Dining with Dad

 Here's the guy whose air miles paid for my round-trip flights between Calgary and Kelowna while I was hiatusing (it's my blog, I can make up words if I want to). He picked me up at the airport and drove me there when I left too.

Me in 20 years. I might have more hair and a fluffier chest (I know: might). Note the toothpick; we've just finished our meal and moved into the living room.

One night he had me, sister Joan and her taller half Gary over for supper. The Jackson Triggs shiraz he poured into my glass tasted like heaven. I raved about it. I'd be sure to ask them to get it in at the liquor store in Wadena. And the surprising thing was that it's a cheaper wine; I think Dad said he paid $10 for the bottle. When I got home I pulled out the half-empty bottle I'd opened before leaving, and what do you think it was? The exact same wine. Hoo, Nellie. I should worry about my lack of observational skills or maybe my memory. But I don't think I will. It's only details.

Gary gave me a demonstration to show that wine poured through a small aerator tastes far better than wine that is straight poured. I couldn't tell the difference even after a second taste-test. Dad can't either (and doesn't remember how he poured the wine, but possibly the aerator is why I noticed the bright flavour at his place and not mine).

Dad had discovered that Costco sells a delicious chicken pot pie so he served up two of them along with a variety of fresh cut-up vegetables, followed by apple pie and maple walnut ice cream. I didn't cook one thing while I was "on the road," but ate like a queen.