OK. I admit it. I’ve been letting myself go. The idea, in the middle of winter, of eating a salad when I could sit down to a roast suckling pig, with cheesey potatoes, washed down with a gallon of porter, wines and followed up with a cheese platter was a no-brainer. The latter was simply too good to refuse.
However, it’s unsustainable. As I was reaching the dawning of the age of aware-y-ness about my crumbling physical edifice, I was talking to a guy who’s a wine writer from Sydney (do NOT ask me how you get that job; he’s got an ex-wife, kids in new York, and a house on the North shore. Let’s call it a second income, like a millionaire secret patron). He had two great pieces of advice: