Straw-colored Surfaces

I am light of hair and pale of skin. I am the original paleface, my blonde childhood freckled with memories of adults teasing me about my freckles; I believed for years that the precipitation of pigment bespeckling my cheeks and nose was caused by eating beans, although I don’t recall instances of Mom actually feeding us beans. Why couldn’t those child-baiting tall people have told me the dots sprinkled on my face were angel kisses?

It’s due to the Dutch background, apparently. The paleness, I mean. And being light of flesh and hair, and oppositional in nature, I am drawn to those of darker mien. “Exotic” to my mind has usually meant someone of bronze skin and dark hair; no Norwegian beauties in MY attraction template.

And why do I ponder my Aryan physiology and its possible effect on my romantic inclinations?

I’m wondering if that’s why I prefer red wines to white. “Prefer” is too weak a word, actually; my hefty bias towards red is revealed by my wine cooler, which has at most two or three bottles of white wine in it at any given time. We’re talking a 50-to-1 ratio here. . . which hardly seems balanced, and as I have my moon in Libra or Libra rising, offsetting my fussy Virgo, or something like that, I DO like balance.

I used to drink white wines almost exclusively, socialized as I was to accept a glass of oaky Chardonnay or fruity Fume’ Blanc. Today, I have to forcibly restrain the contemptuous eyebrow lift, the almost-but-not-quite-inaudible sniff of surprise when a companion orders from the white wine list. (I know, “sniff” goes with “disdain,” but I’ve been working to eradicate disdain and have watered it down to a feeling of only slightly contemptuous surprise. Of course, “slightly contemptuous” for me is like “moderate” for Republicans, so it’s entirely possible I’m still making ghastly faces at the Chardonnay slurpers lurking at nearby tables.)

But when my love chose Thai food to celebrate Valentine’s Day, I turned toward the whites. Reluctantly, I turned, and I did NOT turn toward Reislings, which are often suggested as matches for spicy foods. Don’t like Reislings, no I don’t. Not much. And Andie doesn’t much like buttery Chardonnays, so that left only two choices in the cooler. ‘Twas a conundrum, and so it was that I opted for. . . the Conundrum.

This Caymus blend tastes to me of honey and spice. Although the winemaker calls it “brown sugar.” It ought to be too sweet to be palatable, at least to MY palate, but it isn’t, I suppose because there’s a nice smack of acid on the finish. The Conundrum is a high-end blend of – well, try it, and guess for yourself. I thought I could identify Semillon and Viognier and Muscat, and it appears the winemaker threw in some Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc as well. It was GREAT with the fiery Pad Thai and Jumbo shrimp we had for our private romantic dinner. No Hallmark Valentines for US, no siree. Girlfriend was lucky to get a bar o’ dark chocolate, hard to find when one is trying to avoid the tainted wares of the commercial cocoa-pushing confectioners who have been hauled into court recently to answer charges of using forced child labor to produce their yummy wares.

The infamous companies include Cargill, Archer Daniels-Midland – and Nestle. Yes, Nestle. N-e-s-t-l-e-s, Nestle’s makes the very best. . . slavemaster. The corporations have allowed forced child labor to be used on their West African cocoa farms, an abhorrent practice long condemned by human rights groups. If you don’t care for such exploitation, suck it up, because Nestle is a big dam’ company that has its corporate finger behind a ton o’ products. You’ll need to avoid buying KitKats, Crunch Bars, Baby Ruths and Butterfingers. Also Toll House. The morsels, the baking chocolate, the refrigerated cookie dough. I could go on and on, but this is supposed to be a wine column, and if you’re not a lazyass you can google this for yourself.

I finally found a chocolate bar that was from Brazil. Small slaves may have made it, but that information has not yet been uncovered by our intrepid press. Stay tuned.

Where were we? Ah yes, white wine. I’m actually looking forward to spring, so I can try the other white, the Ferrari-Caranno Fume’ Blanc racked forlornly in the basement. So it will stop whining at me every time I go down to select a nice red wine for dinner. (I hear ya, I hear ya! You’ve merited 90 points from some expert or another, and I’m sure you’ll make a great spring sipper.) Ferrari-Caranno makes a killer reserve Chardonnay as well, but at nearly $40 the bottle, I’ve only tasted it at the winery. Some part of me finds it excruciating to pay that much for a white wine. The pale part of me, I suspect. I’m a wine racist, I am. Blame my childhood. That’s what I’m doing.