Jim: I would love for you to tell us about some of the differences between Champagne, Prosecco and Cava. Welcome back! I’m thrilled you’re able to join us again for our 40th issue of Jim’s Affordable Cellar.
We couldn’t have a better guide to help us sip our way through the effervescent world of wine. To his great credit, he is one of just five Canadians to be inducted into the L’Ordre De Coteaux de Champagne, a Champagne fraternity that began in 1650. Marcel earned his sommelier certification in 2003. My daughter is getting married in just a few days! So, what better reason to pop some corks and get to know more about bubbles with the help of our special guest. On top of it awaited a letter.Īs I hinted last time, this is a very special month indeed. What an amazing room! An old oak cask stood on end on my right just inside the secret door. There must have been 300 of them resting before me. On three walls before me were rustic floor-to-ceiling, open cabinet shelves. Stepping in, I saw that it wasn’t just a room. I turned around and moved over towards the shelves just as the wall they were mounted on remarkably swung inward revealing a large, dimly lit room. I turned it left, then right.Ī mechanized clunk sounded behind me, like it came from behind a wall the wall with shelves holding various detergents, sponges, buckets and rolls of fresh paper towel. Just above the white bracket was a small tarnished brass plate with a circular hole. Had I seen something without realizing it? I lifted the iron. As a boy, I nearly brained our cat by knocking an iron off its board.Ībout to leave I turned back to the iron on the wall. Out of habit I placed it securely in the wall mount nearby. Her iron was perched on a wobbly, padded board. It was a small basement for a bungalow but I didn’t think much of it.
Down a short flight, I found myself in a tidy utility space with the usual accessories washer, dryer, ironing board, some shelves with cleaning supplies, a compact gas furnace and a water heater. There was no key-hole and the knob turned freely. A note was tucked under the decanter with my name on it.Īfter a hurried glass of the very tasty Mud House, with key in hand and very curious, I went to the door that lead downstairs. Inside, the first thing I noticed was a shiny, odd brass key in the bottom of a glass decanter on her dining table. Guarded from the quiet road by decorative shrubs and ornamental trees, the bungalow was clad in wedge-wood blue clapboard with crisp, white trim. Also, I was intrigued by how she had signed off her message, “Drink it in.” But this visit was the first step to figuring that out. It was too early to know if I would give up my rental and move in. There was her brother, my Uncle Seymour, whom she barely tolerated and would only visit because of his well-stocked wine cellar, and only if I went along as her guest and driver.Ī few weeks after leaving the lawyer’s office, I visited the cottagey home.
I was my Aunt’s only nephew and really, the only family member she ever chose to spend much time with. Then he pushed over a plain white envelope containing the keys. The words were hand-written with her perfect, cursive penmanship. With that, the lawyer executing my Aunt Edwina’s estate handed me the paper he’d been reading from.