As soon as my husband and I moved into our new home, which is actually an old home, with new parts and old parts that mix together to make something lovely and beautiful, I told him I was going to start a collection.
Of what, dear? He asked.
Of corks, dear. I replied.
There is nothing incredible or beautiful about them.
But what they signify is great; a dinner with friends that goes on. And on.
The beginning of a memory. The creation of a new one.
A quiet night with a book. Or a DVD.
A romantic dinner.
A birthday brunch.
And on I could go.
Corks. Little things that block the neck between you and liquid gold. Between you and a sigh of relief. Between you and a cheer. Between you and a giggle.
And they are becoming surprisingly rare. Screw tops are taking over a great deal of bottle necks where corks were once secured – and, indeed, they should. Screw tops are far more effective than corks, on a general basis, and they don’t result in a cork tainted taste in your wine or champagne.
A screw top doesn’t ‘pop’. It doesn’t hit the ceiling at an angle, with a force, and cause a stir.
A screw top doesn’t bleed. Or absorb the odour of the alcohol it houses. It doesn’t call out to be played with, to be rolled between your fingers, like a cork does.
It doesn’t sit, on the bench, for a few days, like a cork does, and linger and roll about.
And so because of that, and because of this, I decided to collect every cork that my husband and I chose to unseal in our new home.
Of which there have only been three (so far). Not three unsealed bottles, because there have been more, but three unsealed bottles that were once sealed with a cork.
Corks? He asked.
Yes, corks. I’m going to keep them, every single one that we pop, or pull, in this beautiful house of ours. I’m going to keep them in a jar. I said.
I like that. He remarked.