ON THE same day that I christened my tiled kitchen floor with a bottle of Great Southern shiraz/grenache/tempranillo blend, I located my long lost wine fridge in the box labeled “Tupperware.”
Yes, we have moved: home and office. What torture it was. No wonder Lucie keeps asking to “go home.” But what a find. Just when I knew I couldn’t squeeze another pickle holder or ice tray in the plastics cupboard the size of a shoebox, lo and behold: the wine fridge appeared. When one has entirely foregone vegetables in favour of cellaring the whites and bubbles in the crisper, the announcement that the black veneer of the wine fridge had made an appearance couldn’t have been more welcome.
So, where to put the valuable domicile of my collection in a villa smaller than most apartments featured in the erstwhile catalogues created by the good people of Smaland? My study seemed like a good idea, until I thought of the possibilities when desperately trying to close a pitch late on a Friday night, riesling beckoning. I even tried it out, but the aforementioned accident put paid to any notion of storing wine cases on terracotta tiles (though I’m sure a bottle of pinot would improve the patina).
Alas, the HomeTech 12-bottle store now languishes in the corner, victim of the design sensibility of the villa architect who was either a teetotaler or someone who cared more for vegetables than wine. Promise to self: next time I get the itch to relocate, I will ask myself at least five times, “Is it really so bad here? And where will I store the wine?”