We’re all high-tech here at the Mixon Gould household.

Let me ’splain.

I am entire yards (uh, if you’re so high tech, Steve, how come it’s not meters? Cause it’s in the back YARD, that’s why!) away from Laura’s office in the house. And it’s no easy journey. Perilous, in fact.

First, as you step out of Laura’s office, you come to the utility room with its extreme hazards: laundry baskets, the occasional box of art supplies, the dogs water and food dishes in their metal stands, convenient to shin and ankle, the front loading washer with its soap and bleach and fabric softener tray sticking out a hip height (I have bruises!) and the most perilous danger of all, Tasha the Wonder Dog, lying there, but who will, as you step over her, stagger to her feet, neatly causing you to crash into the wall or floor (but not usually the ceiling.)

Next, comes the substandard width door that opens up onto the death steps. There’s a roof drain that takes moisture from the garage roof and splashes it delightfully onto the steps and, this time of year, that may result in a lovely sheen of ice with a coefficient of friction not unlike oiled teflon.

Make it down the steps and we are on the patio or, as we like to call it here, UFO Landing Pad. With the help of many dear friends we created this patio back in 1995, using that lovely brick mold you get at Home Despot, carefully dying the concrete red so that it looks like bricks. What it lacks is a certainly uniformity of levelness. This time of year there was snow on it until quite recently. In the summer it absorbs heat readily and reaches a nice egg-cooking temperature that is a joy to walk across.

Okay, we’ve survived the utility room, we’ve survived the death steps, we’ve survived the UFO Landing Pad. Now it’s time to head down the hill for Steve’s office. In winter, there’s ice. The snow, which melts so readily from the grass around it, has been trod down into a dense, icy material that lasts a lot longer. Still, not forever. We don’t get that much snow. But what we do have is Tasha the Wonder Producer of Dog Product. It’s like a minefield. In moisture, warmer climates, you get biological processes that contribute to the degradation of this stuff. Not in New Mexico. The minute these little canine poops d’jour ooze their way into the world, the moisture is sucked from them like the IQ being sucked out of a room when the Shrub enters it. They become eternal, hard, ever present. Sure, this cuts down on those instances of stepping into the house, sniffing, and upon examining the bottoms of your shoes, hopping out through the utility room (aaagh, laundry basket!) down the steps (aaaagh, ice!) and scraping the offending material away. But the poop nuggets remain in your yard, a danger, still, for it is a slope down to Steve’s deck and the little suckers will roll on ya. And, truth to be told, Tasha does daily deposits, and there are times, as you walk down through the minefield, coffee cup in one hand, the other clutching your morning bowl of raisan bran, that your are in danger of encountering a squishy.

Okay, you made it through the yard. It’s time for Steve’s Deck of Doom. More ice, usually, with an added element of maze and obstacle course. Heavy as the furniture is, the brisk breezes of New Mexico still shove them around. The sloped Japanese roof Steve is so proud of feeds a line of snow and ice right in front of the door and if the lazy sod doesn’t keep this away, you have to climb it, then, because that same door opens out, you can only get the door open so far. Better not have that second donut if you want to make it into the office.

Now what, you ask, has this got to do with being high tech?

Laura’s not going to come running out here every time she wants to talk to me. No, we Video Conference.

“There’s an overnight package here from Hawaii.”

“Oh. That must be the thing LDA sent.”

Laura’s pixelated image stares expectantly out of the computer screen at Steve.

“She wouldn’t tell me what it was.”

“Well, then, why don’t you come inside and OPEN IT!”

“Uh, right.”

The box is sturdy, higher than my knee, of the sort of cardboard favored in the building of upper scale homeless chalets. I open it. There is a dense polyurethane foam that must be removed from the end of the box before you can see the contents. But you can’t see the contents. It’s darker than dark. Velvet dark. The contents are neatly contained in a black velvet bag with gold embossed lettering like so:

Inside the black velvet bag is a gold anodized aluminum and plastic space capsule that twists apart. I swear I heard the whooshing sound of equalizing pressures and the hum of electromagnetic locking mechanisms standing down. Inside, is the bottle. It has a textured surface like the dimples put in high tech aeronautical structures to induce micro-turbulence boundary layers to increase laminar flow. You know, like to survive re-entry and stuff.

winemaker’s notes:
The Palmes d’Or Grand Cuvée is a work of love for Feuillatte winemakers, as they have selected the best from the vintage. Only truly exceptional years qualify to produce it. A blend of 50% Chardonnay for elegance and finesse and 50% Pinot Noir for body and power. A pale yellow hue with fine delicate bubbles, its complex aromas are dominated by notes of pastry and caramel lifted by subtle touches of fennel, star anise and lemon peel. This smooth and balanced Champagne is beautifully packaged in a matte gold container and black velvet wrap.

And from Wine News:

“Mixed aromas of toasted grains, caramel and beer. Sweet and doughy with vanilla, malt and tart citrus. Lengthy finish with a mix of brioche, citrus and baked apple.”

Wow.

Now, for those of you who don’t know, the Palmes d’Or is also what they call the grand prize for the Canne’s film festival. It’s a film thing. Like in the Jumper film. There was a little card at the top of the box and it said:

Steve,

Congratulations on winning the literary lottery. Wishing you continued success, health, and happiness (not necessarily in that order),

Love, Linda and Ro

I certainly won the lottery with friends like these.