You’ve probably noticed my lack of activity here on the Scamp… attributable previously to a renovation of my kitchen, a more permanent condition has arisen: that’s right, gentle readers, the rumors you’ve heard are true! Remodeling will get you pregnant! Home Depot and Lowes are nothing but well-disguised baby factories!
Seriously though, all 2+ of us here at the Scamp household are delighted, terrified and otherwise blown away by this (not entirely unforeseen) development. I’m going to be a mom! For the rest of my life! Hurray! Help!
The only pallor this casts over my life is right here at the Wine Scamp: if I’m forbidden from imbibing (much, regularly) for most of 2008, how on earth am I to complete my plans for world domination via wine blog writing? What will become of my gentle readers, bereft of my whimsy and wit?
OK, well obviously I can spit. I’ve spat in the past, I spit on occasion presently and I will certainly spit in the future. Don’t let anyone tell you, however, that this is a preferable way to taste wine. Sure, Robert Parker does it when he tastes 1,987 wines a day, as do Tanzer and Robinson and Laube and anyone who attends a mass tasting. Maybe it’s just my own fault, then, as All The Cool Kids are doing it, but when I taste wine and spit, I never do get the kind of sensory input that I get when I taste and swallow.
Part of the reason, I think, is that I don’t get the scents/tastes from the wine that I would if I had swallowed, at least not the scents that would be wafting up behind my epiglottis. Without this pseudo-aftertaste olfactory input, I tend to feel like I have one eye closed while trying to interpret a painting. Wear an olfactory eye-patch for 8 more months? Bleh.
Right, I hear you – pregnant women can drink a small glass of wine from time to time, with food. Well, not in the first trimester when the nugget’s just getting its cells organized; it doesn’t have the wherewithal to handle its Cabernet just yet. When the autumn leaves start to turn, I’ll let a few sips past my gullet, but until then it’s the spit bucket all the way, I fear.
I must confess that the prospect of opening up a good bottle so that I can swish and spit a mouthful does not hold the appeal that enjoying a nice glass does. Also, as a mama-in-training I’m all about learning my lumps before accidentally folding my child up into origami. My life is changing permanently, and thus so will this blog. Heretofore, we’ll be talking both wine and womanhood, juice and gestation, Pinot Noir and propagation.
Stick around; it’s going to be a hell of a ride!