I'd been fortunate enough to be invited to my second rose' party of the season, this one at a friend's big, beautiful house just south of Carytown.
This time the invitation didn't stipulate the wearing of pink, but I wore a little fuchsia pink skirt just to be on the safe side.
I didn't want to get there and be denied pink because I wasn't wearing any (let's just say it wasn't my first time at
And it was a large wagon full of pink for guests to choose from.
The wine industry was well represented in the backyard, both reps and retail, but it wasn't only oenophiles.
Hell, one chef had brought his own cooler of Miller High Life, pointing out humorously that it was the "champagne of beer," albeit at a rose' party.
He turned out to be great company, sharing his journey through the world of food-making and, when I asked, what he'd learned at each stop along the way.
Because, let's face it, with cooking, like with life, if you don't take something away from every experience, aren't you just wasting time?
A favorite artist/wine geek was there, sharing his restaurant gossip and raving about Basque rose' poured from on high (it was deliciously refreshing).
The hostess had made a stellar mix, including everything from The Cars to Peter, Bjorn and John to Michael Jackson to MGMT, making for a constantly changing soundscape throughout the evening and the perfect party mix.
Some people just know how to make a mix tape and I like to know those people.
I have to admit that, social as I can be, my summer cold kept me from doing as much mingling as I usually would, but not from savoring a variety of pinks, none of which I will name here.
Okay, the Lucien Crochet Sancerre was an elegant delight, long in its finish, and my first pink Sancerre, so probably worth noting.
As the late afternoon edged into early evening, my companion and I said our farewells to head over to the Dell for Prime Time Swing, a big band we'd never heard before.
By the time we'd grabbed our picnic, it was an hour and a half into the show, so we decided to skip the music and picnic elsewhere.
The elsewhere became Libbie Park a bit before dusk, a truly magical time to be so high on the hill.
As the light faded, the river was changing from blue to grayish, the lights of the city were coming up on buildings and we spotted a bonfire on the banks over on the south side of the river.
Sitting at a wooden table overlooking the railroad tracks, we unloaded the wicker picnic basket and watched impossibly long trains roll by, screeching as they braked.
Fireflies began to appear, followed by the moon and we really hadn't done much more than eat, drink and admire the view.
It was the subtlest of Sundays: a thoroughly satisfying backyard rose' party and a park picnic.
How did I get so lucky?