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McCoy Tyner

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Silly answers to stupid questions, brought to you by the disconcertingly well-scrubbed (for cooks, anyway) bunch of fair-traders at CHOW.com:

I have never had this problem. Ever. The average lifespan of a full bottle of red wine in my house is twenty minutes, or half that if I have a friend over, or a unit of time so small as to be rendered largely theoretical if I share with the roommates. I can’t even save wine for cooking beyond a single dish, because I ascribe to the culinary school in which every pour of wine into the pan is followed by five or six pours of wine into the cook. (These days, there is much interest among Streep-addled yuppies in beef bourguignon, but students of my school would scarcely survive the recipe.)

Really, who has this problem? If you cannot find use for an entire bottle of red wine in the space of an evening, you can consider yourself a failure as a bacchanalian, a gourmand, and a member of a social species. Assuming you are a seven-year-old girl who can’t finish a whole glassy green of the red stuff all by your be-petticoated self, don’t you have friends? Don’t they like some tasty wine? If they don’t, why did you let them in your house?

Sweet Borei Pri ha-Gefen, next they’ll tell us that a crispy vinho verde cannot be chugged down to the bottom of the bottle in the manner of Sprite.

Seriously, go out there right now (7:30 AM) and drink a bottle of wine. If you get a headache or start belting out La Marseillaise, that’s just your body’s way of telling you that you’re living.