, never is good.” (And don’t call me “sweetie”.)

“Pardon me, hon’?” (hon’?!)

“I said ‘let me check my calendar’,” (doll-face).

(Elongated awkward silence while I consider not speaking again until she can’t take it anymore.) Finally, I give in:

“Looks like I have to go back to teaching on August… wait… what? August 2nd? That can’t be right.”

“So anytime before August 2nd then, sweetie?”

“Er… I guess so.” (Lady, I am really not in the mood for “sweetie” after this little realization I just had.)

“Okay, then I’ve got you down for the jumbo-sized corkscrew probe with the rusty spikes on it for Tuesday morning at 3:00AM, please check in by 2:30AM and don’t eat anything for 96 hours prior. We’ll see you then, baby-doll.”

What. Just. Happened?!

I think every teacher goes through this moment shortly after the Fourth of July, the obvious and impending yet uncannily sneaky oh-crap-summer-is-half-over realization that typically leads to a desperate attempt to pack another six months of recharging into the remaining four weeks. I haven’t finished my summer reading list yet! I still haven’t planted those trees in the front yard! I meant to take up curling! I’ve been meaning to learn Latin!

Today hit me like a cliche metaphor; I have one month of summer left. I spent the rest of the day being hyper-productive, reading, grading, mowing the lawn, making appointments, calling my financial adviser, writing, working out and, finally… making dinner. Cooking, as anyone who reads this blog well knows, is catharsis for me. Tonight, it was a simple matter of tossing some broccoli in balsamic and parmesan, putting rice to boil on the stove, and defrosting a couple of gorgeous sirloins. And, of course, pairing it with wine.

It has been pointed out to me with increasing frequency that when it comes to Cabernet, I “know my stuff” but when it comes to, well, anything else, my knowledge is lacking. These people can go to hell, and they can take their quasi-valid observations with them. I’ll admit I’ve pigeon holed myself a bit, but I’m expanding, and my (already formidable) knowledge of Washington wine country has recently been expanded substantially by the introduction of Cadaretta into my life.

Lately, I’ve had the opportunity to taste some amazing Cabs and Cab-blends from this renowned Columbia Valley producer, but until tonight I hadn’t gotten to the Syrah. On a hunch I took what I normally regard as “Cab fare” and paired it with a Cadaretta Syrah, 2014. It was perfect. A beautiful, faultless deep ruby hue and an inviting nose leads into a wine with a diverse and flavorful profile. Deep and rich, it starts with smoky notes and earthy flavors along with a mild herbaceous quality, then opens up into black fruits, cassis, candied blueberries, vanilla, dried black fruits, delicate leather, and more. Fully dry with brilliant structure and a lingering finish, this wine punches way above its weight class when it comes to QPR, and pairs diversely, lending itself as the ideal companion to steak, a cheese and charcuterie board, or even served sans food and by itself, fireside or on a patio.

Cadaretta’s 2014 Syrah is a brilliant wine, and a brilliant wine is precisely what I needed to help pull me back off of the ledge after realizing that my summer was almost over. As for my impending visit to Dr. Frankenstein’s torture chamber of fun, well, I may need to prime for that. I’ll see if I can find another bottle of this stuff lying around somewhere to drink before I get there. Wish me luck!

Cheers,