Sunday, Busy Sunday

At last Saturday, Mrs. Banks carried out one of our family’s special Easter traditions, a practice I’ve come to refer to as “The Exchanging of the Wine.” “Please, please, don’t let him choose by himself anymore,” she begged the fellow at the counter as she handed over three bottles of the Bulgarian rosé I’d picked out (and which I still say had an enticing label) to go with dinner. “What was he thinking? Last Thanksgiving, he brought home a case of Chablis that came in gallon jugs. I could barely lift it to get it back in the car. Next time, just follow him around the store and don’t let him touch anything.”

Years ago, Mrs. Banks’ wine vetoes put my nose out of joint. No longer. I see now my talent for picking spirits exists entirely in the realm of tracking down low-priced whiskey. (I’m especially strong in the under-$20-a-handle segment. Helpful hint: plastic bottles mean quality.) As for wine, no one else in the family seems to go in the way I do for out-of-the way regions or screw-on caps. Don’t ask me why.

But our routine this Easter was all bollixed up anyway, on account of the golf. I blame the people at Augusta. It’s a little much, in my view, for them to ignore the libational burden they’re imposing on the country’s golf fans when they let the Masters fall on Easter weekend. (Do they think it’s up to the Vatican to reschedule?) So on Sunday, we stayed busy all day. Right after church, it was off to the club for brunch (Bloody Marys and beer for the men, Bellinis and champagne for the women, followed by a round of Planter’s Punches for everyone and decaf Irish coffee). Usually afterwards we all go take naps, and the rest of the day takes care of itself. But not this year. (Thank you, Billy Payne!) Instead, we raced home to the television to spend the day watching golf. That meant—there is of course a certain inevitability to these things—more beer for the men (punctuated with a double gin and tonic after Mickelson took that double-bogey on the 4th), and champagne for the women. When it went to a playoff, I worried I might have to rustle up more bottles from down in the basement.

You might be able to keep up a pace like this, but it got to be a struggle for me, believe me. We all had a great day, but I was in bed by 9:00, and happy to be there. I slept like a baby. All hail Bubba Watson!