Life in Wine

Moon-Mad Selby

2011-10-05T08:14:00.001-07:00

Moon-mad Selby, stutter-stepping Selby

Prowls on the old stone porch

The Lady is high in a late autumn sky

Selby yowls in Siamese chords.

Moon-glad Selby, sniffing whiffing Selby

Shivers by the maple tree

The golden light is falling over kitten caterwauling

Selby quivers curiously

Moon-dazzled Selby, leaping springing Selby

Clambers up a tempting branch

The lady moon is watching as Selby goes hopscotching

Scrambling in a treetop dance.

Moon-struck Selby, frisky whiskered Selby

Frolics among the leaves

Tthe round light is glowing, November wind is blowing

Selby rollicks beneath the eaves.

Moon-filled Selby, patting batting Selby

cuffs at shadows everywhere

Even as the night's advancing, the magic light's enchanting

Selby scuffles with the air.

Moon-sated Selby, happy tired Selby

Daydreams by his cozy bed

Pouncing at the stars, saying his au revoirs.

Moonbeams prancing in his head.

Moon-mad Selby, purring moonstruck Selby

Counting little moonlit sheep

The full moon is shining, the drowsy cat's reclining

He shuts his eyes and falls asleep.

Oh moon-crazed Selby, dazed dozing Selby

Enamored of the wide night sky,

Moon-kissed Selby, silly snoring Selby

The harvest moon sings hush-a-bye. . .

May Day! May Day!

2011-05-01T15:16:00.000-07:00

Spring has sprung, the grass is riz (oh HOW it's riz! stupid sputtering mower!), I've had ever so many wine experiences these past months. . . but I can't seem to get off my tuckered arse to actually WRITE about it. It's not that I've stopped loving wine, or drinking it, or thinking about it; it's that I can't seem to muster the energy to set it all down in print.

I blame Jonah. Kinda like Amy blaming her Godzilla-sized brain tumor for her unexpected crying jag, or her speedy desertion of a friend in need, or making the wrong choice in sperm donors*. I figure a brain tumor, excised or not, provides excuses enough to cover any number of transgressions or faux pas for oh, at least 10 years. *snark alert*

So it is with child-rearing. Jonah ought to be worth countless excuses between now (18 months of age) and matriculation. And the delicious irony is that after THAT, he will blame ME for various misdeeds of his own. That's what children do, isn't it? As the saying goes, "All therapy is about your mother." Mothers. Whatever.

Hang on. I'm going out to the recyling bin (Okay, recyling buckets. Kitty litter containers. Plastic pails in which to store junk. Like bottles awaiting dropoff at the screaming purple Ripple Glass behemoths.) to check my most recent encounters of the wine-y kind. Because it's not as if I can remember what I most recently sipped, except last night's 2007 Green and Red Chiles Mill Zin, at Houston's, which God love 'em also has the Dashe Zin, and the Elyse, and mother of all mother lodes, the A. Rafanelli! 2008, in case anyone cares. (Is there a word for logorrhea of the keyboard? because I think I've contracted it. Help! I've been stricken with prolixity!)

Wait. I don't have to go outside to remember the best-tasting surprise cork-popping in recent memory: The Hidden Ridge 55% Slope Cabernet Sauvignon, 2005. Holy father of Cabs! Where did I GET this wine? It is flat-out scrumptious, like a Cab should be. I can't remember where I bought it, or HOW: It's out of my price league, fo sho. Happy Easter to me, Happy Easter to me, Happy EASTER to meee-eee, and Lisa and Andie. . . . I opened this AFTer the 2007 Foxglove Cab (meh. okay. no write-y home-y, $14 wine.com) and the highly touted Georges deBoeuf Morgon (Costco, $12) , some Gamay Burgundy Beaujolais/Pinot vino that I figured might go with ham. Light. Non-offensive. Except, of course, that it was light. Which fans of big reds might well find offensive. . .

Well. What the Morgon REALLY went with, no idea have I why, was the oh-so-tasty lemon cake Andie had made. The Cabs, of course, went terrifically with Leeser's chocolate chess pie, but it's laughably easy for a Cab to go with chocolate, so no bonus points there.

Anyway. The Hidden Ridge Cab 2005 can be had for maybe $40 on sale, $75 not discounted. Eesh. That means I shan't have it again, leastways iffen I'M buying. Gosh I hope I didn't accidentally drink my sister's wine! She ordered so much last year that I still am not sure I've hauled all of it from my cellar (okay, basement) and delivered it to her. With any luck, she won't read this post.

Ooh, ooh, I remember another winner! The Rebel Cru from Wine Guerilla! Bruce Patch kicks out some flavorful Zins, but this inaugural blend is more Prisoner-ish, and much, much rarer. Maybe 1,400 cases of the Cru available, while Orin Swift's cult fav. The Prisoner doubles production every year - think it's up to 80,000 cases or more with the 2009, since the label was sold to Quintessa. And the Rebel Cru? Just $25. Zin, Cab, Syrah, Petite Sirah. We liked it even before Bruce autographed the bottle.

You know what? It's getting late, and I find I don't actually NEED to rummage through my empties. Not now, anyway. It's time to set the trash at the curb, and go watch my baby boy sleep. Precious, innocent, dreamy little Jonah, replenishing his energy for another day of raising Hades and wearing me out.

Swiftly Flow the Years

2009-10-29T08:55:00.000-07:00

All is a blur since the onset of the Obama Era; not so much because of the crazy teabaggers and ignorantly inflamed populace, but because it's been a Year of Consequence. Gram passed November 9, 2008, and I can't remember what wine we tossed back to drown our tears. Andie and I clung to a small hope that our impregnation that day would be successful, a way to punch through to the silver lining in our cloak of sadness.

It was not to be. However, here it is a year later, and our life these past 12 months can be measured in wine: the wine that Andie has not imbibed, and the wine I HAVE. Since she could not drink with a bambino growing in her belly, she frowned upon me drinking anything "special" from my collection. Good grief, Charlie Brown: EVERYTHING I buy and squeeze onto the shelf (rack, cooler, cardboard box) is special to me.

Clearly, it was necessary to devise a plan that would satisfy the both of us. I began by uncorking the wines I GUESSED would be either so-so, or readily available. This meant a great deal of sampling Cellar Rat's Wine of the Week, and along the way I learned a valuable lesson -- about life, and wine: Breathe.

Breathing helps with grief, and oh how it helps with wine. The example that springs most emphatically to mind is the Layer Cake Shiraz. The Rat baristas raved about this wine, but I was underwhelmed when I cracked it. Yes, it was rich, and I usually love big, fruit-forward wines, but this was a letdown. Sipped it, experienced the familiar "eh" response, vacuum pumped it, forgot about it.

Fortuitously, Laurie Lou swang by (swing, swang, swung???) a day or two later, and helped me select a wine for our rare evening together. She was curious about the already open Layer Cake, took a sip, had a very positive reaction, and I immediately monkey-seed, monkey-doed. It was a different wine! The day or two post-uncorking had transformed the Shiraz. The dense, dark fruit and chocolate flavors had come together, and the Layer Cake had breathed its way to fantastic. We toasted our good fortune: The bottle I'd set aside in disappointment made for one delicious dessert.

Ditto for the 2005 Rustenberg Stellenbosch John X Merriman, an elegant Bordeaux blend that was good one night, but VERY good the next. O Oxygen, which maketh and can breaketh a wine!
Segue.

Since I have not blogged for lo these many months, I have not kept track of the (many) wines I have consumed. Or perhaps it is that because I have failed to keep track of the wines I've tried, I have failed to blog. Whatever the case, I am herewith squeezing my brain to see what wines were memorable enough to make an impression. (Usually, I just poke through the recycling bin to jog my memory, but the wine restrictions placed upon me prevent that approach. Ahem. Andie.)

Kim's short list: The 2005 Seghesio Sangiovese, pure pleasure. The repeated deliciousness of the 2007 Ridge Ponzo Zinfandel. (Chant with Lisa and me: "Ponzo! PONZO!") The 2007 Cabernet Franc from Inland Sea Winery, astonishly from Missouri. Everything from Mollydooker. The Novelty Hill Viognier, of all things -- it never fails to shock me when a white wine kicks ass.

I clearly recall the wine we had for Valentine's Day: The Flora Springs Trilogy -- the 2005, I believe. This is a wine out of my price range, but I bought it anyway, because my sister Karen was meeting us in Belleville (Illinois), and she appreciates a good wine, and I thought it might be an occasion for celebration: We had just inseminated, and were hopeful.

Hey, it's the thought that counts. I love the wines of Flora Springs, and this meritage was highly rated, but it just wasn't a knockout. Looking back, I realize we should have put the wine aside to breathe for an hour. It's okay, though, because although the wine didn't strike me as worth $50 at the time, turns out it was. It was a LUCKY wine, and someday we will tell Jonah the story of how he was conceived.

In the meantime, we're on Countdown to the Big Day, and we (most especially Andie) need to remember to BREATHE.

The Autumn Bottles are Flowing

2008-10-23T08:12:00.000-07:00

I’ve been too busy trying wines to write about them, which is surely the oldest non-wine-blogging excuse in the book. Although nonetheless true. And enviable.

Right out of the gate, I commend the 1998 Lancaster Reserve, a Bordeaux from California fortuitously snatched up at the Rat’s summer garage sale, which overall was frenetic and not an experience I’d repeat. Also on the tip of memory’s tongue is the 2006 Seghesio San Lorenzo Block 8 Zinfandel, characteristically lush but not as impressive as, say, the Rockpile. On the Seghesio scale, admittedly a lofty one, it rates perhaps a 7.5.

The Block 8 still was vats better than any of the dozen wines sampled at Cellar Rat’s October $100-a-case tasting. A few interesting whites, a good Carmenere, and a surprisingly drinkable Echelon Pinot Noir. Lisa and Andie share my non-affinity for Pinot Noirs, so it was triply surprising that we all sipped this inexpensive candidate to pleasant effect. (“Clove,” I said speculatively. “All-spice,” affirmed Lisa. “Cinnamon,” declared the tasting sheet.) We tried to buy two bottles of the Echelon for Thanksgiving, but only one bottle remained. We don’t want white wine with our turkey.

Best Wine Value of the Autumn: The dam’ fine 2005 Tin Roof Merlot. You ain’t drinkin’ no stinkin’ Merlot, you say? More for us, then. This plush, bold baby retails for $7.99 at Costco. Smooth, with black cherry and spice, and nicely complex, perhaps because the Tin Roof winemaker was thoughtful enough to add a splash of Cabernet Sauvignon and Petite Sirah. Get a case of it!

Quickly, because I need to clean up the kitchen before my Dad arrives for a visit: Pretty Sally 2005 Cabernet-Shiraz, recommended by the barista at the Wine Bar. Good, but not great. The Briccotondo 2006 Barbera, which made the Wine Spectator Top 100 for 2007: Not bad, but the bottle I had was not 90 points in MY book. I have a backup and maybe it will impress more. Clink! That’s the sound of the empties hitting the recycling bin.

The wine I most enjoyed over these past weeks? A tossup, I think. I thoroughly yummed out on the Green and Red Tiptop Vineyard Zinfandel, both the 2004 and 2005, one from HyVee Liquors and the other tasted at Starker’s Reserve. I also loved the dry flavors of the Callabrigo Dao, a red wine from Portugal (yes, that’s all I know about it. Oh, and it was about $18.) Portugal is the new up-and-coming wine place, and there are supposed to be tons of great, inexpensive wines wending their way to our shores from theirs. Its. Whatever. Happy Halloween.

Old Age Ain't for Sissies

2008-07-10T11:31:00.000-07:00

Bette Davis was right. Or Paul Newman, or whoever first said it. Old age definitely isn't for sissies.

A friend of mine has a father considerably wealthier than I, and who consequently has a much larger and more expensive wine collection. He’s also older (than I am, I mean. At least I think so. I hope so.) – anyway, he has an aging problem.

I don’t mean the aging problem with which we’re all afflicted – you know, chronological and accelerating carbon decay, with the lovely spectre of Death at the end of the slide. Nope. I mean that Katie’s Dad is reluctant to share his “special” wines, despite their abundance and his ability to replace them with new stars. That’s a pity, not least because unless he drinks far more than I do, those wines are going to disappoint him by the time he gets around to cracking them open.

Most wines simply don’t age well, or at least don’t age well indefinitely. I’ve been discovering this sad truth for myself, most recently at the birthday dinner we cooked for Lisa. She requested an all-Southern menu, and I struggled to find something special in the wine cooler for her.

I settled on the 1998 Deerfield Ranch Winery Merlot, fortified with a splash of Cabernet Sauvignon and Cabernet Franc. I bought this at a Sonoma tasting room back in 2000 or 2001, and I remember how tasty I found it. It was more than $30 at a time when I usually spent less than $15 on a single bottle, so you know it was appealing.

We opened it with anticipation, knowing we’d be better off, pairing-wise, with a Chardonnay or Pinot Noir or Beaujolais, but resisting any such match. Merlot was as light a wine as we were prepared to attempt. It was her BIRTHDAY, after all.

Curses! I don’t think it was the fault of the okra (fried) or the chicken (fried) or the potatoes (drenched in gravy), or even the greens (flavored generously with ham). Nope, this Merlot had not been improved in the bottle. I wish we’d tried it a few years ago.

