The night before last I bought a bottle of Francis Coppola‘s Bianco Pinot Grigio. But it disappeared the next day. I must have left it somewhere, I figured. The idea of looking in the freezer never occured to me, simply because wine doesn’t belong where you put ice cream. But that’s where I found it an hour ago, frozen stiff, a total glass popsicle, the cork all but pushed out of the neck.