One of Newton's slightly less popular laws, though of infinite utility in the kitchen, is that a bottle of wine cannot be opened without a wine-opener. I gave myself a semi-black eye battling with a now thoroughly cork-infested pinot grigio this evening attempting unsuccessfully to extract said piece of organic material from the small glass neck of the container. A corkscrew with no leverage other than my own puny arms' pulling power is not exactly effective. By screwing the metal helix in one too many times, I extracted a dusty core of cork, and the handle of the corkscrew went right up under my glasses into my right side baby blue.
Good call, Thea, well done. By then, the damage had been done, so I tried to pry the damn thing out with the kitchen shears, and finally needle nosed pliers. No luck, but many small bits of cork now litter the counter. "Fuck it!" I said, stooping to an alltime low and popping the cork through with a chopstick, forgetting Socrates' (If it really was him) observations about liquid displacement, and spurting white wine all over my sweater. Well done, yet again. I have now lost a glass to corkiness, and there are dusty motes of dubious origen floating around in my "clean" glass, but dammit, it's been a long week, and I wanted a nice chilled white to go with my sushi dinner, all gastronomically planned out.
Dinner was good, the new Alias even better, and two glasses of wine later, the earlier fiasco didn't seem so important. I embarked on a cookie project during commercial breaks, thinking that multitasking was a great idea after being freezing cold all day, warming up with a little potent potable, and excitedly wondering what was happening to Sydney Bristow. Such a great idea indeed that I transposed the numerical coefficient of 'eggs' and 'flour,' not figuring it out until I'd baked the first batch. I think maybe I'd just get some rest and get ready for my surprise guest tomorrow.