The Mixed Up Brains of Lisa Weinstein

The (Frankenberry) Wine Tasting Festival

Following the humidity of oppressive New Jersey summers, I eagerly welcome the cool, crisp, sun drenched days of autumn with open arms.  When October weekends arrive in all of their glory, sitting around the house and doing nothing is simply against the rules...at least according to the "Lisa Weinstein and Family" official play book.

That is why, on a glorious Indian summer Sunday morning, I scanned the weekend section of the newspaper, desperate for some kind of unique, exciting, breathtaking experience that would allow me to soak in the sunshine!  I flipped the pages again and again, only to come up empty handed.  All of the exciting events were either too far, too crowded, too expensive, or too boring for my 15-year old daughter Melissa.

Fortunately, Melissa received an invitation to hang out with her group of friends she has affectionately dubbed her "nerd herd".

(Don't laugh!  As I've told her...one of those nerds will grow up to be the next Bill Gates.)

After dropping her off, Bob and I resumed our "What should we do today?" conversation."

Me: "What should we do today?"

Bob: "I don't know, what do you want to do?"

Me: "What do you want to do?"

Bob: "It doesn't matter, what do you want to do?"

Me: (Flipping through the paper again): "Well, there's a wine tasting festival."

Bob: "We don't drink wine."

Me: "True, so what do you want to do?"

Bob: "I don't know, what do you want to do?"

Me: "What do you want to do?

We finally decided to go to the wine festival just so we could stop asking each other pointless questions.

Now I must explain in advance that the extent of our knowledge about wine consists of the following fact....

It comes from grapes.

At least I think it does.

Seriously...babies know more about wine than we do.  Dogs know more about wine than we do.  Cats know more about wine than we do.  Even inanimate objects know more about wine than we do.

Yet there we were, Mr. and Mrs. "Wine Connoisseur" Weinstein, walking ever-so-confidently into an outdoor wine tasting festival!

For the sake of saving money, Bob decided to forget about his "I hate to share because I'll get sick" germ phobia as we forked over the $25 for only one wine tasting glass instead of two.  The friendly lady who took our money also handed us a pencil and a menu so that we could check off all of the fine, fancy wines that we would no doubt (she hoped) be purchasing after our tasting.  Clearly she had no idea that the closest we get to drinking a substance made from fruit is my daily intake of prune juice each evening.  (Works wonders for irregularity!)

Bob and I took the glass, the menu, and the pencil and walked onto the fair grounds where we were greeted by at least 25 tents featuring the best wines from local vineyards.  (I didn't even know southern New Jersey had vineyards!)

Wine, wine, everywhere was wine.  Tempting our taste buds with flavors like peach and tangerine and plum and strawberry and blueberry and cranberry and Frankenberry, and Boo Berry, and Count Chocula, etc.



Undaunted, Bob and I drew on our 15 minutes of extensive wine tasting experience and immediately set to task.  Our professional strategy?  Ask each vineyard representative for a sample of their sweetest tasting wine.

I'd hold out my glass, they'd pour the wine.  I'd take a small sip, swish it around my mouth as if I'd be doing this for 15 minutes years, then hand the glass to Bob, who'd repeat my actions with the professionalism and poise of a wine tasting pro!

After swallowing our sips, we enthusiastically asked for more wine reached for the basket full of free pretzels, grabbed handfuls of the salty snacks and unceremoniously stuffed our faces.  Yes, we were classy wine tasting professionals.

Onward to tent number two!

This time, Bob had the privilege of the first sip, at which he responded by forming an expression on his face reminiscent of Lucille Ball's classic Vitameatavegamin, then turned and spit the stuff onto the ground.




"Bob!" I admonished.  "You can't do that!  Someone will see you!"

He shrugged off his actions, and stuffed his face with more pretzels.

Time for tent number three!

As I took the first sip, I stared in horror at my husband.  Seems I was about to exhibit the same shocking behavior as Bob, but at least I had the courtesy to make it to the trash can before I spit the stuff out of my mouth.

"Lisa!" he yelled.  "You can't do that!!!"

And so on it went.  For all 25 tents.  (We were determined to get our money's worth.)

Sip, swish, swallow, stuff your face with pretzels!

Sip, swish, spit it in the trash.

About an hour later, we staggered to the car.  Hardly drunk since we emptied most of the wine before it went down, we still felt a bit woozy.

I think we'll wait for the ice cream tasting festival before we venture out again!

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