The party was fun but exhausting.  After staying up cleaning until the wee-hours-made-even-more-wee-by-damn-daylight-savings time, I slept late and spent all Sunday wearing slothpants and my M*A*S*H* T-shirt.  Which isn’t as lazy as it sounds; that shirt makes me eminently more qualified to assist with war-related medical emergencies as they arise.  I mean, not as qualified as a medical degree would make me, but I’m not interested in splitting hairs with you.

Here’s the thing, though: if even a third of your guests decide to bring you a bottle of wine, do you know how much wine you end up with?  I’m convinced that Robert Mondavi never had any interest in being a wine entrepreneur.  He simply threw a few parties, looked at the sea of bottles he had collected, and said “Screw it.  I’m going to tear off the labels, slap on my own name, and turn a profit on these bad boys.”

This raises an interesting point. If you go to a party thrown by a wine magnate, what do you bring? You can’t give him a bottle of wine. He’d look at it and snarl “Yeah thanks, I was really short on that. Enjoy the damn party.”