Dimas, my friend in DC, drinks the good stuff.  His wine comes in a bottle with a cork and I doubt he ever sipped from a paper cup of Boone’s Farm. One of his friends owns a high-end liquor store by the Capitol. He’ll bring a hostess-gift bottle or two of $100 a bottle wine to dinner. I’d bet theirs would be the only barbecue to feature hamburgers and Rothschild wine, except Dimas usually cooks the best marinated meats on his $1,000 grill. He’s a gourmet cook who can still appreciate a pot of pinto beans.

I’m not a connoisseur of anything: Folgers tastes the same as Starbucks, Coors tastes the same as Budweiser and wine-from-a-box is the same as wine-from-a-bottle if you put it in a nice, stemmed glass. And, altogether, I’d rather have a nice cup of tea.

The last time I went into a liquor store, I bought a few bottles of red chile wine and another couple of green chile wine. I haven’t a clue how they taste but they’re a great attraction in Christmas baskets. You just add a couple of Dollar Tree stemmed glasses, some green chile pecan brittle, maybe a package of tortilla soup mix and decorate with a lot of curly ribbon.

Some years ago, a winery in New Mexico produced a red wine they named “La Bomba.”  The label had a picture of the atomic mushroom-shaped cloud. It tickled my fancy and I bought several bottles that I gave to family members including my son who, then, lived in Boulder. None called or wrote with glowing remarks about this wine and I’d not saved a bottle for my own consumption. Months later, the Parade magazine section to the newspaper ran a page devoted to the all-around poorest quality things that had been sold in the year previous. There was “La Bomba.” I copied the review and sent it to all those who’d received the bottle of wine. My son still has the bottle but an overnight guest relieved him of the obligation to sample the wine.

The “in thing” among the younger set nowadays is the brew pub or micro-brewery. The more eclectic the beer, the greater the demand. We watch the Super Bowl commercials (and the game if the Broncos are playing) and the best are still those advertising Budweiser, particularly those showcasing the Clydesdales. I don’t miss the beer, but I miss the beer commercials: “From the land of sky blue waters” and “Bud-wei-ser-croak…”

My dad, the chemical engineer, decided to brew his own beer. The ceramic vats were stashed in the kitchen broom closet, covered with cheese cloth until “ripe.” Bottling was a three-man and one mom operation: mom washed the bottles, dad and his friends sipped and poured and capped, sipped and poured and capped. The bottles were stored in the shed adjacent to the kitchen, right next to the case filled with Kansas-farm fresh eggs. The family was midway through dinner one evening when a popping sound began to emanate from the general direction of the kitchen. By the time the explosions had ceased, only a few eggs had survived. I expect you’ve had to clean up after dropping just one egg?

Over the years, I’ve known many folks who made their own wine, brewed their own beer and even one who set up a still in his bathroom but I’m convinced that it’s better to leave such enterprise to the professionals. I’m also fairly certain that there are better pickles in the jars on shelves at City Market, jams and jellies that are less expensive than home-made, and fruit and veggies at the Farmers’ Markets that taste just as good as the stuff you spent all summer planting, watering and hoping to harvest before the deer graze through.