You're not likely to find it. If anything, you'll be stopped in your tracks by the beauty that is my mom's kitchen. The spotless granite countertops, sparkling stainless steel appliances and impeccably perfect vintage decorations are what I imitate (poorly). This sun-bathed studio is where I watched with wonder, and fell in love with the art.
I've never actually been into the cellar that my dad built under our house. The spider stories are enough to keep me away (and scare me into smuggling the cheap, much more accessible garage vodka to my friends' dorm instead). However, I have seen, and on occasion tasted, the treasure trove buried there.
Shit, I'll put him up against the bastards in San Fran. Bring it ON.
My dad doesn't just let other people tell him what's good. He's out in the trenches, finding it for himself. I remember camping trips up in BC and the Okanagan, dotted with trips to way-off wineries and tasting rooms. He corresponds personally with winemakers, sending letters and getting added to distribution lists you can't even get on the waiting list for today.
So when, a few years back, I heard my snooty bitch of a boss chatting with another stuck up prick in my office about the AMAZING wine he had last night at Clyde Common, I just had to set down my collated copies and inquire about what it might have been. They looked at me like a 14th-century serf asking when I could expect the castle mutton feast to commence. "This is a very rare bottle of wine," Mr. Bitchpants drolled.
"Yes, you can't just find it anywhere," Prickface chimed in.
Snatching the label's name (Cakebread Cellars) from a few stolen scraps of conversation, I mentioned it to my dad. Not two weeks later, this bottle arrived at my apartment leasing office (albeit an earlier vintage). It was good, not great. I've had better. In my parent's living room.
TAKE THAT, MR. BITCHPANTS!!!
Moral of the story: be nice to your office minions, and your mail men. You never know who's on the list.