Port

My dad loved port. When he went freelance, his business cards listed his likes and dislikes. Stamped on one side of the card was the classic 'happy' drama face and the other side showed the classic 'sad' drama face. The word "port" printed clearly on the happy side, near the top of his happy list.

So last night I went over to Pete and Kara's for dinner. After a white, a red, a fantastic curry, and Belgian waffle cookies, the question comes out.

"Janey, would you like some port?"

I don't think I'd ever tried port. It always seemed like dad's thing. Plus, I clumped it in the same category as scotch and those other rust-coloured alcoholic beverages that I can't stand.

Pete places what looks like three doll house sized wine glasses on the table.

The redish liquid pours into my miniature goblet from a 21-year-old brown frosted bottle.

One sip and I'm sold. It's sweet with a definite kick.

"Mmmmmm. This is good." I say. "I thought it was going to taste like bourbon or sherry."

"No. Just sweet wine, with double the alcohol," Pete says knowingly.

Nice. Another beverage I can add to my repetoire.