give me a bottle, give me a memory

After we’d spent the morning walking through the Jewish Ghetto, we stopped on the side of the Venetian canals, and enjoyed an Italian luncheon. A bowl of bean soup with olive oiled toast, necessitated a bottle of prosecco. Lunch-wine, brilliant.

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I have since walked in to liquor stores in celebration of New Year’s Day and have found chilled bottles of my favourite, apparently many people’s favourite, Villa Teresa. They move like hotcakes. There’s a reason why.

No, it’s not because it’s named after me. Perhaps because it’s Italian. But definitely because it’s a prosecco. And it’s really very good.

It’s that bubble champagne wannabe that you place on your table for celebrations, like New Year’s Day and Christmas Eve brunch, the day we celebrated the sale of our house and the day we decided to build another one. An easy to drink, I mean guzzle, kinda bottle. Those tiny bubbles illuminating a sparkling wine. Yum.

I might be drinking it “In remembrance”. Of the dolce vita of our Italian memories. Ahh, the sweet life.

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When you’re surrounded by love and gelato, pleasant emotional imprints are made in the white matter.

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Well most of us have pleasant emotional imprints.

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