I never….

Late summer is a great time of year almost anywhere, but even better in Napa, where the sunsets seem to intensify even as they’re disappearing more quickly every night. I had the best of intentions: four wine country couples ditching our kids and responsibilities for a summer night dining under the stars. One couple would leave before dessert.

With Andrew and Delia gone for sleepovers, Michael helped me string lanterns and lights. We set a long table with starched linens (still trying to recreate the French Laundry look) and decorated with lots of white candles and “only-in-Napa” details like a multiple sea salt tasting. I added bowls of olives, vases of peonies and goblets of water with mint from my own Mother’s Day garden. The table could not have looked more romantic.

“Nothing But Napa” was our theme. Each couple was assigned a course: salad, cheese or dessert using local, artisanal ingredients. They had to pair Napa (of course!) wine with whatever they created. As hosts, we prepared the main dish: grilled Niman Ranch pork kebabs with heirloom baby eggplant, chocolate bell pepper, red onion and golden tomatoes. We also did some easy appetizers including a mini Caprese salad of little mozzarella balls and green tomato on purple basil that I also grew – beautiful! Our wine was the perennial festive favorite, Frank Family Rouge. This really red sparkler stands up to barbecue, and just looking at it makes me happy.

With happy in mind, and plenty of good food and wine in circulation, I suggested we play a little game I’d heard about called “I never…” Apparently, I missed Michael’s look of panic. Here’s how it works: one person says something like, “I never… traveled to Spain.” The person who has been to Spain goes next. Or if there’s more than one Spanish traveler then it’s whoever’s seated closest. Then that person makes a true statement. Fun, right? For a while, you bet! Then it was “John Doe’s” turn. He said, rather blithely, “I’ve never…been happily married.” Ooooooh!!! There was a collective gasp, as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the backyard. I shot him a glance with a puzzled smile - he was kidding, right? Mrs. Doe didn’t take the time to consider, she ran inside the house. John followed her in, muttering an apology. (To us or to her?) Then, CRASH! The sound of breaking crystal was followed by the silent realization that it was no accident. Some yelling ensued and then a second CRASH! Ok, that was IT! Risking injury or trying to stop it - I don’t know, I ran in like a firefighter. There were lots of little pieces. My infrequently used sherry glasses, I think. I’m no CSI, but it looked like they had been thrown at someone headed for the door. At least I wasn’t using our wedding crystal tonight. No blood, that was good. No bodies – both had apparently fled the scene. Together? Who knows? Michael was already inside sweeping, mindful that the dessert course was next.

Oh boy. All of us were a bit rattled, but with a really good conversation topic to pair with our blackberry clafoutis. Turns out that (and I didn’t know this) when John and Jane got married, Jane said, “I’m his fourth and last wife.” The consensus at our table was that she was probably incorrect, which led to another topic: how many marriages is enough? And, over coffee (which unfortunately had to be sourced outside Napa) we six decided that the magic number is three. If you can’t get it right by the third marriage then it’s time to opt out for the life monastic. Not that the Supreme Court is taking notes from our little dinner party, but resolution is good…

I made another decision over dessert: I never… will do this game again!

Today’s letter is K.

Well, it’s happened. My final child has started kindergarten. Gone are the carefree days of gluing macaroni on cigar boxes, spray painting them gold and hoping they’d dry in time for Mother’s Tea Party Day. Actually, teas were more my own preschool experience than Andrew’s. He had field trips and cultural celebration days. I don’t know if they outfit California Kindergarteners with laptops yet, but I know they are expected to do more than glue and wield crayons. They are supposed to KNOW something, Delia told him so. We’ll see about that, Andrew likes his crayons.

His first day of kindergarten wasn’t like my first day, which involved a brand new back-to-school outfit, Sesame Street lunch box and photo opportunities by the bus. These kids come by parent-driven car, and they are still wearing shorts and flip-flops, as summer likes to linger a bit in Napa. I had to get the lunch box, though, never mind that he doesn’t stay for lunch - it’ll keep his crayons from melting all over my car!

Delia has been beside herself. The prospect of her little brother attending the very same school has just been unbearable, despite the fact that the small kids are pretty much segregated in the yard with razor wire from the “Gen Pop” of big bullies and The Too-Cool Faction. (All right, I admit to exaggerating a little due to watching too many “police procedurals” late at night.) But some things never change and it’s still tough to be the little guy in a vast new field.