The same disappointment struck me when I sampled the remaining bottle of the 1999 Gallo of Sonoma Barelli Creek Vineyard Zinfandel. I LOVED LOVED LOVED this wine when first I had it, back in ’04 or ’05. This time around, it was limp and lacking in the full flavor I remembered.

Maybe it’s the Americans that don’t age so well. Wines, I mean. Because the 1999 Allegrini Palazzo Della Torre was wonderful when I opened it a few months ago, much better than it was young. Ditto for the 1998 Marques de Caceres Rioja Reserva. This reliable Spanish red, a Tempranillo, was much smoother and more elegant with some age on it.

The 1997 Tomassi Ripasso, a huge favorite of mine back in 2002, is still aging beautifully. We sampled it a few months ago; it’s even better than it was, and since I have two bottles left, I’m hoping it continues to kick butt next year, and the year after. I’m also hopeful for my remaining ’91 Barbaresco; it certainly was superb LAST year. Those Italians know how to age gracefully.

Not so the Australians, to judge by the Rosemount Merlot I uncorked the other night. I’d somehow overlooked it in the rack – it was the 2000, and before you sneer, let me just say that the 1994 Rosemount Merlot was the wine that jumpstarted my love affair with red wine. Repeat after me: It’s not the price; it’s the taste.

This later version might have been tasty once, but that time was past. Some things get better with age, of course – paychecks, perhaps, or the stories we tell about prom night. As for this weak sister, it served to lace my black bean soup. (Which was killer, if I say so myself.)

We're hoping our new cowgirl, Zin, ages gracefully. She's off to a good start.

InClined

2008-06-30T13:48:00.000-07:00

Dam’ I like Spann!

Vineyards, that is. Great wines. Sonoma sippers.

I really enjoyed the 2006 Spann Chardonnay-Viognier ($20), rich and tasty and a favorite at Lisa's birthday bash; and I was all over the 2005 Merlot ($25) once I tasted it. Lovely! (Also hard to come by.) But NO, I missed the Spann tastings both at Cellar Rat and The Wine Bar. I need to blame somebody, or something, for this, but an easy target escapes me. At the moment.

Right about the time I was coming out of my sulk over missing the Spann tastings, the Rat threw me a bone: a Cline lineup that included single-vineyard, upper-level Zins I’d never before tasted. Harrumph. I dragged my petulant butt (and partner) downtown for some quick sipping before an engagement.

I confess I tend to overlook the Cline wines, even as I’ve enjoyed their ubiquitous $10-range offerings. The latest Oakley Five Reds is a sour-cherry, lip-smacking blend of Merlot, Barbera, Cab Franc, Mourvedre and another varietal whose name escapes me; it’s funky, and I like it even though the current blend lacks the usual Zin. I also think the Red Truck is an all-round good camping wine. But Cline Zinfandels? Eh.

Ah, dear sipper, this is what tastings are FOR. As expected, I was so-so in my reactions to Cline’s California Viognier and everyday inexpensive Zin. I liked the Cashmere a bit more; or perhaps it’s more accurate to say that I ADMIRE the Cashmere, a GSM that is pleasant – and philanthropic: Profits from Cashmere support breast cancer research efforts.

Swirling and sniffing at the rest of the Cline wares, I found I liked the Sonoma Coast Zin ($20) well enough, and I expected to like both the Bridgehead and the Big Break Zins, given what I’d read about them.

The Bridgehead? Not so much. I did like the Big Break, but my clear favorite of the tasting was the Live Oak Zin from Contra Costa County. It had more going on than the others – berries and spice, sure, but it also seemed both bigger and more nuanced than its Cline companions. It’s grown on the three acres of Cline’s Live Oak block, where they dry-farm the head-pruned vines. (And no, I don’t know what that means. I suspect it has something to do with the winemaker saying, “To hell with irrigation!” as he slashes through the vineyard with a mean pair of clippers. I don’t know what possesses someone to do that, but I certainly applaud the result.)

Wait, did I say the Live Oak was my favorite? Well yes. . . and no. It was my favorite ZIN of the tasting, and after all, it’s the siren call of Zin that got me tramping downtown right before a dinner date at Pot Pie. But. The most interesting, and delicious, of the Clines was the 2006 Small Berry Mourvedre. I can’t recall whether I’ve ever had Mourvedre straight up rather than as a GSM component – and this was yummy. Double yummy, in fact.

Why "Small Berry"? Because the vines are old and tired and can only kick out wee berries, apparently. This does not bode well for future bottlings of this winning wine, and may explain why it costs $38. Ouch. If I want THAT sort of punishment, I generally jump on the Seghesio web site.

Instead, we took home the Live Oak. I’m still thinking fondly of those eensy-weensy Mourvedre berries, though.

Empty, dusty and evocative

2008-06-13T07:48:00.000-07:00

The wine bottles have been stacking up on the back porch, thanks to the untimely demise of yet another midtown recycling center. I have bottles in an old recycling bin, bottles in paper sacks, bottles spilling out of the various nooks and crannies into which they’ve been tucked.

Happily for me and my embarrassing bottle collection, the publisher of Greenability magazine has offered to take the bottles off my hands. She has some mysterious project in mind, and I’m lucky enough to live just a few miles from her home. (Greenability, a handsome and commendable magazine, offers green lifestyle choices to residents in and around Kansas City. Check it out at www.greenabilitymagazine.com )

So I’ve been consolidating the various strewn bottles, cramming them into sacks for the drop-off drive, which has provided the opportunity to consider the libations previously housed therein. Here’s what strikes me as I do: How few are memorable.

Some are even disappointing. I consider the Treana Mer Soleil, a Viognier-Marsanne blend that is praised to the skies by wine professionals. All I can recall is how much I did NOT find it delicious. And first impressions are terribly important with wine, I find; although a single bottle can be off, perhaps due to oxidation or corking, it’s unlikely I’ll try it again – at least not if I’m the one buying.

Wines I’d Buy Again, Happily

Wine tasting is so subjective, and so evocative. Like particular songs from particular times in one’s life, they stir memories: Three Dog Night, early ‘70s, arriving at Incirlik AFB, Turkey, for what would be two years of wonder. Tired and scared and excited. “Jeremiah was a bullfrog!” blaring from the cafeteria jukebox. The 1997 Salice Salentino Riserva, Lisa stealing into the house late one night to raid my wine cooler, and dropping a favorite stemless Reidel on the kitchen floor. Oops.

I reach into the scuffed blue bin. The first bottle I pick up, the 2004 Four Vines Old Vine Cuvee, makes me smile. This wine is a favorite, a value Zin, trusty and tasty and under $15. Its big brother, The Biker, is lounging about in the same bin, and it brings an even wider smile to my face. Andie’s birthday. Aladdin’s Café. Good tastes, good times.

Ditto for the 2004 Shotfire Ridge Barossa Cuvee, which sparks fond memories of my sister Karen’s visit. And the scrumptious, velvety Seghesio Sangiovese. Also the 2006 Seghesio Pinot Noir, one of the few Pinot Noirs I’ve ever really warmed to. Seghesio! Risotto and Barbera. Lisa, who’s never been to Wine Country, and how much fun THAT will be.

The Amavi Cabernet: Meeting the winery owner at the Rat; dining with Kimmy Tappan; cleaning with my sister. Yum! The 2005 St. Francis Old Vines Zin? As good as expected. Hereford House with Andie, and another memory of the first St. Francis Old Vines Zin -- a bottle filched from Nancy’s wine rack and enjoyed (without her) on a second-floor porch. The 2006 Honig Sauvignon Blanc, triggering memories of Laura and her frequently splendid choice of new white wines. Party!

And what’s this fun label with the dancing elephants? Of course: The unique Petite Petit, a scrumptious mix of Petite Sirah and Petit Verdot. Michael-David Vineyards. Earthquake wines. Lodi, California, with Ali and John. Fresh figs and a V.I.P. tour of the working farm/winery. Petite-Petit: marvelous.

Nah. (Wines I’ll pass on, next time)

The Este. Like other recommended wines from Spain, it did little for me. It’s not BAD, just not good enough to try again. The 2004 Clancy’s, a Shiraz/Cab/Merlot blend, also widely recommended. Eh. For me? Not so much. Also, the 2006 Eskadale The Winner’s Tank Shiraz, a gift from KT, and recommended by Sarah at the Rat. . . all I can remember is sipping it and thinking, “Hmm. Plum? Huh.”

Up in the Air

The Fife Redhead Red, which we selected as our favorite at a Cellar Rat tasting, was underwhelming the next time we had it. Maybe we’ll try it one more time. Call it a tiebreaker. Finally, the 2005 Hewitson Ned & Henry’s Shiraz. I have absolutely no memory of drinking this wine. Make of that what you will.

Paso Robles and Four Vines Rock!

2008-04-24T07:44:00.000-07:00

Biker Anarchy!

I misbehaved. I freely admit it. I have no excuse.

But I do have an explanation. It’s an explanation predicated on greed. And the damage done to courtesy and boundaries when alcohol intake reaches a certain level.

Greed and drunkenness. Not terribly original reasons for misbehaving, I’ll grant you. Still, I’d have held the reins of restraint more firmly had the wine reps from Paso Robles not been overrun by thirsty wine drinkers eager to sample the wares of the tasting room. The reps had a dozen wines on the back table, and a wave of people poured into the room, and the reps got caught up, and new arrivals didn’t know what to do, and so I acted as Honorary Wine Rep and poured a wee dram for a few of them and oh heck, from there it was an easy step to helping my own self.

Yes, that is my sin: I helped myself to a second pour of The Biker. The end of the tasting was at hand, and we were debating whether the Anarchy or The Biker was better, so I thought I’d better re-sample my two favorites of the evening. At least I observed protocol by ASKING for a second taste of Anarchy. I also got a disapproving look, but I decided I could live with that. Especially after a second sip of Anarchy.

What a pity more Rhone blends don’t emulate Anarchy! I typically prefer Bordeaux blends, but Andie has been digging the Rhones, so I’m trying. I don’t have to try with the Anarchy. How could anyone NOT like it? It’s the Barack Obama/Ron Paul blend, nodding to tradition while standing it on its head. You don’t want to try it, that’s your problem. And it leaves more for ME.

“Temperance, like Chastity, is its own punishment.” (from the Four Vines website)

The winemaker at Four Vines, Christian Tietje, proudly proclaims his hedonism on the entertaining website for the Paso Robles winery, http://www.fourvines.com/ A hedonist. No WONDER he’s a lover of Zin! With Anarchy, instead of the usual GSM, he’s kept the Mourvedre but booted the Grenache in favor of Zinfandel.

Anarchy is, essentially, an SMZ, a Syrah-based blend that is a luscious mouthful of rich black fruit and spice. Lisa picked it as her favorite of the evening, although she also was very taken with the upper-end 2006 Esprit de Beaucastel Blanc from the Tablas Creek Vineyard. (Which was a much more . . . reserved . . . tasting in the front room of the Rat.) Me, I can’t bring myself to pay upwards of $40 for a white wine. Not this night, anyway. Because The Biker, a kickass Zin with the same wonderful blackberry, spice and vanilla as the flagship Old Vine Cuvee, gets a little something extra from Tietje’s “splash of Mourvedre.”

Mind you, I didn’t get anything extra from The Biker bottle, as my companion happily took possession of my stolen pour. So much for greed.

We met the loveliest couple at this tasting, but, probably due yet again to my happily tipsy state, I neglected to ask their names. He was a wine snob – I say this approvingly – and he was firm about his favorite of the tasting: The Heretic. I can’t in good faith disagree with him. The Heretic is lovely, big and lush, an old vine Petite Sirah that is intense and impressive, deeply purple as PS’s are, silky and structured. Whoa Mama! Christian Tietje again, with the Freak Show line from Four Vines.

We absolutely loved the female half of this couple, She – a willowy, pretty brunette with a killer smile – likes the same wines and the same restaurants as we do. What’s not to like? They were, in fact, en route to our favorite eatery, having snagged the primo 7:45 reservation while WE were lucky to get penciled in for 8:30. It was fun, seeing them again!

But hey, Mr. Wine Snob (you know who you are), how can you go from big Zins and Petite Sirahs to the. . . ahem. . . understated “charms” of a Pinot Noir? HOW??? And at Pot Pie, which offers both the Seghesio Zinfandel and Guenoc Petite Sirah? How could a Pinot Noir tempt you???

More to the point, how could you even TASTE it, after the massive, peppery, dark-berried voluptuousness of the Four Vines offerings?? Harrumph. Anyway, thanks for the ZAP tip, and we do hope to run into you again. BOTH of you.

A Three-bottle Cleaning

2008-04-07T13:24:00.000-07:00

What does it take for an easily distracted, housework-averse-yet-responsible homeowner to tackle some deep spring-cleaning? A fit, hard-driving sister and some good wine, to judge from a wee, recent sampling. Also free airline travel.

I do not mean to imply that we tanked up on vino before or while mounting chairs and stairs to clean the tops of doorways. No, we saved the wine for AFTER we were thoroughly filthy from scrubbing away countless smears of grime and hair from floorboards, windows and every other grungy, taunting surface on the first and second floors. Eesh, those Herman Munster blinds.

I was fibbing a bit about the airline travel. It was free, monetarily speaking, for my cleaning assistant, whose husband is a pilot for American Airlines – but there’s nothing truly free about having to travel from Washington, D.C., to Kansas City. No non-stops on AA. So it was laying over in Chicago or Dallas for my big sister Karen, whose day job is doing something-or-other as a colonel in the Air Force.

Yep. I had a high-ranking military officer as my cleaning lackey.

