Hard to Port

I am a little slow getting started this week.

It was an interesting weekend, which began with Norm's mom Mildred coming to stay overnight on Friday. She is 89 years old, a lovely lady who has recently rebounded from some debilitating episodes of vertigo.

Norm's sister Gail and I had gone clothes shopping for Mildred a few weeks back. Gail then took the clothing to her mom, who was thrilled with the purchases, but as frequently happens when clothes are purchased in absentia, some of the items did not fit. I had thought to visit Mildred and retrieve the clothes and exchange them, but when I called she said that she felt good enough to visit us and go along on the exchange trip.

Norm picked her up on Friday evening, and brought her here to our home. We had a nice chat, and then Mildred said that she was tired and went upstairs to bed. She had been up there for only a few moments when she called down to us, in a panic. Poor Mildred had attempted to flush one of our temperamental toilets, which promptly overflowed all over the bathroom floor, and then leaked down into the living room.

The next hour was spent with Norm mopping the soggy bathroom floor, Spencer and his sister Allie putting buckets down in the living room, where the water was flowing out of an air conditioning vent, and me running back and forth from the second floor to the first like a crazed squirrel. I had spent all morning cleaning the first floor and the guest room, and was spent like a found dollar. Fortunately, the damage was minimal, but the hurly-burly at the end of a big week taxed Norm and me to the limit, and we both dove for the wine rack.

Which was empty.

All that was left in the rack were a few bottles of Port.

Now, Port is a spirit with which I am not terribly familiar. There have been times when I have had an after-dinner drink, but not many. These bottles were gifts and we were saving them for some indeterminate future need.

Of course, tough times call for tough action, and we promptly opened a bottle; after all, any Port in a storm. We have these tiny wineglasses that we never use because they only hold about four ounces, and discovered that they were a perfect size for a glass of this particular beverage.

Norm and I sat down and sipped our glasses of Port, and suddenly we became elegant, sophisticated creatures with taste and charm, a veritable modern day Nick and Nora Charles. The more Port we sipped, the better we became, and our commode calamity receded into the past.

Port, or Porto, is called a "fortified wine"; it is made only in the Douro Valley in northern Portugal (hence the name). It is very sweet, but very drinkable. The port that we were drinking is Ruby Port, but there are also white Ports, or Porto Branco; Tawny Ports, and Vintage Ports.

Port is not something that you would drink in large quantities, although we did manage to sip away a half bottle. But it certainly did restore our cheerfulness, and reminded us that sometimes you just need some perspective; in this case, the liquid variety.

From now on, if we need a little fortification, we know where we can get some.

*Strange little footnote - Monday night, hours after I wrote this, Mutiny on the Bounty came on Turner Classic Movies and I watched it. Inevitably, the order came, barked by Captain Bligh. You know the one I mean. It's at the head of this post.