Yep, just another boring-ass Tuesday night. Sadly, our cable was recently turned off [we did ride the rails for over a year, but they’re still jerks] I needed some evening entertainment. Why bait depression by watching “The Biggest Loser” or bore myself with “Glee” (which IMHO, jumped the shark early in Season 2)?

I also needed to explore another white wine for this week. The bottle I chose is Cuvee Catherine Sauvignon Blanc. Andy (our new BFF- remember?) explained that Cuvee Catherine is a private label wine produced solely for Haskell’s by the Sauvion winery, named for the owner’s wife, Catherine. This translates to decent wine at a decent price. But wait, how sweet is that? I’d LOVE a wine to be named after me! I instantly started to daydream about this. Could there be just one? Would it be sparkly? Italian?

This is a nice Sauvignon Blanc, just a pleasant little number. It hails from the Loire [Lwahr] Valley in Northwestern France. An expansive and diverse region, the cool climates help create a light-to-medium bodied, dry white wine. It has hints of citrus (and dare I say a tinge of grass) yet remains balanced in acidity. It being a French wine, I wanted something “Frenchy” to go with it. While searching for recipes that incorporated ingredients I had on hand, I came across this humdinger: Chicken stuffed with goat cheese and basil. I even used the Cuvee Catherine to make the mushroom-wine sauce.www.epicurious.com/Epicurious-green Lighter fare like grilled fish, quinoa with herbs or mixed greens should pair equally as well.

When I took the dish out of the oven, the basil & green onion spiked goat cheese came oozing right out of the chicken. Oozing cheese=bliss! Poured some of that buttery mushroom-wine sauce on top MAN! Melted French bliss. A sip of this wine and it was like a Parisian spring day in my mouth.

After much daydream toil, my only conclusion was that any vino named after me MUST be a red, on account of my crimson locks. But, it sure beat sitting in front of the boob tube, sobbing as some morbidly obese ‘loser’ slipped below the yellow line. Or, worse yet, cringing at the faux-angst choreographed to a Madonna medley.