Actually, I was the lackey. It was not I issuing instructions, advice and dressing-downs.(Dressings down? Remonstrations? Scoldings, for sure. Hey, have you seen my house?) No, I was the one taking orders, hopping to, fetching rags and cleaning supplies, and rags and more rags. It was a rag-and-Simple-Green battle plan, for the most part. It began efficiently, one room at a time, top to bottom, but by the third day of our invasion we had become a ragtag force of two straggling from room to room haphazardly. Age, fatigue, a natural lack of focus? Hard to say why our approach deteriorated steadily.

We kept the objective firmly in sight, however; so limited success was ours. Each day the house shone brighter, and each evening the wine beckoned the weary troops as we transitioned to reward time.

First up: From a trio of promising bottles, Karen selected the Thorn-Clark Shotfire Ridge 2004 Barossa Cuvee to accompany our jambalaya. I thought I had pulled the Shiraz, but it turned out just fine: The Cuvee doesn’t rank quite as high, but it was an Aussie send up of a Bordeaux: Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, Malbec, Petit Verdot and Cabernet Franc. I just love that blend of grapes. We three killed the bottle.

Grilling allowed us to crack the 2004 Amavi Cabernet the next night. It was Hump Day, and boy did we bust our humps cleaning. I can’t count the times Karen headed outside to the driveway to dump her bucket of Simple Formerly Green. Good think it’s a blacktop (the driveway, I mean). The blackened salmon was topped with berries, blue and red, and it was yummy. I don’t much like salmon, so that tells you how edible it was.

We also had blackened (inadvertently) potatoes and grilled asparagus, a vegetable that is just not good with red wine. But we soldiered on. And killed the bottle. I reviewed the Amavi Cab recently; it’s a terrific wine, but this time the first sips were underwhelming. I blame it on the brushing I had given my teeth – idiot, Kim! Toothpaste before wine! – and the fact that the Amavi needed to breathe. My second glass was delicious. Karen and I savored our last sips with the Very Berry Sundae we brought home from Costco.

Our final day of cleaning culminated with a blessed washing up for the cleaning crew and a lovely dinner out at Pot Pie. We tried to order everything – “Oh, and the goat cheese salad! And the brie and spinach tart! And could you fetch us a chicken pot pie to share?” -- and ate off each other’s plates. Karen, your scallops were quite tasty. The blue cheese topping on the risotto? Genius. Caloric genius.

Naturally, we ordered up a bottle of the 2006 Seghesio bluecap Zinfandel to accompany our varied dishes. The 2006 gets 91 WS points, and it’s chockfull of blackberry jam and black cherries and spice. It’s still a bit rough around the edges, although I don’t mind that. This wine will only get better over the next few years, so I hope Lisa buys a case and stores it.

Yes, we killed the bottle. So Andie finished off with a glass of Gougenheim Malbec – not as good as the Zin, but a great wine for the price, plummy and full and round. I forgot to ask Andie how it tasted with the bread pudding and crème anglaise that closed out the evening.

The house is still sparkling, thanks for asking. I’ve only had to clean up about half a dozen assorted feline horks and whizzes, and about a quarter-bale of hair. It’s not easy being mommy to the world. But good wine helps. Good wine and good help. Thanks, sis.

Winning Walla Walla Wines

2008-03-20T14:35:00.000-07:00

Graying boomers, take heart: It’s never too late to become a wino. And you’ll be glad you did.

That seems to be the message delivered in the March issue of American Journal of Medicine, which reports that healthier hearts await those in their mid-40s to mid-60s who decide to take up moderate drinking. Oh wait. I somehow missed the word “moderate.” I withdraw the wino remark.

Seriously . . . even after a lifetime of self-imposed Prohibition, I mean abstention, those who elect to start sipping alcohol will likely demonstrate cardiovascular superiority over their teetotaling brethren. It gets better: Those who wisely select wine as their alcoholic beverage of choice stand less chance of experiencing such pesky troubles as heart attacks or coronary heart disease than beer drinkers or imbibers of spirits.

In your face, wine eschewers!

On a more charitable note, I can think of few occasions more welcoming to the wonderful world of wine than a tasting of what’s on tap at the Amavi and Pepper Bridge wineries, located in the arid valley of Walla Walla, Washington. What a fun mouthful that is! And its vineyard bounty even more so.

Owner Ray Goff was on hand at Cellar Rat to pour the wines, which is cool in and of itself, but also made sense, given that these are limited production wines that command premium prices, and who wants to trust that precious liquid to the possibly heavy hand of an unknown wine store barista?

Actually, Ray poured the perfect amount into our glasses. I usually ask for a smaller-than-average pour at tastings, wuss that I am, but in this instance I happily would have settled for more. In the case of these winners from winemaker Jean Francois Pellet, more is definitely more.

Ray stole, er I mean LURED Jean Francois away from his post at Heitz Cellars, apparently by offering him creative control of the Amavi and Pepper Bridge wines. Also the moon. Jean Francois is a third-generation Swiss winemaker who holds degrees in both enology and viniculture and has trained at wineries in Spain, Switzerland, and California. He looks far too young to be such an accomplished wine artiste.

Every single wine Ray poured was excellent. I haven’t enjoyed a tasting lineup this much since the Earthquake folks were in town from Michael David winery. The Amavi and Pepper Bridge wines are made in a different style than the Earthquakes – they are not as massive and obviously rich – but they share the same silky lushness. They are both complex and completely approachable, soft yet intense, if you catch my drift. The Walla Walla wines are more restrained, complex and textured, more FRENCH, as it were, but the flavor is there. Oh my is it there.

“Amavi” gets its name from the Latin root words for ‘love’ and ‘life.’ This explains a lot, at least to me. It’s more of an explanation for the sheer stellarness (is that a word?) of these wines than that Ray worked for Budweiser for 30 years. Happily, he set aside his pallets of beer and now is in his tenth year of loving life at this small, family-owned winery. http://www.amavicellars.com/

I suspected Kim Tappan and I were in for a rare treat after I obligingly agreed to sample the one white wine in the lineup, the Amavi 2006 Semillon. It’s flat-out delicious, pear and melon and zippy citrus; it has mineral notes but is surprisingly creamy -- and I hope I remember to get some for Laura’s birthday, since only 700 cases were made.

Next up: the Amavi 2005 Syrah, with a nose of blackberries and what Ray calls “smoked meats,” and I might have called “fat.” Ribeye fat. Fat in a good way. A very good way. I was set to buy this wine until we tried the Amavi 2004 Cabernet Sauvignon, which made me want to call my friend Dave*. This scrumptious Cab (90 pts. WS, but I’d give it 91 or 92) is blended with 23% Merlot and 1% Cab Franc. One percent! Jean Francois, genius. (*Dave: my Milwaukee buddy. A big fan of Napa Cabs.)

I am bad at descriptives. This is what the guys who make the Amavi Cab say about it: mixed berries, dark fruit, earth, a whisper of rose petal and coconut shell; flavors of blackberries and cassis; nuances of chocolate, mocha and spice. Complex and well-structured. I don’t disagree. Dave, it’s $28, and worth it! I grabbed one.

But NO, Ray couldn’t leave it at that. He made us step on the Pepper Bridge to heaven and try the PB 2003 Cabernet. The b*st**d. It’s even better. But it’s twice as much. Again with the dark berry and chocolate, but with some added “spicy, smoky, cedar character,” along with a touch of thyme and cassis. Doesn’t that sound like a killer recipe? 92 Wine Advocate points, 2% Merlot, 2% Cab Franc. $52. (French oak, old and new, is used lavishly in the production of these wines. It is expensive. So is the winemaker's predilection for lopping off untold clusters of grapes so as to concentrate flavor in the remaining fruits of the vine.)

The Pepper Bridge 2005 Merlot came too late in the sipping order to impress as fully as the others, although Food & Wine Magazine lists it in its Top 20. Eighty percent Merlot, 9% Cab, 5% Malbec. Rich and lovely, to be sure. And dear, at $52. I’d have bought them all, in multiples, if finances allowed. http://www.pepperbridge.com/

Kimmy Tappan was torn between the Amavi Cab and Syrah, but in the end went Cab. The funny end to this tale of wine bliss is that we were on our way to dinner and ended up drinking a surprisingly quaffable $9 wine, the Salmon Run Petit Noir from Finger Lakes, New York. It’s some Gamay/Merlot blend, I believe, bright and fruity, and a simple pleasure for the palate. Completely different from the long, lingering Amavi/Pepper Bridge magic, but respectably tasty. Here’s to you, New York!

And Walla Walla. Most especially Walla Walla.

It's the math. And the vintage.

2008-03-18T10:56:00.000-07:00

I try to like beer. I really do. But except for the occasional lager or raspberry wheat, I am just not interested. I think that’s how many people feel about wine. That is simply a pity for many reasons, not the least of which is the analogies lost to them.

For example: If the admirable Barack Obama were a wine, he’d be one of those unheralded gems that didn’t cost much and was purchased on a whim or a friend’s recommendation – and that turns out to be an incredible value: nuanced yet muscular, with a great attack and long finish. An Italian Rosso, perhaps, comprised of a number of unfamiliar grapes that combine in winning fashion. Or something surprisingly good from a small Sonoma vineyard, a young red that drinks great now and will only get better with time.

Hillary Clinton? Aaaiiiii, as my friend Kirsten says. Hillary is an expensive Napa Cabernet Sauvignon, from a reliably good producer with a solid reputation; unfortunately, she’s a wine one has cellared and later opened with anticipation, only to discover it’s gone bad. I could torture this analogy for days, but let’s just summarize by saying the chief reaction to such an uncorking is disappointment. Hill, we hardly knew ye.

In her obsession with winning no matter the cost, Clinton has crossed a line. She’s knowingly stepped into the shoes the right-wing Clinton-haters crafted for her so long ago – you know, those manipulative, power-hungry, unethical shoes? I don’t like her shoes. I don’t like their style. I hate that they seem to fit her. I hate that I’ve abandoned my wine metaphors for Imelda Marcos analogies.

Hillary is like a sister to me. Not in the sense that she grew up with me or has ever MET me, but in the sense that I don’t like it when she screws up, and I don’t like it when others criticize her. And I am SO disappointed!

‘Tis a pity, but I am no longer interested in drinking her Koolaid; er, wine. Leaving aside the pitiful, victim-y racism of Geraldine Ferraro and the “he’s like Jesse Jackson” line trotted out by Bill, Hillary is blighting the reputation she cultivated so carefully for so many years in her well-established vineyard. She has said, loud and clear, that either she or John McCain would be suitable as Commander-in-Chief, but that her Democratic opponent would not be.

Think about this: She has handed the opposition party a cudgel with which to attack the Democratic nominee. She has done this purposely – both Clintons are too bright to “accidentally” say such things. And so I have come to this painful realization over the past six weeks: that it’s true what I keep reading and concluding. That she would rather McCain won the presidency if she is not the Democratic nominee.

And she CAN’T be the nominee. Not in any honest or fair way. She is too far behind in both pledged delegates and popular vote. To use the more common sports analogy, she’s 10 points down with a minute on the clock and the ball at midfield. The math isn’t on her side. It ain’t gonna happen.

Instead of conceding gracefully, she’s refusing to leave the field. She’s attempting to bribe and intimidate the referees. Failing that, she is instructing her team to break the legs of the opposing quarterback. Translation: Instead of bowing out and getting behind the Democratic nominee, Hillary has turned to attempted cheating, lies about her record, and smears of her opponent. She’s endorsed Rovian fear-mongering, that brand of win-at-any-cost politics that has cost our country so dearly.

For those who attempt to excuse such behavior as merely the stuff of politics, I point to the tragic legacy of George W. Bush – the illegal war in the wrong country, the lies, endorsement of torture and warrantless spying on Americans, the massive red ink and the cratering economy, the corruption and politicization of the Justice Department and the EPA, the continued frightening idealogy of the Supreme Court. Given the damage done to our country under this stubbornly wrong president, there can be no excuse for someone who would have the Democrats snatch defeat from the jaws of victory if she cannot wear the laurel wreath herself. Because Hillary’s race-baiting and attempts to game the race have had an impact: McCain has pulled even with both Democrats in the latest “Who would you pick as President?” poll.

There truly is not much difference in Obama’s and Clinton’s stands on the issues. Except for the little matter of the worst foreign policy blunder of my lifetime, the $2-trillion debacle known as “the war in Iraq.” Obama has been on the record as against the war on Iraq from BEFORE Day One. And Hillary? Not only has she refused to apologize for her vote authorizing that murderous disaster; knowing Bush as we all do now, she voted to give him the same authority to wage war on Iran – did you know that, reader? That was the deal-breaker for me. War on Iran: very bad idea. Giving Bush the power to wage war on Iran: very very very very very very very bad idea.

If health care, the economy or the war in Iraq is a major issue for you, your choice in November is an easy one. Senator McCain, with no mastery of economics and no clue as to how to resolve America’s health care crisis, is the most vocal proponent of the Iraq debacle. Love what we’ve done in Iraq? Vote for McCain. (Vote for McCain and you get a few bonuses: He supports funding for the discredited Bush "abstinence-only" programs; he's opposed to access to birth control and family-planning services; and best of all: He loves him some Samuel Alito and Clarence Thomas. The ick factor is rising exponentially, eh?)

