Blackcurrant wine, or at least this bottle, is far nicer that the half bottle of Retsina I discovered in my parents' fridge. Claire thought the Retsina sufficiently unpalatable that she did not drink more than half a glass before asking for the wine I had made.
We are in York, visiting Quin, who has just arrived from Nebraska and is here for ten weeks. It was a wonderful evening; I have not seen Quin since 2006 and he is in unpredicted great shape. He told story after story about my great uncles and aunts and their children. Names that I half remember of people I mostly have not met. And he talks in the same style as Mom - getting sidetracked frequently and going down alleyways in multiple sets of parenthesies, but always coming back to the original story. Fabulous. Of course, he had no wine.