The Frenchmen and The White Knight

I love summer for all her glory. It is August and I do believe that summer has redeemed herself because the attractive and eligible young men have come out of the woodwork like cockroaches on a hot humid southern night.

A couple of weeks ago, I had the pleasure of attending IPNC and the ever popular Salmon Bake. This weekend is the best of the best for wine and food lovers alike. The Pinot Noir was flowing decadently and unrelentingly from bottles, vast amounts of food were continually replenished at their stations and music was beckoning guests to the dance floor, while hundreds of white paper lanterns strong throughout the oak grove illuminated the setting. Yes, summer is glorious and the already delightful party was made even more delightful with eye candy in the form of men.

After I relaxed to the fact that I was at the event by myself, the dance floor started calling out to me. With no male companion to dance with, I succumbed to seeking out strangers in the hopes that they would want to dance. This is not an easy task, as I am not outgoing nor am I a good dancer. Tragic isn’t it, that I enjoy people and dancing, yet I’m shy and doubly left footed?

My first target, a very cute Frenchman, who very quickly turned me down. Crushed! Up until that moment every Frenchman I knew enjoyed dancing. And what Frenchman doesn’t enjoy in a little frivolous flirtation with no romantic fallow through required? Obviously not this one. My second mark was a French version of my grandfather at 65. Just like my grandfather this gentleman had wild yet somewhat maintained grey hair, thick black glasses and bright colored trousers and shirts. For purely sentimental reasons he should have been my first choice but also because if I had asked him first he wouldn’t have been swooped up by another woman. So, Strike two! Maybe rejection is good for the soul because I was striking out left and right. Then, before I could feel to sorry for myself or suffer any self-doubt, a White Knight trotted in to save the day and me from the disappointment of not dancing.

After the Salmon Bake festivities, we (the white night and myself) ended up walking to Thistle for a cocktail, as it was on the way to both of our houses. The White Night ended up being a great party companion until my mother’s text messages came thrashing in like the Gestapo, wondering why it is past midnight and I am not home yet. Endearing? Maybe. Convenient? No. I should be thankful that my mother is still concerned for me, but truely, it was utterly embarrassing being summoned home to my own house as it I were 17 again.

But the story doesn’t end there. The next day there was a champaign breakfast. As I had no intention of going to another one of these feasts alone, I called The White Night to see if he was up yet and interested in joining me. Thankfully he was both up and interested. So we left one event the night before together only to return to the next together. I assure you, all was aboveboard and innocent, yet before the day was over I received multiple messages asking about what was going on, as if their was some liaison between us. Silliness. Assumptions and speculation are dangerous paths take. Nonetheless, it is humorous to know where people’s minds go.

It may also be a while before I can legitimately complain about the lack of eligible men in Wine Country and get away with it.

Cheers to the bounty of McMinnville and the Wine Community.

Sanguinely yours,
xo