It amazes me that some folks don’t seem to grasp the magnitude of Obama’s primary season feat: He has out-campaigned and out-organized the vaunted Clinton machine. If that doesn’t serve as a wake-up call for those who’ve slept through other proofs of his obvious intellectual prowess and leadership skills. . . consider what his well-thought-out 50-state strategy could mean for our country: Someone who could, possibly, just maybe, re-unite the United States across the red-blue divide! A President who would. . . LEAD!

Yes, I know, I'm dreaming, just as I dream of being handed free, limitless gift cards at KC wine shops. Scorn me for having the audacity to hope. But even Republicans have a hard time disliking this guy, he's so temperate, bright and honest. He's the anti-polarization candidate. These days, he's my house wine.

I can’t think of a wine analogy for Senator McCain. He’s a beer, a decent enough beer, or at least the best beer the Republicans have to offer. But like Hillary these days, he leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

Postscript: I just read Obama's speech on black -- and white -- community. You can watch the video, if you prefer: http://my.barackobama.com/page/content/hisownwords If you do, however, you'll vote for the man. If I were a winemaker, I'd name a wine for him.

Big Netflix Love (and an Italian charmer)

2008-03-10T10:29:00.000-07:00

I could go on and on and on about Big Love, the HBO series about a polygamist Mormon family living clean in Sandy, Utah. I just love Chloe Sevigny! Bill Paxton is great, too, as is Jeanne Tripplehorn and the young woman who plays Margene. All the main characters are superb actors; it’s well-written, consistently dramatic AND funny; and the one-man, three-wife setup triggers my shite like nobody’s business. If you find yourself yelling at the television screen – hey, that’s a VERY well done production.

Big Love soothes my “must-work-out-to-excellent-shows” treadmill requirement. I do so miss Dead Like Me, and I did enjoy Carnivale, and Six Feet Under and Heroes. And now I have ANOTHER winner I just discovered: Wonderfalls. Stick with it for 20 minutes, and you’re hooked. I shan’t reveal much of the plot, which centers around an Ivy league grad working (barely) at a gift shop in Niagara Falls. Deeply and slacker-ly cynical, lacking a warm-and-fuzzy vibe, Jaye isn’t sure WHAT to think when a plastic-molded figurine of a lion starts talking to her. Just watch it. What fun!

Deadwood is dead-on in its acting, but far too violent for me, never mind the not-so-buff full frontal male nudity. Dexter is horribly bloody, too – the main man is a blood-spatter expert, and a serial killer of serial killers – but Michael C. Hall is so compelling I’m forced to recommend the show (he's the straightlaced, gay brother from Six Feet Under).

Yeah yeah I know, it’s a WINE blog. So okay, here’s my tip of the week: Run out to Costco and snag the Crios Cabernet Sauvignon 2006, another yummalicious winner from Argentinean winemaker Susana Balbo – whose Malbec is my favorite. This Cab is quite a value at $11 (or $13, which is what most wine shops will charge). You'll want to grab several bottles.

Or go to Cellar Rat and get something in the white wine department from the Alcesti winery, whose winemaker is a stainless steel purist, and handsome to boot.

The Alcesti vineyards are in Sicily, and the formally dressed young man responsible for them is named (I think) Gianfranco Paladino. We tried his Isola Blanco, a light, fresh white wine blended from grapes indigenous to Sicily: Grecanico, Catarratto and Ansonica. This makes for a nice change from summer’s golden boy Pinot Grigio, and the names trip playfully from the tongue.

We also tried the Alcesti Grillo Sicilia, another unoaked white that I found downright weird, and that Lisa found funkily interesting ( Grillo means “cricket” – isn’t that cute?). She grabbed a bottle just so our friends could marvel at the unique nose and flavors. But my favorite of the trio of whites may be the Grecanico, the single varietal also getting the stainless steel fermentation treatment of which Gianfranco is so fond. He explains that the Grecanico has flavors of dried fruit and almonds, but I liked it anyway.

The Isola Nero D’Avola was too Pinot-Noir-like for my taste, although that is exactly what causes others to recommend it. The second Alcesti red was my preferred bottling, a Syrah that was deeper and more flavorful than the others. In a charmingly thick accent, Mr. Paladino allowed as how this wine spent six months in oak. Oak, at last! And even better for being poured by the winemaker himself. Did I mention that he’s handsome?

French Medicine

2008-03-04T09:13:00.000-08:00

I should have been a doctor.

Mom would have liked that, I’m sure. “You want to be a WRITER?” she said to me around the time of my graduation from William Jewell College (with a major in writing - self-designed – and another major in French, and a minor in mathematics). “But you could be ANYTHING!” Her voice dripped with disappointment and chagrin. Or maybe it was horror. She was aghast, that master of the left-handed compliment. You’d have thought I’d opted for a career in the service industry.

Heh. Yet another Mom story for the ages.

I never wanted to be a doctor. I briefly considered training as a veterinarian, but I knew I loved animals too much. I struggle with detachment – another way of saying I have attachment issues. Like everyone else I know.

Now if only Mom had said, “If you were a DOCTOR, people would give you kickass bottles of wine!”

Apparently that sort of thing happens to doctors. At least doctors like my friend Linda. I try to visit her and Danny in Tucson every year, preferably in February, the month in Kansas City when everyone’s fancy turns lightly to thoughts of wrist slitting. Could it get any colder and grayer?

Tucson turns out blue skies for me, year after year. At least it always seems that way, what with the great company, the desert hikes and the memorable food and wine we share on these visits. This year, Linda outdid herself, which is hard to do, given her consistently high level of grace and generosity.

I don’t know whose life she saved, but SOMEBODY, a patient of hers, was grateful enough to gift her with two bottles of a red Bordeaux blend. Isn’t that nice? I’m sure that’s what Linda thought: “Isn’t that nice?” She mentioned it to me. Yes, yes, it was nice, I assured her, via email. And was grateful that we were chatting online, because I was drooling.

The wine she’d been given was the 2001 Chateau Cos d’Estournel Saint Estephe, a little number it had not been my good fortune to taste but whose name I recalled from my obsessive reading in Wine Spectator. Google, google. . . yep, #37 on the WS 2004 Top 100 Wines of the Year. A 94-pointer. I wiped the saliva from the keyboard and began to daydream about our upcoming sojourn under the Tucson sun.

I don’t drink much French wine. The labels are challenging enough, and the more affordable wines – the Rhones – are essentially GSMs. I much prefer the Bordeaux-style blends, the classic mélange of Cab/Merlot/Cab Franc/Petit Verdot/Malbec. Alas, the Bordeaux wines are simply too expensive to add to my modest cellar. (The irony here is that I studied in Bordeaux in my youth, but was far too callow to appreciate the Bordeaux wines that were offered to me. I want a do-over!)

When I think of wine, I think of food, and vice versa. It’s my credo: good wines deserve good food. So what did we have? The Chateau Cos d’Estournel is a Cabernet Sauvignon/Merlot blend. What menu might best showcase the qualities of the wine?

"Don’t get too fancy, Kim," I cautioned myself. "Let the wine speak for itself." The obvious menu choice, something we rarely indulge in, was red meat. I consulted Linda’s cookbooks, and we headed for the market. Turning my wistful eyes from the store’s impressive wine section, I marched stoically to the meat counter.

There, we considered beef tenderloin, but settled for the more modest (and favorite) charms of thick, premium ribyes. Holy cow! I do not exaggerate when I say these were the biggest steaks I’ve ever seen. Staggering under their weight, we headed back to the ranch to prepare dinner.

We pause here to salute Laura Louise, who insisted on springing for the entire gourmet grocery bill, and who further endeared herself by womaning the grill. She did a bang-up job. Those cowboy ribeyes – butterflied and still weighing more than a pound apiece – were grilled to perfection. I’m not saying I didn’t miss the carcinogenic crust of charcoal, but they were the best gas-grilled ANYTHING I’d ever had. (Drizzle with high-quality olive oil; sprinkle liberally with Montreal Steak Seasoning; cook to order.)

We let the wine breathe for an hour, while we rustled up some ‘taters and asparagus. Then it was time, both for the steaks and the vino, which was a deep ruby red, tipping into purple. Gorgeous. A swirl, a sniff, a first sip.

I confess I expected to be disappointed or underwhelmed, as I was with the Far Niente Cab and the Siduri Clos Pepe Pinot Noir – high prices set up high expectations, and this wine retails for $100 to $140.

Lo and behold, it was simply wonderful. It smelled, and tasted, of blackberries. Or maybe boysenberries. Dark berries, at any rate, and herbs. It was full and smooth, with a long, lingering finish. It was . . . many pleasant adjectives, including supple and elegant. It was a pleasure to drink, from start to finish.

A tasting room barista once likened big, jammy Zinfandels to strippers: the charms are up-front and obvious. The Cos d’Estournel is another type of person altogether: someone restrained, deep and quietly intense, somebody whose beauty isn’t in-your-face, a surprisingly lovely and well-built woman you may not have noticed when she first entered the room but on whom your eyes eventually return to, and rest on. An exceptional individual who becomes more beautiful with the passing of the years – just as this wine is supposed to age gracefully for a good 15 years.

The wine got tastier and more impressive with every sip, beautifully complemented by the red meat. I kept pouring very small glasses, letting myself pretend there was an endless supply. The real kicker is that Linda prefers white wines, so she had only a modest amount of the Cos d’Estournel, leaving more for Laura and me. Danny was on call, so she wasn’t drinking. And neither was Andie. Coincidence, or simply the more benign face of Fate?

The lovely libation went very well with our post-dinner nibble of Godiva dark chocolate; interestingly, the milk chocolate didn’t match nearly as well.

Now I still don’t think I’d buy this wine – at least not for myself, or only if I win the lottery. There are just so many tempting wines out there, and it’s just. . . too. . cher, at least for my pocketbook. But oh how I loved trying it, and oh how I’ll love trying it AGAIN in a few years, when it should be even better.

If only we had more . . . that’s the thought that lingers after a memorable wine: If only we had more. Maybe Linda will save someone else’s life, and they’ll get her this wine, only it will be the 2003 (97 points) or the 2005 (98 points!). A girl can dream . . .

Yes, Mom, I should have been a doctor.

Liquor and Longevity

2008-01-31T13:16:00.000-08:00

I may live forever.

That’s the cheerfully ambivalent conclusion I’ve reached after reading the latest article on wine and health. I get those “Wine and Healthy Living” tips sent to my inbox all the time, and I smile as I consume my chosen fruit o’ the vine with dinner. “Wine is good for you! It’s good for your heart!” I already knew that, of course, but these scientists mean “heart” in a more literal way – as in unclogged arteries. A small portion of wine every day has potential heart benefits. It may even help with dementia, diabetes and recovery from a stroke.

What a deal, eh? Drink wine, get healthier.

Mind you, I’m always a wee bit skeptical of these studies. At the same time, I thoroughly enjoy learning of them. And I’ve just learned of my favorite study yet, published in the European Heart Journal (and, not surprisingly, the work of Danish researchers. Oh how I love Denmark, that thoroughly progressive bastion of civilization!).

It appears, contrary to my youthful, priggish belief, that exercise and alcohol DO mix. The normal prescription for good health -- eating right and exercising regularly -- is augmented by adding a splash of alcohol to one’s regimen.

Seriously. Alcohol and exercise both help increase HDL, the “good” cholesterol that assists in ridding the blood vessels of fatty deposits. Practiced together, exercise and drinking alcohol compound the health benefits. To sum up, moderate drinkers of the slacker variety get some health benefits, as do non-drinking exercisers. You’re at the highest risk for heart disease if you’re a teetotaling sloth. . . . but if you’re smart enough to drink in moderation AND work out, your risk of heart disease is cut in half. Also you’ll look better and people will like you more.

Start your road to optimal health at the trailhead marked “Promising Reds.” Begin with the 2005 Seghesio Sangiovese, a velvety rich bottling that puts other Sangioveses to shame (or at least makes them taste thin and overly austere by contrast). At Cellar Rat for $25, which is about what Seghesio will charge you at the winery, but without the shipping charges.

The Seghesio Rockpile Zinfandel 2005 is delicious as well, but only available to the select few who receive regular shipments from this peerless Zinmaker. And it’s more like $36. Just grab the Sonoma bluecap Zin, Seghesio’s cheapie wine, whenever you see it. $16 to $20, and commonly listed on Wine Spectator’s Top 100 Wines of the Year. The 2006, which I had recently at Pot Pie, was at least as good as the much-praised 2005.

After several nights of that, you might try improving your odds of good health with a sampling of the Villa Antinori Toscana 2005, currently on the shelves at Costco for about $17 -- and a real deal at Garozzo’s at $30. Costco also has the always-reliable Banfi Chianti Classico Riserva, around $14.

A perfectly lovely way to improve one’s health in the depths of a Kansas City winter is to pull out one of the last, rare ’97 Tomassi Ripassos; take it over to a friend’s house; and have it with lasagna, crusty bread with olive tapenade, and Haagen –Dazs low-fat berry yogurt. Screw the snow!

Yep, I may live forever, sipping and running, lifting weights and tippling, hefting cats and enjoying a judicious glass of vino. Given that Sylvester Stallone just made another Rambo movie at 61 (20 years after the last Rambo escapade), I gotta figure the buffed-up actor for a wine drinker.

Men, of course, are advised to limit their alcohol intake to two drinks a day. Women (damn the unfairness of it all!) should partake of only one smallish glass. All the more reason to make it a very GOOD glass. Because life really IS too short.

Merle, Malbec, Mendoza!