I had heard the campfire stories about Andrew’s assigned teacher, Mrs. C, from Delia and friends at caffeine and sugar-fueled sleepovers. Various sources had her visiting from another planet, or a member of the Donner party cannibal family. (Not both? No. The girls seemed puzzled that I’d asked.) Another said Mrs. C is older than dirt, but used to surf (?!) One of the more interesting observations shared was that Mrs. C. wears yellow eye shadow. Really? Chrome Yellow or Pale Butter? (??) When I explained what I meant, using Andrew’s box of 64 crayons, they shouted in unison: “CHROME!” And not only that, but she apparently color-coordinates right down to the shoes, which might also be chrome, turquoise or lime green. This I had to see.

I walked Andrew to his classroom down The Green Mile (ok, I’ll stop), past endless group photos of his teacher with every class she had taught since the earth was formed - or 1977. (She’s been teaching since 1977?! I lost count.) In each shot, she had the same flip hairdo that Marlo Thomas wore in her That Girl TV series! It was no surprise to see the same ‘do now. Mrs. C. clearly favors re-living daily an era I don’t mind having missed out on: the early ‘60’s. Bobby Darin, Annette Funicello and Malibu Barbie must all be the deities in Mrs. C’s pantheon. And today is Nautical Day. She sported white clam-diggers (after Labor Day, even!), and a red, white and blue boat neck sweater. As expected, all accessories carried the theme. And yes, friends, there is such a thing as navy eye shadow! Mrs. C. seemed effervescently happy, and who wouldn’t be? - having chosen to live in a time warp of comfortable sameness and a strong economy. I sort of get it – let the kids enjoy the Disney-fied view of America just a little bit longer. Plenty of time for the unfortunate realities in first grade… Hey, it works for Mrs. C. Maybe the rest of us can learn to defer the hard truths.

I left a somewhat stunned but smiling Andrew to figure it all out while I went to meet with clients.

Hear me?

A restaurant owner and repeat (i.e. favorite!) client invited Michael and me trackside to watch him race his fast and ancient Ferrari. I see him as the Ralph Lauren of restauranteurs, maybe because of his sports car collection or maybe because Ralph now has a restaurant also. Anyway, a day at Sonoma’s Infineon Raceway is not to be missed. (Check it out at infineonraceway.com.) Don’t like noise, dirt and fumes? Give it a shot anyway - think in terms of the list of things to do before you die. Mt. Everest is one, but that will always be last on my own list as it has little to do with the wine country lifestyle and a lot to do with overexertion and frostbite. But while auto racing is not necessarily my first choice for spending a weekend afternoon, it requires neither oxygen nor a sherpa. Well, perhaps oxygen, but let’s think positive scenarios.

Infineon, formerly called Sears Point (but not because of any commercial association with the retailer) is home to NASCAR events, NHRA drag racing and amateur racing, none of which hold any appeal for me. Infineon also has the Wine Country Classic, which interests me a lot. Like the Napa Wine Auction, it happens in late spring – my busiest time of year! Both offer opportunities for Red House that I want to pursue. The Classic includes every type of vintage car you can imagine, some with extensive racing pedigrees. Perhaps Red House should design a sleek drivers jacket – or at least a chamois towel to wipe the drool marks off the cars! Despite our being from New York, Michael has developed a case of California car fever and has decided he wants to drive down to Pebble Beach this summer for the annual Concours d’ Elegance. I think Ralph Lauren and his cars go to this event. If so, I’m going to be there too. I’d try to meet him, and after saying I love his cars, blah, blah, blah, I’d ask if he has any empire-building advice for me.


From the top of the spectator area we watched cars racing around the track as they negotiated harrowing turns and challenging elevation changes. The first few laps are interesting enough, but the mountains of Sonoma and vista of vineyards are even more so. Except to Michael. As my interest started to fade, I wandered down to the pavilion. This being Sonoma, I was able to get a glass of wine, and I also picked up a recipe for Lemon Risotto. Nice!

I put in my earplugs and ventured over to the track to take in the full multi-sensory experience, nothing like the acrid smell of burning rubber, gasoline and cigarette smoke (!). Seeing my client having a great time was worth the risk of conflagration. After he finished his race I ran over and asked him, “Can I sit in the car?” Over the din of engines he misunderstood and gave me a puzzled look, glancing around, and over a suddenly stilled track and with a somewhat disgusted expression he said, “Can we get to a bar?! Uh, no - I think my wife… has something planned.” Then he sort of backed away. I think I might have gasped. I’m sure there are many race groupies wanting to extend the fun off-track but I am not one of them. In fact, I’m not a race groupie at all! I mimed an emphatic “NO! NO!” but before I had to time to explain myself, the cars were on the track again and my client had disappeared into the pit area. I waved goodbye with a look of disappointment that could also have been misinterpreted (!) and went in search of Michael to confess. He hears these things all too often from me and will probably be the one explaining to the client. Sigh.