The tune in June is "College Starts Soon!"

On the night of Greg's graduation, I sipped halfheartedly on a 1998 Banfi Chianti Classico Riserva. Muggy June nights aren't meant for Chiantis, even the good ones. If I had it to do over again, I think I'd crack the Cava Brut. I'd raise my champagne glass high, wink at Emily, and begin this recitation, which is intended for BOTH my favorite fair-haired Air Force brats:

More-or-less Obligatory Pontificating Graduation Speech by Favorite Aunt

Ah, college. Key to the future, right?

What they may not have told you is that college isn’t just this mythical place where you earn a degree, gain an education, snag a passport to a career. It’s a sanctuary, is what it is, an enclave where you get this priceless interim between high school and the world of full-time jobs. Don’t be in any hurry to get through that interim. Full-time work is highly overrated.

What you really get from college is four years, or six, or eight, to form yourself away from your parents; to grow more into who you will be; to shed expectations; to make brand-new mistakes and friends and opinions. To swim in a sea of curious youths who think nothing of staying up all night drinking bad coffee and analyzing just what it is about Antonin Scalia that is so profoundly disturbing. To position yourself in regard to money and values.

Here’s the thing: Money is the overarching reason people send their kids to college. It’s the Elephant in the Living Room of Non-Wealthy America. Because unless your parents are rich, and generous, you leave college expected to earn your own way.

In the humble opinion of your favorite aunt (you can call me that; I don’t mind. Favorite Aunt Kim. It has a nice ring to it.), it is absurd to expect an 18-year-old, or a 20-year-old, to know what he (or she) wants to be when she (or he) “grows up.” That is to say, when said post-highschooler hits the campus. It’s the rigidly weird, or uniquely blessed, person who KNOWS he’s called to be a firefighter, or doctor, gymnast or lobbyist. If you hear that call, before or during college, more power to you. More likely, you have tinnitus.

How many people do you know who really, truly like their jobs and look forward to going in to work? I can think of three, and it took me 20 minutes to think of them. It’s not the JOB that matters; it’s the connections you make. With others, and yourself.

I’m finally old enough to offer advice, and here it is: Experiment in college, as in love. Try on different courses. Don’t be shy about changing directions, or majors. Because it’s true: The secret of happiness is about doing what you love. Or really like. And you may have to keep searching for what that is.

(Also, if someone else is paying for your college, and especially if it's expensive, hold up your end of the deal by doing the work. That is to say, do as well in your classes as you can, even if you don't have Clue One about what you're doing. This approach will avoid a boatload of trouble.)

Once you’re out in the world of I-must-work-full-time-to-pay-the-mortgage, don’t be afraid to chuck it all and join the Peace Corps; or dive into broadcasting; or start your own profitable pyramid scheme. Whatever cranks your motor.

Others will judge you for not being stifled enough, or lucky enough, to know just what it is you want, and to plow relentlessly towards it. But what I, F.A.K., want you to know, is this: people always judge. Fu** ‘em, I say. As a wonderful therapist once said to me, “The opposite of love is always some form of judgment. And who among us has ever been helped by being judged?”

Here's to you. Both of you.

The Ambrosia of Commitment

Help! What wine goes with a proposal?

I’ve never had occasion to research this. Never had occasion to think I would need this information.

Okay, it’s hot out. Scorching hot. White wine, then. Or champagne. Champagne! Only Andie doesn’t care for champagne. Dammit!

Should we go out? Stay home? Here I could crack the GSM. Or the Far Niente Cab. Or the Seghesio Old Vine Zin, or even the David Bruce Petite Syrah. All of them bound to be quite good. Unless they’re corked. Aargh!

Later that same evening. . . Whew. All better now. Andie – or, as I have decided to call her, “The Engagee” – opted for La Bodega. A solid choice, if one seeks wine and tapas. I still believe its predecessor, Boulevard Café, had a clear edge, but what the hey. It’s a fine establishment. Even with a new, distracted hostess and neophyte wait staff.

We sampled a $10 glass of some Albarino or another – there were quite a few on the menu, but all I can tell you is that it’s a pleasant-tasting white wine from Galicia, Spain. La Bodega has a number of Spanish wines on its list, and I’m always curious, but have yet to be wowed . . . in any event, the sample wine didn’t thrill, so The Engagee opted for the reliably good Guenoc Petite Syrah. I, sweltering in the heat – or was it nerves? – ordered up a glass of the Chateau St. Jean Chardonnay. I always try to give that vineyard another chance, on account of it has a BEAUTIFUL fountain out front and I might have been too cranky the day I sampled its wines and found them wanting.