2007-11-06T13:05:00.000-08:00

Last week or thereabouts, I had this epiphany about Merle Haggard. I decided that if he drank, sure he’d be a domestic beer drinker – but that he oughta be a Malbec man.

Like so many epiphanies, I had a hard time figuring out the “Eureka!” factor once the wine wore off. I think it was something along the lines of ‘Hey, Merle is a good ol’ boy and back in the day he dogged on hippies and anti-war protestors, but now he's against this Iraq debacle and he’s backing Hillary for Prez. Ergo, he’s graduated to Malbec.”

I’m not saying Malbec is necessarily the elixer of progressives – but you could do worse. Malbec is THE grape of Argentina, and I like it. It’s different. It’s a deep inky purple-red color, and it’s rich, dark and juicy. It’s meaty – definitely not wimpy -- and it’s said to have “a good attack.”

This militaristic description-- attack -- is meant to describe how a wine tastes when it first enters your mouth. In hindsight, those “planners” at the Pentagon might have thought more about the finish and less about the initial attack. Malbecs seem to have both a good attack and a persistent finish, a commendable combination in both wine and war. And – hello, George? Dick? – Malbecs are reasonably priced.

October staff picks at Cellar Rat were rich in Malbecs. Go, Argentina! I liked the Lo Tengo Malbec, dark and dry and drenched in black cherries. And $10. Typical for a Malbec, it was medium-to full-bodied, with soft tannins that made it more approachable than other mouth-dessicating red wines.

With its easier tannins and solid structure, Malbec is often used as a blending grape, and to good effect. My favorite wine of the tasting was the Don Nicanor Blend, a mix of Cabernet Sauvignon, Malbec and Merlot, in equal concentrations. It has a nice smoky note from its year in French oak, and solid structure, with cocoa and toast and rich fruit. I think it was the 2004. $18.

I also was impressed by the Don Tiburcio Blend, again a Malbec and Cab mixture, but with Cabernet Franc instead of the Merlot used in the aforementioned blend. It’s an intense, flavorful wine, with soft tannins and a long finish. $15.

This weekend, I had a pleasant surprise in store for me at Lisa’s, where we were slurping a baby Super Tuscan and an Aussie Cab-Shiraz when Sandy showed up with a trio of options. We jumped on the Crios Malbec, and it was a good decision. This is the Malbec of Susana Balbo, and I think I love her. She’s the wife half of the winemaking team of Pedro and Susana Balbo, and I want a case of her. Her Malbec.

It’s the 2006, for Pete’s sake, and it’s $12! It’s got cherries and berries and spice and smoky oak, and it’s juicy and jammy and altogether a wonderful quaff. Clint Eastwood would like this wine, so I’m thinkin’ Merle needs to start here with his Malbecs. Cowboy up, boys and girls!

You must remember this. . .

2007-10-10T13:47:00.000-07:00

Whatever is the MATTER with these people?

Look, wine tastings are a swell idea, and FREE wine tastings even more wonderful. But Good God Almighty, there were more than 20 wines up for sipping at the Cellar Rat monthly staff picks tasting. Twenty wines! It is quite simply too much of a good thing.

I say this not only because this sort of generosity must surely lead the undisciplined straight down the thoroughfare to a drunken driving charge – but because my eager, frantic tastebuds just CANNOT keep up. There’s a REASON I only hit two, maybe three, wineries in the course of an entire day in California: After four or five sips, my palate is fried.

Not that that stopped me at this late September outing. I’m an admitted lightweight, so I have learned to dump wines after one or two measured sips. But still. . . I can’t recall half the wines I tried.

Here is what I remember, with the aid of my increasingly indecipherable notes: I tried something called Josef Ehmoser Gruner Veltliner, an Austrian white wine that I found quite tasty. I think I’ve seen it on the menu at my favorite restaurant, Pot Pie. I tried a Territorial Pinot Noir, and I actually LIKED it! I had a Maddalena Cabernet that was good, a Carr Chardonnay that didn’t do much for me; and the Foris Gewurztraminer, okay as far as it went.

I sipped at a few Hayman & Hill selections, but can’t recall anything standing out. I remember enjoying the Block 13 Cabernet, and I meant to purchase it, but I didn’t. I couldn’t remember to buy it; I kept moving happily from tasting station to tasting station, in no particular order, oh what’s THIS? I must try THIS, and what is THAT?

Girlfriend resonated to the compelling tone of the Lake Breeze Cabernet-Shiraz, an Aussie effort with a unique, distinct eucalyptus nose. I thought it commendable as well, but was leaning toward the Block 13 Cabernet, with half a mind to snatch up the Lodali Barolo. And yet, at the last moment, I opted for the Saracco Moscato D’Asti as my chosen take-home bottle.

A Moscato D’Asti. A sweet, white, Italian sparkler. Who ever could have seen THAT coming? Whether my palate had been knocked senseless by the sheer number of flavors experienced, or whether it was as special and interesting as I discerned through a brain as fermented as my tongue, we’ll see. I’m trying it Saturday.

I must be more judicious in my approach at the next mega-tasting. I really must.

Ba-ba-ba-Barbera

2007-09-07T08:41:00.000-07:00

Ba-ba-ba- Barbera and. . .

Risotto. For my money, certainly. A mushroom risotto and a Barbera. Boursin and parmesan cheese. Some asparagus, sure; even some shrimp. But the ‘shrooms are not optional. They are the REASON for the Barbera, a tasty medium-to-full-bodied wine that is also relatively low in tannins. Why don’t I get offered Barberas more often?

As I just told Kimmy Sue Horserider, Cabs and Pinot Noirs are frequently overpriced. I don’t like most Pinots anyway; yet I’ve liked almost every Barbera I’ve ever had – and the one exception wasn’t bad, just a tad disappointing. In retrospect, I’m guessing it had some contact with the new-fangled stainless steel style o’ winemaking. Not that it matters, as I can’t recall the name. Ruvei? Whatever. . .

In any event, Barbera too often is overlooked on these shores. In Italy, it’s both a go-to wine varietal and a popular ingredient in blends. It’s consistent, and I like its character: It’s high in acidity, soft and fruity, and it’s possible to procure a swell example at a decent price. What’s not to like?

Here’s a dandy one: the 2005 Eredi Lodali Barbera d’Alba Vigneto Bric Sant'Ambrogi. It being an Italian wine, I do not know what all those words signify. I do not even know if I’m identifying the wine in the correct word order, which in this case would be reading from the bottom of the label to the top. You sure can’t judge a wine by its label – particularly if it’s an Italian wine. This is especially true of THIS Italian wine, whose label is a basic off-white with black lettering. The thin gold line surrounding this plain-Jane label is the only sign that the winemaker didn’t simply go to the nearest printer and say, “I need a label for my delicious Barbera. Whatever’s cheapest. Does it cost extra to include this blurry black-and-white sketch that just MIGHT be an old farmhouse atop terraced vineyards?”

If it helps, the wine was imported by Siema LLC, Springfield, Virginia, and I picked it up at Gomer’s South for a mere $13.

Barbera, like the prized Nebbiolo grape, is a mainstay of the Piemonte region of northern Italy. More precisely, the Monferrato zone, overlapping the province of Asti, is Barbera’s “spiritual home,” as my Italian wine primer so nicely puts it. The biggest names in Barbera producers are d’Alba and d’Asti.

Many of the top producers of Barolo/Barbaresco also make quality Barberas. I note this because Barolo is often dubbed “the king of wines,” as Barbaresco is called “the queen of wines.” Yet no one seems to say a word about Barbera! Not in earshot of ME, anyway. I, who so appreciate value in wine. Bought a Barolo lately? For the same money, you can get three or four Barberas.

It’s said that Barbera’s taste is akin to that of a Cabernet Sauvignon, but after a quick consultation with my tastebuds, I don’t think that’s accurate. I’m not skilled at listing specific flavor components of wine, but I’ll give it a go, just so you know what you’re missing: A good Barbera will offer fruitiness and nice acidity, cherries and berries. Barbera is fruit-driven, and Barbera barricato – Barbera matured in oak barrels – offers wood smoke and vanilla in a lovely complement to the grape’s structure. If that makes any sense. I’m TRYIN’ here, really I am.

It just flat-out tastes good. Looks good, smells good, and makes my killer risotto even better. I lift my glass and salute you, Prince Barbera. Or is that Princess?

Lodi Lushness (or is that "Lushes?")

2007-09-01T13:00:00.000-07:00

Part II: Meanwhile, back at the Cellar Rat end-of-August tasting, featuring Smokin’ Joe’s BBQ . . . and the quietly impressive lineup from Michael-David Vineyards, proudly sited in the Lodi wine district of California. . .

The tasting was touted as an occasion to match barbecue with Zins. Well, barbecue with wines that go with barbecue. Which I’d have thought would be Zins. Zins, Zins and more Zins. But this tasting promised more than Zins. Isn’t it just that – the promise of wines – that makes some of us, er, wine freaks?

Others of us have their OWN agenda when attending wine tastings. Darcy, for example, was persuaded by the barbecue. Andie wanted to pick up a Phantom while Cellar Rat still had them. Katie just plain likes drinking. Drinking wine, especially. Sistah!

Kimmy Sue is a fan of Pinot Noir, but I love her anyway, and she was along to laugh with friends and forget, for a few hours at least, trouble back at the ranch. In vino veritas. And some comfort, oh yes.

I was there for the Zins. I freely admit it. Quality Zins tend to get my pulse fluttering, and the lineup sounded more than promising. Seven Deadly Zins: Check. Had it, liked it a lot. Windmill Zin – had I had this in Tucson, once? Yes, I had. And I’d really liked it.

There was also The Lure of the New: The Incognito Red. The Sixth Sense Syrah. Still, my primary motivation for rounding up a posse o’ wine-lovin’ friends was to give ME the opportunity to try the Earthquake Petite Sirah. I’m a PS groupie. Amphora, David Bruce, Stag’s Leap, Elyse, even the Bogle 2001. Yum City, and I don’t say that lightly.

So. I’d come for the Earthquake Petite Sirah, but there were other bottles in the way. I dutifully began with the Incognito Viognier, which I knew from a previous tasting is quite nice, sort of a Conundrum send-up with its honey and pineapple and, yes, lush notes (“lush” is our operative word for the week, the most succinct way to sum up these Lodi wines). The white Incognito put me in mind of the Pride Mountain Viognier, which I recall running upwards of $40; the Incognito is offered at the Rat for $15.99.

Now at this point we were supposed to head for the next station, site of the Sixth Sense Syrah and the Kitchen Sink medley, a.k.a. Incognito Rouge. But wine is an emotional mistress, and the Viognier overseer, hearing me wax ecstatic about the prospect of the Earthquake Petite Sirah, steered us in a different direction, toward the furthest tasting room. It seemed our tasting sheet was incomplete.

Lady Luck was smiling on us: the reps from Michael-David, or the distributors, or some other vine deity, had thrown a few extras into the mix. Like two more Earthquakes: The Cab and the Zin. Oh. My. God. To hell with the central tasting station! I bolted for the back of the Rat. Which is a strange sentence, admittedly.

“I bolted for the back of the Rat.” Maybe if I’m going to get all aren’t-I-hip-nick-namey with my new fav. wine shoppe, I should call it the Cellar, rather than the Rat. But I like the sound of “the Rat.” Cellar Rat is an amazingly cool venue, spacious, with high curved ceilings and struts -- like being below decks on a boat, as my friend Kim noted. Or inside a barrel, as I saw it. Like a little cellar rat playing in the cooperage. OOH, great idea for a children’s story, a little wine rat hiding and feasting in the barrels!!! (Back off; it’s copyrighted.)

But I digress. At the back of the wine merchant known as Cellar Rat is a special room. I’ve been there a few times, and I could see that it is the Rat’s IT room, only open to us mere mortals at select hours. But I wasn’t standing on ceremony or waiting for a day pass, not this time. Not with a limited supply of the bonus Earthquakes on hand.

I threw myself into the room, my bemused friends following at my heels, bless ‘em. There on a long, modest table was an immodest array of wines, and my eyes scanned them rapidly. YES! The IT room still had a half bottle left of the Earthquake Zin, AND some Earthquake Cab.

Since I was already severely out of order, I figured I’d just lunge straight for the two Brawny Boys at the far end, the Zin and Petite Sirah. My undecorous greed was forestalled by the suasions of Michael K., the Lodi wine rep, who convinced me to do the tasting properly -- like a Hebrew scholar, right to left. Beginning with the Windmill Estates Old Vine Zin, and ending with, well, heaven.

On a value level, the Windmill Zin won the Michael-David tasting throwdown, hands down. This second label bottling drinks kinda like the Four Vines Old Vine Zin: not as deep and layered as the massive Zins I so favor, like the Seghesio Old Vines and Home Ranch – but very good, Zin good, and untouchable at the $12 price point. Someone should buy me a case (upcoming birthday, hint hint).

The Earthquake Cab was soft and lush (lush! That’s the word!), no obvious tannins overpowering its concentrated flavors. Michael referred to it as suede-like, and I wouldn’t disagree. But its attractions were overshadowed by the Zin, which I should have tasted twice, and the Petite Sirah, which I DID taste twice: once without food, and another with barbecue. It was killer both times. My new favorite Petite Sirah, dam’ those Lodi boys.

