So Many Choices
It ain’t always easy, selecting a bottle of wine. Having been raised by a mother who taught her children to, y’know, HOARD stuff – always saving that “best” sweater or pair of shoes for just the right occasion, yet never knowing just what that occasion might be and therefore never wearing the “best” – I have a difficult time picking out wine at home. If I pick what I think will be a killer bottle, but it’s the ONLY such bottle in the cooler, I fear its passing even before I’ve taken the first sip. I’m almost relieved when the wine doesn’t thrill me, because then I don’t have to mourn its loss. Apparently, disappointment is easier to bear than regret.
Mom’s miserly tutelage not only shadows my wine choices; it has presented a lifelong underwear conundrum for me, since she was also one of those mothers who passed along that weirdly puzzling admonition to “always wear your good undies, because you never know when you might be in a car wreck.” Not quite comprehending the reasoning behind this motherly advice, I grew up more than a little afraid of vehicular smashups – not so much of the gory injuries I might sustain in an accident, but of being stripped naked by the Jaws of Life wielders. Somehow. And then the EMTs would see my ragged panties.
Thanks to Mom, while I always save a few getting-sort-of-threadbare undies for those uncomfortable days of menstruation, I fear that I’ll somehow lose my outerwear in public and be humiliated, but also feel guilty if I dispose of underpants once they show signs of wear. Now most underpants aren’t piggybank busters, so if rationale ruled here I would simply buy undies more frequently, so that I’m always wearing my good ones, even on days when they’ll probably be ruined.
Genetics is destiny, alas. By which I mean to say that rationale has been kicked to the curb by the dainty, size-6 foot of Big Val. (My brothers-in-law termed her that; be apprised that my mother actually is about 5 feet 4, and maybe 130 pounds.) My siblings and I laugh behind Mom’s back about her Depression-era, penny-pinching washing and reusing of cellophane – but I’ve been known to save aluminum foil for a second use, and have a hard time throwing things away. Despite my outsized fear of car accidents.
Without segue, let me point out two winners from this past month’s devoted sipping: the 2003 David Bruce Petite Sirah, and the 1999 Rosso di Montalcino produced by, I think, Ciacci Piccolomini d’Aragona. (Italian wine labels are very difficult to decipher, so it’s possible that those Romantic, flamboyant, penultimate-accented syllables are some salutation, or a Count’s bold signature. But I think they identify the bottler.) The Rosso di Montalcino is essentially a baby Brunello, made from the same Sangiovese grape – and, like a second-growth Bordeaux, it’s more affordable, doesn’t cellar as long, and costs quite a bit less. By which I mean $15 or $20, rather than $45 or $60.
The David Bruce was a fine example of my favorite little hybrid, the luscious son of Syrah. A dark purple, beautiful to contemplate in a big fat wine glass, this Central Coast Pets is rich and well-balanced, with blackberries, butter and herbs creating a lovely nose. It’s peppery and grapey, like the Bogle Petite Sirah, only more complex, or perhaps less rustic -- but then it’s twice the price, at $20, so I may not buy it again. Although come to think of it, I didn’t buy it the first time. It was a gift from Andie. Thanks, sweetheart. Next time, just get me two Bogles. I love me some fruit-driven Petite Sirah!
Meanwhile, back in the ancient, walled Tuscan town of Montalcino: The Ciacci Piccolomini d'Aragona, Rosso di Montalcino 1999 was brimming with black fruit, some tobacco and sweet spices, with that telltale whiff of earth proclaiming its Italian heritage. It was lush, deeply red, full bodied and sexy. It was, in short, luscious. I wish I’d bought more, but hell, I can’t remember where I got THIS one. Regret stalks me even as I write this. I hereby vow to eschew Chiantis and cleave to Rossos.
I’m starting to winnow out the Italian wines I’ve had stored, as my palate has shifted and I don’t like them as much as I did ten years ago. But then I’ll crack a Nobile de Montepulciano, or a yummy Rosso like the aforementioned, and have second thoughts. Like I sometimes do about my underpants.
Mom’s miserly tutelage not only shadows my wine choices; it has presented a lifelong underwear conundrum for me, since she was also one of those mothers who passed along that weirdly puzzling admonition to “always wear your good undies, because you never know when you might be in a car wreck.” Not quite comprehending the reasoning behind this motherly advice, I grew up more than a little afraid of vehicular smashups – not so much of the gory injuries I might sustain in an accident, but of being stripped naked by the Jaws of Life wielders. Somehow. And then the EMTs would see my ragged panties.
Thanks to Mom, while I always save a few getting-sort-of-threadbare undies for those uncomfortable days of menstruation, I fear that I’ll somehow lose my outerwear in public and be humiliated, but also feel guilty if I dispose of underpants once they show signs of wear. Now most underpants aren’t piggybank busters, so if rationale ruled here I would simply buy undies more frequently, so that I’m always wearing my good ones, even on days when they’ll probably be ruined.
Genetics is destiny, alas. By which I mean to say that rationale has been kicked to the curb by the dainty, size-6 foot of Big Val. (My brothers-in-law termed her that; be apprised that my mother actually is about 5 feet 4, and maybe 130 pounds.) My siblings and I laugh behind Mom’s back about her Depression-era, penny-pinching washing and reusing of cellophane – but I’ve been known to save aluminum foil for a second use, and have a hard time throwing things away. Despite my outsized fear of car accidents.
Without segue, let me point out two winners from this past month’s devoted sipping: the 2003 David Bruce Petite Sirah, and the 1999 Rosso di Montalcino produced by, I think, Ciacci Piccolomini d’Aragona. (Italian wine labels are very difficult to decipher, so it’s possible that those Romantic, flamboyant, penultimate-accented syllables are some salutation, or a Count’s bold signature. But I think they identify the bottler.) The Rosso di Montalcino is essentially a baby Brunello, made from the same Sangiovese grape – and, like a second-growth Bordeaux, it’s more affordable, doesn’t cellar as long, and costs quite a bit less. By which I mean $15 or $20, rather than $45 or $60.
The David Bruce was a fine example of my favorite little hybrid, the luscious son of Syrah. A dark purple, beautiful to contemplate in a big fat wine glass, this Central Coast Pets is rich and well-balanced, with blackberries, butter and herbs creating a lovely nose. It’s peppery and grapey, like the Bogle Petite Sirah, only more complex, or perhaps less rustic -- but then it’s twice the price, at $20, so I may not buy it again. Although come to think of it, I didn’t buy it the first time. It was a gift from Andie. Thanks, sweetheart. Next time, just get me two Bogles. I love me some fruit-driven Petite Sirah!
Meanwhile, back in the ancient, walled Tuscan town of Montalcino: The Ciacci Piccolomini d'Aragona, Rosso di Montalcino 1999 was brimming with black fruit, some tobacco and sweet spices, with that telltale whiff of earth proclaiming its Italian heritage. It was lush, deeply red, full bodied and sexy. It was, in short, luscious. I wish I’d bought more, but hell, I can’t remember where I got THIS one. Regret stalks me even as I write this. I hereby vow to eschew Chiantis and cleave to Rossos.
I’m starting to winnow out the Italian wines I’ve had stored, as my palate has shifted and I don’t like them as much as I did ten years ago. But then I’ll crack a Nobile de Montepulciano, or a yummy Rosso like the aforementioned, and have second thoughts. Like I sometimes do about my underpants.
posted by Winetaster | 2:54 PM
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