The CSJ Chard was fine, especially with chevre and zucchini bruschetta, garlic mushrooms, and roasted red peppers wrapped around ahi tuna and rice. Such were our Mutual Proposal Accompaniments. We nibbled happily for a few minutes, chatting about nothing in particular. We were surrounded by boisterous, Friday-night-out hets, which I do believe put a bit of a cramp in our little lesbo commitment dinner.

La Bodega is a loud, open space where intimate conversations are challenging, to say the least. Andie – oops, I mean The Engagee – had to pull her chair around and lean in so we could hear one another. The good news is that in a place with that crashing wall of noise, no one else could hear us. The bad news is that I’m not sure we heard each OTHER.

I told The Engagee Previously Known as Andie that I loved her more than anyone; LIKED her more than anyone, which was just as important; and that I wanted us to share our lives. I asked her if she would marry me. She nodded, smiling. Who knows what she thought I was saying? I prodded her, “I can’t hear you.” “YES!” she said emphatically. I slipped the agonizingly-awaited, newly fitted ring on her finger, and she admired the sparkling art deco confection of white gold wrapped around sapphires and diamond. Circa 1920. Lilliane’s.

Then she launched into a speech about how she often took me for granted and was frequently too distracted with work and other stressors to think of me much. Surely this wasn’t her practiced proposal speech? I shook my head, trying to clear it of La Bodega cacaphony. “. . . amaze me, Kim. I’ve never known. . .” Crash of plates, clattering of silverware, chattering of diners. At least that last bit sounded more promising. The teeny bit that I heard.

The Engagee placed the ring on my finger, and I smiled down at the solid band of 18-karat etched yellow gold, deep emeralds flanking a lone diamond. I’m not big on diamonds. But I love this custom-made ring. To each her own.

We flicked our eyes sideways in homophobic reflex, then leaned in and sealed the deal with a kiss. On the lips. At La Bodega, on a June night in 2006, with me pushing 50 and the fertile young Engagee just rarin’ to have a baby. (God, who knows all about wine, and love, has a deliciously dark sense of humor, in case you hadn’t noticed.)

It didn’t really matter what wine we drank with dinner.

Happy Anniversary, Baby

Everyone’s favorite fallback subject – the weather – is on my mind today. It’s beautiful out, 70’s and sunny. It can’t last, of course, this being Kansas City and global warming being a part of that “reality” so strenuously rejected by the neoconmen running our formerly great country. It will soar into the humid 90’s by Thursday, and at that point even a red-wine freak like yours truly will consider the benefits of a light, chilled wine.

The last white wine I had was a forgettable Lindemann’s Chardonnay. The inexpensive Australian producer has a consistently decent Semillon-Chardonnay, but the Chardonnay by itself was . . . I forget what it was. As I said.

With white wine as with red, the point is the nirvana achieved or strived for by its pairing with food. (Winos are free to disagree, but I will not be publishing their comments.) Summer wines go with summer foods, and that leads us naturally to the occasion of my second anniversary, on which my gift to my beloved was . . . dinner. The cooking of it, I mean. The menu selection was Andie’s, and not surprisingly she chose one of our all-time favorites, the gold standard Napa Risotto. A labor-intensive dish. Constant stirring, tweaking and sprinkling is required, but girlfriend didn’t care about that. NOOOOO, she did not, not being the risotto chef around here. Still, she cleans a mean kitchen, and that carries significant weight. With me. I who hate to do dishes.

A heavenly mouthful of asparagus, mushrooms and Arborio rice, this risotto exhibits exceptional flavor and fairly screams for a Barbera. We ignored its screams this time around, wanting to try out the Flora Springs Pinot Grigio 2003. I’m mostly indifferent to Pinot Grigios; they’re light, crisp and fruity, generally, but not exactly packed with flavor, to my mind. Laura favors the Santa Margherita PG, but the Bollini is at least as good, at half the price. And I figured Flora Springs would beat ‘em both.

Flora Springs is on my short list of wineries that should be visited during any trek to California. The wines produced there are stellar. Still, in the end, even the Flora Springs Pinot Grigio was just that, a Pinot Grigio. But OH, the risotto! It was my best attempt yet.