See, all these earth-shaking wines give one’s wallet a pretty good shake as well, retailing in the $28-$30 price range. But if cost isn’t a sticking point, or you feel you’re due for a special treat, step on over to Cellar Rat and tell ‘em you want to feel the earth move under your feet. You’ll either be directed to the Earthquake label, or get slapped (then arrested, humiliated and forced to resign your office. Hmm. Maybe you should just say you’re interested in learning about top-tier wines from Lodi.).

I might wait until November to try these wines again, since we’re visiting friends in San Francisco and Lodi is an hour east. Earthquake Country! I’ve been promised a VIP tour, although I think I’d almost rather stay under the radar. I’m a modest sort: If I were a Zin, I’d be more of a Windmill than an Earthquake. Still, the Phillips brothers are described as “canny, creative, and good-humored,” which sounds appealing. Maybe they’ll be around when we pop in. Maybe they’ll share some stories, and some laughs. Maybe I’ll get that second taste of Zin.

An Embarassment of Riches

2007-08-30T13:34:00.000-07:00

It’s summer, the season of easy-eatin' barbecue and easy-readin' literature. I’m a fiction addict, and I’ve been enjoying Barbara Hambly’s Benjamin January series, featuring a former slave, now free man of color, who is also a trained surgeon and musician in New Orleans of the 1830s. The setting is lush, the swampy bayou heat and rough river trade mixing in a stew of colorful French Creoles and crude Americans come to town to seek their fortunes. Intrigue and murder follow inevitably.

The key word here is “lush,” and it was the word that kept coming to mind last night as I happily, almost deliriously, tried out the Michael-David wines at Cellar Rat. The wines ostensibly were selected for their compatibility with barbecue – which as anyone from my neck of the woods can tell you is simply an excuse to drink Zinfandel.

Well, there was barbecue on hand, and there were Zins to match. But there was also a white wine (quel choc!), a Syrah, and a bright blend that should have been dubbed Kitchen Sink, featuring as it did nine separate grape varieties – Mourvedre, Syrah, Petite Sirah, Carignane, Cinsault, and heck I dunno -- maybe some Cab, Grenache, Petit Verdot???? Brothers Michael and David Phillips, who craft wines in the Lodi region (an hour east of San Francisco, and don’t go singing the Fogerty tune to them; they’re sick of it.) are responsible for 7 Deadly Zins, lately praised on this site for its smooth punch and wood-smoke finish.

Seven Deadly is the only one of Michael-David’s red offerings that I’d tried before. What does it tell you when I say that, stacked up against some of the winery’s other picks, the tasty 7 Deadly was merely pleasant to my palate, which was impatiently urging me on to other bottles that promised rewards higher on the Richter Fruit of the Vine Scale? I was perilously close to lunging across the table and grabbing me a big handful of Earthquake, and I could barely taste the Deadly wood smoke that had so recently beguiled me.

I’d been wanting to try the Earthquake Zin ever since I’d first heard it described to me a few years ago. What I learned in my wine tutorial last evening was that the Brothers Phillips are the producers of not only the Earthquake Zin, but Earthquake Cab and Earthquake Petite Sirah. One more time: Earthquake Petite Sirah. The actual reason I’d dragged Andie and three friends down to the Rat with me. Because if there’s anything as good as a kickass Zinfandel, it’s a kickass Petite Sirah.

And oh oh oh. As I’ve said before and hope to say again many times before I die, Petite Sirah is just the most BEAUTIFUL wine. It’s deep purple, almost obscenely rich-looking, with light in its dusky plum depths, like the sun has climbed into a sea of royal ink to drown. Happily.

Do you know, the Earthquake Petite Sirah is as lush and tasty as it is pretty? Luscious, like Michelle Pfeiffer (or some other aging hot Hollywood talent who’s worth way more than a bevy of callow, untested youngsters. Pick your own acting analogy here. You catch my drift, I trust: Seriously good.). It’s also a deceptively big wine, with blueberries and blackberries and vanilla coming together powerfully, but so smoothly and softly that you almost don’t notice its strength. Almost. The finish goes on forever, which is how long I’m hoping my stash will last.

When the character of the beloved matches the physical beauty, and she makes the earth move under your feet. . .well, grab that gal and ELOPE already!!! That’s what WE did. Except for the elopement part. We grabbed some Earthquake and headed out to dinner.

But not before we tried every dang Michael-David wine we could. Because even the Viognier, sounding its seductive honey notes, was lush. Lush, like a sultry spring night in 19th-century New Orleans, with mystery and adventure at hand. . .

Stay tuned for Part II of “My Adventures with Michael and David," detailing the rest of the Lodi lineup: the Incognito Rouge, The Windmill Estates Old Vine Zin, and a few more Earthquakes!

Sabotage and Staff Picks

2007-08-24T08:38:00.000-07:00

Learning from a mechanic that someone has cut your brake hose is a serious downer. Happily for me, the freakish news came just hours before an event I’d scribbled hopefully on my calendar: Cellar Rat’s Staff Picks Tasting Night.

Gotta love that staff. The Fess Parker Chardonnay was a “classic California Chardonnay,” as Ryan termed it. I looked at him several moments, trying to discern whether he was waxing sarcastic. After all, wine snobs have turned away in droves from these once-popular creamy, buttery confections.

But Ryan was serious, and so is this wine. I loved it. I haven’t had a big boy Chardonnay like this in some time, and I love love LOVE that toasted oaky butterscotch taste. And so did Andie! I keep telling her how yummy these Chards can be, but she’s such a fan of crisp, fruity Sauvignon Blancs that she long ago dismissed the Chardonnays from her tasting lineup after one or two less than impressive samples. She must have forgotten our premium tasting at the Ferrari-Carano vineyard. Wowza!

At Cellar Rat, we sampled more than a dozen staff picks, from a Casamaro Spanish White to a Clos La Coutale Cahors. There wasn’t a loser in the bunch.

In the white wine department, in addition to the Fess Parker Chardonnay, we enjoyed the honeyed charms of the Incognito Viognier, more complex than the $16 price tag might suggest. Pineapple, loads of fruit, flowers, very nice. We also sampled the St. Supery Sauvignon Blanc -- okay, but not as good as the New Zealand SBs, IMO.

Andie’s favorite of the evening was the Old Patch Red from Trentadue, a tasty Zin-based blend with Petite Sirah and Sangiovese and maybe some Cariagne rounding it out. This tannic, berry-filled screwcap from Sonoma was about $17. We grabbed a bottle.

My own pick for the evening was “Billie’s Pick,” the 7 Deadly Zins. It suited my personal palate, this blend of old vine Zins from Lodi. It was rich, ripe, and full, with a wood-smoke finish that put me in mind of camping. I also liked the Atteca Old Vine Garnacha, 100% Grenache, balanced and smacking of cherries.

We both were impressed by the Lucignano Chianti, dry and oh so smooth, with violets and cherries and soft tannins. This Sangiovese-based beauty is produced by a small vineyard just outside the famed Classico zone (and I mean BARELY outside, just a few hundred yards, if Jeff can be believed). We got a bottle for Cara’s birthday, courtesy of Kimmy Sue Tappan. $16.

Lucky Cara. Lisa would have liked this wine. She also would have liked the Altesino Rosso, another Sangiovese with some Merlot thrown in. Earthy, with leather and berries and spice. Someone called it a poor man’s Brunello, although I wouldn’t go quite that far. It, too, was about $16.

The Norman Zin was a bit strange on the palate, I thought – some sort of candy thing going on. We skipped the Four Vines Zin, since we already have some at home, and we know it’s good, and the 2004 is better than the 2005 Cellar Rat had on hand.

Cellar Rat. My new favorite wine store. Like Gomer’s and Hy-Vee and the former Osco at 75th and Wornall, it has a great selection. But I think it beats them all with its knowledgeable, approachable staff. Sara, Ryan, Billie, Jeff, Steve. . . thanks guys!

Wine is good for your health

2007-08-10T12:33:00.000-07:00

Is it Good for your Wallet?

Perhaps you’ve read the latest study to highlight the positive effects of drinking alcohol. Researchers from Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston have concluded that drinking light to moderate amounts of alcohol can lower one’s risk of renal (kidney) cancer.

For me, “alcohol” translates to “wine.” Delicious, soul-satisfying wine.

Judicious wine intake has been associated with cardiovascular health, a reduced risk of coronary heart disease, a reduced risk of stroke – and, based on an informal poll of my acquaintances, an increased likelihood of smiles and all-round cheerful conversation.

In the marketplace of modern America, there are countless wines from which to choose, from countries near and far, with prices ranging from miniscule to extravagant. While the cheapest wines may exhibit flavor to match the price, there are many wines under $20 a bottle that can provide tasty satisfaction to the discriminating drinker. There are also numerous wines that are priced way, WAY above $20 a bottle, and that ALSO offer a fine drinking experience. How fat is your wallet?

Several months ago, I opened a stored bottle of Far Niente Cabernet Sauvignon, a high-end wine that retails for more than $100 a bottle. (As it was from the 1994 vintage, this particular bottle would today sell for $150 to $300.) While balanced and tasty enough, this Cabernet struck me as just a little disappointing – and my dinner guests concurred. While there was nothing WRONG with the wine, it seemed a bit modest and undistinguished. At that price, we expected more.

A happier experience accompanied the uncorking of a 2001 Dry Creek Mood Hill Cabernet Sauvignon, which cost in the vicinity of $20. It was well-structured, black cherry and vanilla flavors leading toward a long finish. I happily cherished every sip. It had more appeal, more flavor, than the more expensive wine. In short, it offered a much better wine value.

I also recently opened a bottle of the 2003 Jacob’s Creek Reserve Shiraz, a dandy little offering from Australia that is brimming with blackberries and spice. It, too, provided a more luscious taste experience than the Far Niente Cab – and at $13, was a fraction of the price.

Value in wine is a function of both quality and price. People who love wine, but lack either the funds or the will to lavish great piles of greenbacks on it, may become value shoppers, searching – as I do – for that blissful combination of affordability and deliciousness. There are worse ways to spend one’s free time – and it may improve your health!

Petite like Queen Latifah

2007-08-07T08:21:00.000-07:00

"Petite Sirahs," they call them. Pfiddlesticks!

I first was turned on to the joys of Petite Sirahs via the bold charms of an inexpensive, widely available wine. The Bogle brand rocks, people. At roughly $11 a bottle, the 2001 Bogle Petite Sirah was a thoroughly tasty mouthful. It made my mouth happy. It made ME happy. It created a wine memory.

I recall liking the next few bottlings, but I’ve hit a snag with the 2004 Bogle PS. Now that Costco is carrying it, it seems to have slumped. My mouth makes an eh noise, and my head nods in a rueful manner. It’s OKAY, but not the joyful palate-pleaser I remember. I hope it’s just the one vintage, because this baby regularly beats out all the other inexpensive Petites I’ve tried, and stands up well next to bottles that cost twice as much (David Bruce, Elyse).

Mind you, it’s still a beautiful beast. For sheer beauty, it’s hard to beat a Petite Sirah. It’s a lovely, deep, deep purple, like jazzed-up Welch’s grape juice – what I imagined “real” wine WOULD be, when I was a teenager swigging Boone’s Farm and Ripple ‘neath the light of a silvery Nebraska moon.

It’s also possible my palate is shifting – AGAIN. I no longer respond as strongly to the earthy, sweat-socks seductiveness of the big Italians, the Rossos and Chianti Classicos/Rufinas, as much as I used to. I’m terrified to crack my remaining bottle of the 1997 Tommasina Ripasso, for fear it will no longer be my favorite.

Why must my palate change? WHY? Change is hard, ya know. Everyone says so.

On to more fruitful topics: More than once, watching me rummage through the racks, a helpful wine store employee has suggested I try the Peachy Canyon Zinfandel – I gather it’s a popular choice. But it’s about $12, and I haven’t found good Zins in that price range, so I’ve resisted. Finally picked up a bottle on sale for $10, and I can report that the 2005 Peachy Canyon Paso Robles is quite. . . resistible.

In other recent sips, the 2004 Penfolds Limited Edition Coonwarra Shiraz was also largely forgettable. Not bad, just not memorable. I had one glass and used the rest of it for Sangria – although I will note that it made the best batch of Sangria of the night. The other Sangria bases were a 2004 Bogle Petite Sirah, an El Coto Rioja, and a Chardonnay called White Lie. Each, in its own way, deserved its Sangria fate.

Here’s an admission: I make a mean Sangria. I think this falls under the category of Strange, Usually Useless Talents. For example, I am quite gifted at guessing the weight of cats. I do this by picking up a cat, then hefting it. I can come within an ounce or two of the feline’s exact weight. How’s that for impressive? I’m still waiting for a job offer from a circus.

The thing is, I don't even LIKE Sangria much. But my friends do, and they really, REALLY like my version. It's my cross to bear, I suppose -- and it's possible that having a dab hand at sangria is marginally useful. It’s an excellent way to recycle so-so wine. It is NOT a recipe for wine coolers; my sangria is more on the order of wine-based Long Island Tea. Don’t go sipping it thinking it will be LESS alcoholic than your straight-up glass of wine, no sirree. Still, it has loads of citrus in it (lemons, limes, oranges), so it could be construed as dinner-and-drinks in a single package. Talk about your Vitamin C tonic.

Oh happy hour

2007-07-16T07:20:00.000-07:00

Normally I wouldn’t touch “happy hour” wine with a 10-foot swizzle stick. Not even at Pierponts. Happy hours favor well drinks and specialty drinks, for starters. Certainly bar and grills – or is it barS and grills? – are simply not the preferred venues for decent wine. God knows how long the bottle has been sitting open behind the bar, and the wine choices usually range from “mediocre” to “Oh my Lord.” There’s a reason why people drink beer, I’ve discovered, and it’s . . . bar wine.

