As Dickens once wrote it was the best of times and the worst of them too.
A crisp day resplendent with bright autumnal colors drew me up to Nevada City where the acclaimed winery of the same name and its winemaker, Mark Foster awaited. Friends, strangers and even a former boss of Foster had all hailed his alchemistic skills in transforming grape juice into potions capable of making Bacchus weep with joy.
However, the gods had deemed I be blessed with a head cold. The type of ailment that made everything I ate taste like boiled cardboard and every beverage be as bland as the water it was boiled in.
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