I used three kinds of mushrooms this time: portabellos, shitakes and button; I also added a touch of thyme, and a half cup of the Pinot Grigio accompanying our dinner. Most likely, though, what put the risotto over the top was the substitution of Boursin for the usual Fontina. (And the fact that I remembered to add the salt this time. At just the right moment.)

The only thing that would have made this dinner better was a Barbera. A Barbera d’Alba, a Barbera d’Asti, a Barbera from Seghesio. Or even my current favorite white wine, the Ferrari-Carano Fume Blanc. But the food, and the company, couldn’t be improved upon. I love risotto. I love my girlfriend. I love good wine.

Ethereal and Haunting. . .

And that’s just the label.

Girlfriend uncorked a winner of a wine on Leeser’s birthday: the Bogle Phantom, a deep and luscious blend of Petite Syrah, Zinfandel and Mourvedre. I have no clue what the Mourvedre grape is, or how to manipulate this keyboard to put the accent mark over the first e, but the other two are my favs, for big flavor and spice. And the Mourvedre only makes up a fraction of the blend, 2 percent. Fifty-nine Pets, 39 Zin. That’s the percentage breakdown, and it’s inspired.

We all sniffed, smiled happily, slurped, and smiled some more. Yeah baby! Jammy, hints of black pepper, berries all over the place, and radiating heat. “Let’s get us a case of this,” Birthday Girl drawled. We liked that idea.

Alas, the Phantom proved as elusive as its name. Like the desperately needed leadership of this country, it was nowhere to be found. Invisible, vanished, gone with the wine. I mean wind. Andie tried Hyvee Liquors, where she’d stumbled across the bottle we had just ravaged. No luck. “We won’t have any more until next March,” said the horrible horrible bad-news-delivering clerk.

Gomer’s was no more helpful. Neither was Red-X. Even Lukas Liquors said “Eh,” explaining that its allotment of nine cases had jumped off the shelves in two months. Well, GEEZ why didn’t somebody TELL us Bogle had slipped yet another winner into the mix? We’d have filled our cellar months ago!

Bogle, for those of you not familiar, is a respected family producer of wines, with an always-yummy Petite Syrah and a very good Chardonnay. Bogle, in fact, is the reason I drink Petite Syrah. Such taste! Such value! Wines averaging about $10 a bottle, and both the Chardonnay and PS are always worth it, always worth much more, verily I say to you.

The Phantom is a bit more pricey, but still affordable, at $15 to $17 a bottle. And quite lovely, its stark black label splashed with gold, drawing the eye – and drawing the attention of Andie, which is the salient point of this observation. I wonder who came up with the label? (“Bogle” itself is a word of Scottish origin that means a friendly spirit, or phantom. I learned this from the Phantom’s cork.)

More importantly, I wonder who created this lip-smacking blend? What sun-kissed winemaker thought this one up? And why did no one clue me in a year or two ago?????Part of the Phantom’s yumminess doubtless derives from its 20 months of aging in American oak, which adds a grand touch of toastiness and vanilla. There are other herbs dancing lightly on the palate -- some tasters have discerned eucalyptus, and there’s a hint of cinnamon that appears after the wine has breathed for a while. Mostly, though, it’s berries in a big way: boysenberry, blackberry, maybe a little cherry and strawberry. And it’s nicely structured: intense, without being overpowering. Much like me, as a matter of fact, but with more universal appeal. And color.

The Phantom (again like me!) will certainly benefit from aging. This means it will get even BETTER! If you can find it to taste it. It’s the 2003 vintage that is out there now, in ever-diminishing quantities. Be vigilant in your search, because it’s worth it. You see, while Andie was fruitlessly ringing up all our favorite winesellers, I was searching industriously online. At a site called Bevmo.com, I located and promptly ordered every bottle of Phantom available. If it’s not a scam, those 11 elusive bottles will brighten our doorstep within the week.

It’s been a while since I had such an immediate, positive response to a wine, which overshadowed another favorite, the Guenoc Petite Syrah, ordered to accompany our tasty birthday repast at Pot Pie. We slipped the Phantom in in a sippy cup, unwilling to wait until after dinner to guzzle more of it. No one saw our little sleight-of-mouth, cuz, ya know, it was the PHANTOM.