And when proprietors select a wine to discount for happy hour, it’s a safe bet it’s not a wine that will make one happy. But in the interests of research, I decided to take one for the team. Down at Harry’s Country Club, in the River Market, they put on a happenin’ happy hour. Rather than paying $20 for a half-bottle of a halfway-decent wine (Harry’s for some reason offers wine in half-bottles), I threw caution to the winds and tried the 14 Hands Chardonnay, vintage unknown. Hey, it was Happy Hour. It was $3 a glass. It was non-oaky. It was. . . not bad.

Go figure. It was drinkable. So was the 14 Hands Cabernet Sauvignon, although less so. I liked it better than the Skinny Dip beer the server talked me into trying, and WAY better than the weirdly sweet margarita that came my way after I sniveled about the beer.

On our next foray to Harry’s, we’ll stick to the stick-to-your-ribs Happy Hour menu (city fried chicken, steakburgers, you get the picture – but also a salmon plate that’s a steal from 4 to 6:30 p.m., if you can make yourself eat that early). We’re also curious about the Whiskey Flights, dozens of the smoky spirits in categories such as Irish, Single Malt, Bourbon – select three 1-oz. pours for $10. It could be a hoot.

This week’s wine recommendation is a nice summer sipper. It’s a mere $8 retail, and worth every penny: a bottle of Colombelle 2005, a surprisingly good French wine that is a blend of two grapes I was not previously familiar with: Colombard and Ugni. It’s not as fruit-forward as the peerless New Zealand sauvignon blancs (chant with me: Villa Maria, Villa Ma-RI-aaaa), but it called them to mind with its citrus/melon flavors and clean, refreshing finish. Harry’s ought to snag a boatload of these.

Swizzle has Sizzle

2007-07-02T09:07:00.000-07:00

Swizzle.

That’s my eight-thumbs up recommendation of the week. The newish neighborhood restaurant at 71st and Wornall was conceived as a cocktail bar – hence the name alluding to the stick that accompanied said cocktails in a long-ago, far-away time – with a few tapas offered for good measure.

It’s a loud restaurant, is Swizzle. “It was supposed to be a TAPAS bar,” I informed my dining companions. “But word is that the chef they hired turned out to be so darned GOOD that the owners changed the original cocktail lounge concept to fine dining.” I happily fished out another mussel drenched in a delectable Dijon cream sauce.

“No kidding!” Laura widened her eyes. “Wow!” We contentedly moved on from the mussels to some amazing, pan-seared, steroid-enhanced sea scallops over a ragout of fingerling potatoes and wild mushrooms, and a truly tasty pork chop with some sort of fruit compote sitting juicily next to a mashed potato-turnip concoction that flirted with some bitter, braised greens.

It was only later, when we were outside the noisy establishment still exclaiming over the quality of the dinner, that I discovered the reason for Laura’s amazement.

“The food is so GOOD!” she enthused. “I can’t believe it was going to be a TOPLESS bar!” A look at her face showed her to be dead serious. This is what brick walls and the ensuing dining din can do to communication. (There was also an especially enthusiastic birthday celebration going on, doubtless involving buckets of swizzle-themed shmancy martinis.)

Apart from the high quality of the dishes, Swizzle is to be commended for its wine list. Round-the-world offerings range broadly, in varietal as well as price. Bonardo, Cabernet Franc, Aussie Merlot. . . what to choose, what to choose? It was difficult to pass up the Rosso di Montepulciano, but I set aside my Italian compulsion, and ventured to the central Spain region of La Mancha.

We were appreciative of the modest charms of a Condesa de Leganza Crianza, available for a mere $16. A bottle. That’s right, sixteen dollars. You go, Swizzle!

This fortunate pick was a deep red, with medium body and a nice nose, and the Tempranillo wine was flavorful, dry and fruity, with a cherry tang leading to a smooth finish. I felt as if we were cheating, enjoying wine so cheaply. But leave the guilt at home – there’s an Opus One on the same list, at 14 times the price. And the yummy food ain’t cheap, not by a long shot. The salads alone were $12 apiece. That's high, especially for Kansas City. We averaged $40 a person, even though we split some dishes.

We also shared the three-chocolate mousse, a scrumptious circlet of confectionery heaven set in the center of a large plate artfully drizzled with raspberry sauce. It was beautiful, AND tasty. How do they DO that???

One appetizer, three salads, two entrees, two beers, a bottle of wine and a dessert: $135, or thereabouts, before tip. So: not inexpensive. But well worth it. Even if our server HADN’T kept her shirt on.

Postscript: I went looking for the Crianza, and found the 2002 at several locations, with retail prices of $6.99, $10.79 and $12.99.

Gimme the Greencap

2007-06-12T17:49:00.000-07:00

Lisa's gone nuts over a Montepulciano d'Abruzzo she found in the Small Vineyards section at Hy-Vee Liquors. I'm not going to quarrel with her; it doesn't have the funky sweatsocks association that most of the Italian reds we like do, but it's smooth and a steal at $12. It's the 2005 Barba Colle Morino.

I would have liked it even more if my first taste of it hadn't followed the newest Seghesio Zin, the 2005 Prati -- a four-vineyard combo from a wine family that has processed grapes in the Alexander Valley for nearly a century. This wine is considerably more, $26 WITHOUT the shipping charge, which one has to pay since one cannot buy this baby on the shelf anywhere. Nope, it's reserved for the Seghesio wine club whores. Thank God Lisa is one. She has me wheedle special orders out of the Seghesio tasting room, which is usually a breeze with my skills at flattering prose combined with her. . . credit card. Which the folks at Zin Heaven (that's Seghesio) know intimately.

I'd like to compare the Prati Greencap Zin with the everyday Seghesio bluecap that is widely available -- side by side, to see if the $10 zin-difference is worth it. And since Lisa left a Cortina Zin here (another only-for-the-wine-club-whores Seghesio offering), I'd be even happier to have a blowout evening with a blind tasting of all three. But Andie ain't drinking right now, and no one else loves the Zins like we do, and I can't keep up with Lisa consumption-wise, and it will take more than two of us to dent and rate these lovelies.

Maybe I'll call Kim Tappan. She's always very helpful.

One-liners

2007-06-07T11:30:00.000-07:00

I’ve divided some of the wines I tasted this spring into easily understood categories.

Might or might not buy again:

Pillar Box Red, an Aussie Cab-Shiraz-Merlot blend touted as a best value: the 2005 is a bit sweet and uncompelling, but a decent drink at $10.

Yalumba Shiraz/Viognier blend: I can’t taste the 5 percent white wine in this Barossa offering, but it’s a good effort, if overrated at 90 points.

The Panilonco Carmenere 2005 from Trader Joe’s, WAY tastier than the price would indicate, and another reminder that I just flat out like this grape, even if it’s not from Casillero del Diablo.

Will definitely buy again:

Villa Maria Sauvignon Blanc, 2006, as good as the 2005 and 2004 and chock-full of the distinctive gooseberry/lime/grapefruit notes that make all of the Kiwi SBs from Marlborough County WONDERFUL buys at $9 to $15.

Seghesio Barbera, Pinot Noir, Old Vine Zin, Sonoma County Zin: Never mind the vintages; they were all tasty (and not inexpensive, alas).

Columbia Crest Grand Estates Merlot: The 2001 was terrific; the 2003 and 2004 are good and well worth their $10 price tag.

Four Vines Cuvee Old Vine Zinfandel 2004: Not a big bold Zin in the style I love, but remarkably easy on the tastebuds, with or without food.

Will never buy again:

David Hill Estate Pinot Gris, which was just plain awful; whether corked or intentionally peach-colored, this loser gives a bad name to the pale Pinots, which is lamentable, as some of them are actually sophisticated and appealing.

Can’t remember:

Wines failing to register one way or another in my memory include the 2002 Solanera from Spain; the mass-produced mélange known as Big House White; and the Santa Ema Merlot 2004.

Wish to hell I could buy again:

The Nozzole Chianti Classico 1997: Lovely.

Spring Greening

2007-03-28T12:39:00.000-07:00

Spring is Marching in, with gusty winds and erratic temperature shifts and enough sun to herald the coming of white wine season. Global warming is freaky, and it is going to play pure HELL with winemaking. That’s my prediction, anyway. A few degrees hotter, on average, and the polar bears drown. Every last one of them. Then the grapes ripen unevenly. THAT, my friends, is Hell on Earth.*

Predictions of Armageddon doubtless are based on knowledge of humanity’s penchant for self-destruction. It’s all quite depressing. But perhaps I’m just feeling the effects of a sorrowful and challenging time in my own life. . .

Must be time to drink! And as I was just saying to my compadre Laura, white wines offer a hell of a lot of value, especially compared to reds. At a recent dinner, Laurie Lou contributed a delectable Benton-Lane Pinot Gris, the 2005 I think, or perhaps the 2006. Normally, I think of Pinot Grigios (the Italian name for the same grape) as light and relatively non-descript; summer sippers, and not much more. But shake yourself loose of the Santa Margherita mass advertising, and go get yourself a Benton-Lane PG!

The Benton-Lane Pinot Gris had nice structure and more body than I’m accustomed to with a Pinot Gris – and this is a good thing! It put me in mind of the New Zealand Sauvignon Blancs, with its citrusy nose – what the winemaker calls “floral, pear, and white peach aromas.” Full of flavor and fragrance, pale in color, this dandy sipper is crisp and fruity, with a long, clean finish. It’s recommended with seafood and creamy pasta dishes, but it went just swell with our Mediterranean cuisine.

From Willamette Valley, Oregon, the Benton-Lane retails for $17 and drinks like it costs much more. What I find interesting is that Pinot Gris/Grigio is a natural mutation of the Pinot Noir grape. Apparently the Oregon climate is similar to that of Alasace, Italy and Germany, the other regions that have success with this mutated grape, which prefers colder temperatures – temperate summers and cool autumns (*see gloomy prognostication, above).

Another wonderful white I was lucky enough to try last month was the 2004 Cambria Chardonnay Katherine’s Vineyard, in the Santa Maria Valley of northern Santa Barbara County, near the Pacific. Like the Benton-Lane PG, this Chardonnay is medium-bodied, with a citrusy bouquet, and has a similar price. It’s a remarkably consistent wine, good year after year. It’s packed full of tropical flavors, and I like the oak and vanilla it exhibits. Yum! It’s lusher than the Pinot Gris, but like it is an ideal expression of the vineyard’s climate and growing conditions. Maritime influence, gravelly soil, extended growing season – all of this matters, apparently.

What else matters is that this wine is named for the proprietor’s eldest daughter. You don’t just slap your daughter’s name on something mediocre, not if you’re a self-respecting winemaker. Naturally, that means meticulous care. Quoting from the winery, “leaf thinning in early summer allows more sunlight to reach the clusters, facilitating even ripening and development of concentrated flavors.” Also “limited irrigation techniques and green harvesting” (whatever that means), along with fermentation in French oak barrels, and aging sur lies for eight months before bottling.

We appreciate the painstaking attention to quality, Katherine. Your pa has done you proud.

The Zen of Zin

2007-03-15T11:33:00.000-07:00

Pity the fool who falls in love with Zin. Big, bold, peppery fruit-bomb Zin has a seductive quality that is irresistible to some of us. And once seduced, we are doomed to disappointment time and again. But not always. Because there’s always Seghesio.

That winery’s workhorse, the bluecap Zinfandel from Seghesio, first charmed us at a birthday dinner at Pot Pie. Or perhaps it was the luscious Old Vines Zin, since I’d swear it had a RED cap. In either case, it was love at first slurp, and we greedily grabbed the bluecap when we spotted it at Costco – where it retails for less than $17, when even at the vineyard itself it runs $20, as it does in most wine shops. The 2002 and the 2003 bluecap are completely pleasurable; the 2004, a little less so. But just a little. Icons of berry, avatars of jamminess: That’s what they are.

There are many Zins in the $15 to $20 range, and quite a few above and below. So far, I’ve yet to find one under $15 that’s worth the price. I tried the Alderbrook, $10, and the Rancho Zabaco Sonoma Heritage, about $12; both were given superior ratings by wine “experts,” experts who clearly have palates distinctly different from my own.

In fact, I can’t recall anything to say about these wines, other than that they were not rich and peppery; were most emphatically not bursting with deep, dark, delicious flavor, which HELLO! is the point of Zins. For me, at any rate. I like the intense, full-bodied expression of Zinfandels; heavy and complex, elegant, high acidity. Not the weaker-sister style of Zin that apparently appeals to some drinkers for some reason.

In the $20 to $30 range, the Elyse Zinfandel ((2004, Korte Ranch, Napa Valley) held great promise, and a promising nose. Just LISTEN to these tasting notes from Robert Parker: “Elyse has been fashioning fabulous Zinfandels over recent years and this 2004 is among the finest of the vintage. The outrageously superb, dark ruby/purple-hued 2004 Zinfandel Korte Ranch Vineyard (93% Zinfandel and 7% Petite Sirah) boasts creme de cassis, blackberry, raspberry, and sappy cherry-like characteristics. This full-bodied, full-throttle, dense, concentrated Zin is remarkably well-balanced for its potency and flavor depth.”

Is it any wonder we uncorked Elyse with great anticipation? But Lisa and I were both a bit crestfallen. The wine, while not exactly flabby, didn’t have the structure or spicy notes we craved. Too much plum, not enough berries. Sigh. At 94 points and $26, we expected more. More outrageous superb-ness.

