Drinking Up The Wine Cellar.(International Edition; THE HOME FRONT)

Byline: Susan H. Greenberg

When my husband first proposed that we build a wine cellar in the basement, I confess I rolled my eyes. It just seemed so pretentious and unnecessary. After all, we live outside Boston, a city full of great restaurants and sophisticated wine lists. I didn't see the point of storing umpteen bottles in the confines of our basement when we were planning to do most of our wine drinking out on the town anyway.

What a difference a recession makes. That wine cellar has turned out to be one of our better investments in recent years. Like everyone, we're reeling from the economy's indiscriminate blows, and going out to dinner has become a relic of our flusher past. We've been living off the contents of the mysterious foil-wrapped packets in the freezer, and selling "Breakfast for dinner!" as an exciting new meal option for our kids. Sushi is for special occasions.

But raiding the wine cellar is the one thing we can do that makes us feel like we're still living the good life. To be sure, our collection is relatively modest--about 400 bottles--with none costing more than $125. Still, there's something seductive about the rows of gleaming bottles nestled in their slots, their labels shining with promise. It's impossible to feel strapped or miserable when you're choosing between a 1995 Dominus and a Pio Cesare Barolo--even if you're serving it with macaroni and cheese.

The cellar itself is a thing of beauty, and a reminder of better days. Constructed by a local carpenter in the basement of our 1755 farmhouse, the two- by three-meter room boasts an exposed brick wall, recessed lighting and a tile floor. It's painted a soothing shade of beige, and maintained at a perfect 13 degrees Celsius. The glass door seals shut with a satisfying click, blocking out the heat and noise of the furnace. I have, on occasion, been tempted to retreat there to escape the chaos created by two dogs, three children and a parade of their playmates. (If only it were a little warmer.) Visiting the cellar has also become a favorite ritual, with guests escorted ceremonially down the stairs to admire the handiwork, the scattering of paraphernalia (corkscrews, decanter, fine mesh strainer), the smell of the redwood racks, the tidy triangular bins stacked with bottles wearing white tags announcing their date of purchase and price.

But it's the wine that really makes us feel like we're still riding high. Every bottle tells a story, and Bill remembers them all. There's the Albarino from the Spanish-wine dinner with the purple potatoes we enjoyed so much. That bottle of John Duval shiraz? Autographed at a tasting by the winemaker, who told how he learned his craft ...