Zin is, or was, considered the “wine of the people.” Meaning peasants, I suppose. Primitives. Rough-edged louts who didn’t have the refinement to grace their tables with high and haughty Cabernets. (Which must be why Italy’s genetic twin to Zin is known as Primitivo. Zinfandel has also been identified as a clone of the Croatian variety known as Crljenak, which certainly sounds like a peasant’s name.)

Well, THIS peasant is here to tell you that, while Cabs can be lovely, they are more often overpriced, particularly those from California. And high-end Napa Valley Cab makers have no shame, retailing their bottles for $70, $100, and MORE, even when they rate in the 86-89-point range. Which they often do. I’d rather spend $20, and drink a tasty 88-point Zinfandel.

Good Zins I’ve tasted in the past year include Seven Deadly Zins, Sin Zin, and just about any Zin from Seghesio (although we weren’t wowed by the 2004 Passalaqua in last month’s shipment from Seghesio. The Home Ranch, even the Cortina, were better).

Affordable Zins I hope to try soon include the myriad zinny offerings from Rosenblum, whose upper-end stuff gets glowing reviews (Rockpile comes to mind). Also the Cline and Bogle Old Vines – and I plan to seek out the latest Old Vines from St. Francis, since I remember the 2002 VERY fondly.

Drum Roll: 2006 best-of-tastings

2007-01-08T13:53:00.000-08:00

I can’t rightly think of the clear tasting winners among the wines I sampled in Ought-Six. Or is that Ought-ought Six? Anywho, I rummaged through the recycling bin to refresh my reliably faulty memory, and of course there’s the Marian’s Reserve bottle, winking richly at me. But it’s not available to the rest of you mortals, who do not belong to Seghesio’s wine club. Sorry. Go console yourself with the widely available Seghesio bluecap Zin, good every year. And a dam’ sight cheaper.

The short list of 2006 so-glad-to-have-tasted-yous includes the 2001 Dry Creek Mood Hill Cabernet; the 2003 Green and Red Zin; the aforementioned Marian’s Reserve; and the 1991 Cascina Morassino Barbaresco. I’m smacking my lips as I write this. . .

Next up: the velvet sipping offered by the Jacob’s Creek Reserve Shiraz 2003. Right now, this is the wine that makes me happiest. I found it – quel choc! – in the clearance bin at a Sunfresh grocery store, and recognized it as a Wine Spectator shout-out. The bonus on this 91-pointer was the price: $9.99. It’s a yummalicious wine, far removed from its non-reserved brother, the regular JC Shiraz, which is also cheap but much less memorable. The 2003 JC Shiraz Reserve is quietly brimming with silky, blackberry charm. It’s also rapidly disappearing from shelves, so hurry.

The Columbia Crest Grand Estates Merlot 2003 is another good wine at a bargain price, about $10. Berries, cocoa, spice – and a big hint: let it breathe. I didn’t, on the first bottle, and was disappointed. Even after it’s breathed, however, I don’t find it as delicious as its older sister, the CCGE Merlot 2001, which knocked me out with its depth. Both of these earned at least 90 WS points, so don’t go sneezing or sneering like Miles in Sideways just because, well, you know: it’s a Merlot.

I was just a bit underwhelmed by the Concannon Limited Release Petite Sirah 2004. It’s well worth the modest $12 price tag – heck, the handsome, heavy bottle alone looks to be worth that – but although it’s got nice black cherry fruit up front, it’s too plummy for me. Too mellow, not big and PS-y enough. Or something.

Which was not the case with a new favorite, the 2003 Bogle Phantom, a big bold baby that includes my two favorite grapes, Petite Sirah and Zinfandel, in its luscious mix.

The Falesco Vitiano 2004 is a great everyday wine, a nice mix of earth, berries and chocolate reflecting the blend of Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon and Sangiovese. But I knock off a point or two because the spice notes are a bit licorice-y for my taste. Still, at $9 – get a case!

In the white department, once again I liked every single wine I tried from New Zealand’s Marlborough County. But the U.S. of A. wins on the smooth complexity of the Ferrari Carano Fume Blanc 2005, at least as good as the supple 2004 – and that’s saying something.

Here’s a weird recommendation for ya: the Bonny Doon NV Framboise “Infusion of Raspberries.” It’s a bit pricey, at $13 the half-bottle, but it’s not as if you’d drink this sweet baby straight up. Pour it into a sparkling wine, just a half-ounce or so, and it’s delish.

Which brings us to the bubbly: of course I’m going to sing the praises, once again, of the Cristalino Brut Cava. It drinks like the $36 Veuve Cliquot NV, and it’s $10. I like it better than the dozen sparklers I’ve tried in the $10-to-$25 range. It’s crisp, dry and with just a hint of citrus fruit. A great way to see in the new year, or complement a seafood dish.

I saved the best for last, as I couldn’t think of a clever ending to this piece. Let me say, without further preamble, that the best, my favorite, the yummerliciousest wine I drank in 2006, was the Mollydooker, The Boxer Shiraz 2005. Grand Canyon. My 50th birthday. My sweetest, oldest friend Linda. And the Mollydooker.

Two-double-ought Seven. Weird.

2007-01-01T08:43:00.000-08:00

Out with the old, in with the new.

We saw 2006 out, and 2007 in, with kisses, not wine. The evening at the theatre was splendid fun, a rioteous romp titled "The Great American Trailer Park Musical." Light chow and mediocre wine were offered up, along with a post-show champagne toast. We had already fortified ourselves with the always-good Cristalino Cava Brut, shrimp, brie and spanokopita, so our night was nearly as pleasant as that of the Chiefs. Although not so roller-coaster giddy. . .

I shall soon consider my list for Best Wines I Drank in 2006, but today I am more concerned with nursing my dog Dio back to health. It's his last year on the planet, and old age brings its regular ravages. Damn it.

Happy new year, fellow wine lovers. And do remember: This is a wine blog. A blog about wine. Winetaster enjoys wine commentary, pro and con. That's the point. The point is not to abuse this forum with extraneous, irrelevant and otherwise unwanted verbiage. For that, we have George W. Bush.

You say Kadarka, I say Kekfrankos

2006-12-20T13:07:00.000-08:00

“K” grapes! Who could know???

I’m sipping one of the puckeriest wines I’ve had this year, a little red number from Hungary. It’s thin and tart, and I’m damned if I can tell you what fruit’s going on, in the nose or on my palate. Maybe cherries. Sour cherries. Sour being the operative word here. The interesting thing is, I’m not disappointed. My expectations, low to begin with, were not dashed. It seems exactly the sort of wine I’d be served if I were drinking at a local taverna. In Hungary. It has character, just not an impressive one. Or rather, it has an impressive character, if by “impressive” we mean, “making an impression.” It definitely made an impression on me. Just not a sun-shiny one.

The swell part is, I’m not likely to run into this baby again, given that my parents personally schlepped it back here, to me, from its country of origin. Hungary. Did I mention?

Hungary is about the only word I can decipher on the label. I can’t even tell you the vintage; the label says 2003, but the neck tag, in colors reminiscent of the flag of Italy, says 2005. Also “E” and a six-digit number, and a bit of French blathering about state control. But then it lapses back into what I presume is an Eastern European dialect. In its incomprehensibility, it reminds me, once again, of Italy and its wine-labeling labyrinth.

What the main label seems to say is the name of the wine (beneath a head shot of an angry bull): EGRI BIKAVER. Then Minosegi Szaraz Vorosbor, with various accent marks and other such squiggly enhancements. Szaraz. Perhaps a shiraz? It also says Hungarovin. Which must mean “wine of Hungary,” which is no help at all.

What’s up with the pissed-off bull? The back of the label has a few paragraphs with such pithy phrases as “Az Egri Bikaver az 500 eves hagyomanyoknak meggeleo hazasitasi recept alapjan keszul.” Hagyomanyoknak. What a great word. I squint at the label, and feel confident in advising you that this wine is best served at 16 to 18 degrees Centigrade. You do the math.

All I know of Hungary and its wines is that it is the home of Tokai, or Tokaj, or Tokaij. Whatever, it’s a sweet dessert wine, and although it is well-known, even famous, and has caused nasty winemaker wars with Italy, which two years ago lost the right to the name. . . where was I? Oh yeah, despite its fine reputation, I have not tried Tokai, on account of I don’t like sweet dessert wines. Except the occasional ice wine.

So. All I know of Hungary is “the capital of Hungary is Budapest,” and Tokai. I certainly don’t know the language. Which means I can continue to trash the wine Mom and Dad got me without even knowing what it is, or I can actually do a bit of research.

Ah screw it. I google it; head for Wikkepedia, and learn this:
Egri Bikavér means Bull’s Blood from Eger. Leaving aside the weirdness of that translation, at least for the moment, let us stipulate, along with Wikkepedia, that what I have in my hands is a reputed and traditional Hungarian wine from the Eger wine region in Northern Hungary. It could be described as a Hungarian Bordeaux, blended as it is from at least three of these grapes: Kadarka, Kékfrankos, Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, Kékoportó, Cabernet Franc, Blauberger, or Pinot Noir. And sometimes Zweigelt and Syrah. The first two “K” grapes form the base, about 40 percent, of the blend, defining the wine’s “unique flavor and color.”

I’m with ya on the unique flavor, Wikkepedia. The color doesn’t do much for me; it’s a light ruby with a hint of gold. Wait, that sounds rather attractive, and this wine isn’t. In fact, I’m surprised at its legs. Which are more impressive than the color would suggest.

Ennyhoo, a good quality Egri Bikavér requires two or three years of aging, and is recommended with game, beef, or spicy foods. And the name? Something to do with the battles against the Turkish armies in the mid 1500’s. During the siege of Eger Castle, the defending troops were served a lot of red wine – to keep up morale, or lessen fear, one presumes. “Among the Turkish soldiers it was rumored that bull's blood was mixed into the red wine, as otherwise the strength and firm resistance of the town and castle of Eger could not be explained. Finally the enemy gave up."

Yeah, who wants to conquer a people who drink blood? My grasp of geography is admittedly shaky, but isn’t Transylvania in the vicinity of Hungary? I’m starting to wonder whether Count Dracula was just a wino, pure and simple, and developed his taste for blood by sipping on the local Bikavér. Which 500 years ago MUST have been more full-bodied. At least fuller than the sour, insipid specimen I keep compulsively sipping at, somehow unable to believe my wincing tongue. I begin to suspect late-blooming masochism on my part. WHY am I still drinking this?

I gather that a good example of Bull’s Blood would be dark reddish-purple, offering a nose of cherries, berries and spice. It SHOULD taste of tart-sweet black-cherry fruit, with a snap of lemony acidity and a long finish. It MIGHT taste like that, in another universe. Or a better wine shop.

Money phrase: “The difference between the best quality Bikavér and the cheap mass-market variants is immense, although price is a fairly good indicator of quality.”
I take another sip of my Bull’s Blood, and am relatively certain that the parental units did not pay much for it. At least I sure hope not.

While I can’t, alas, share this delectable concoction with you, I can say, once again and with confidence, “Hagyomanyoknak.”

My Cup Overfloweth

2006-11-30T12:42:00.000-08:00

Yes, it certainly does.

Really. I have wines pouring in (doh!) from all over: wedding gifts, shipments from Seghesio, a light case from wine.com. It’s an illness. I hunt for wine like mallistas shop for. . . whatever it is that people shop for at malls. And it’s not as if I NEEDED more wines to replenish my stock. Even with Andie helping, we can’t get through more than two bottles a week, and with her trying to get pregnant, I’m laboring mightily to get through a bottle on my own. Over the course of the week.

Plus I like to share the good stuff, so when I’m the only one drinking, I opt for “eh” wine; decent stuff, or bottles people have given me that THEY think are decent. Which I suppose depends on your palate. One’s palate. MY palate, which is finicky.

Like at my wedding reception, the Guenoc Petite Syrah, 2001, a FAVORITE, just didn’t taste right to me. I eschewed it, and tried the 2003 Geyser Peak Cab that came so highly recommended. Eh, all over again. I can’t remember what else I tried. I just remember being dissatisfied. In fact, it was the champagne we had at the wedding ceremony that most pleased me – the Cristalino Cava Brut. Go figure – I drink champagne once or twice a year, as it’s not my thing. Only this made for a nice change. Maybe it was the excitement of the day, or the beauty of our surroundings. Or maybe this baby deserves its perennial “Best Value” award from Wine & Spirits, which I think is a magazine.

More-than-decent quaffs I’ve had of late include the Norton Bodega Malbec and the 2003 Columbia Crest Grand Estates Merlot, like the 2001 a 90-pointer and only $10. Also the Concannon Limited Release Petite Sirah.

But the flat-out tastiest wine I’ve had in months has to be the Marian’s Reserve from Seghesio. Limited to members of its wine club (and perhaps the tasting room in Healdsburg, but I dunno), and limited even then to six bottles per member, this wine is luscious through and through. It’s named for Faye Marian, the mother of Ted Seghesio, one of the winemakers. Faye’s idea it was for the Seghesio family to stop selling the grapes from its 100-year-old vineyards and start bottling its own. Bless you, Faye Marian.

Marian’s Reserve was the first wine released by Seghesio Vineyards, back in 1983, I believe. Faye had succumbed to cancer a few years previously; how tragic and ironic is THAT, that she didn’t get to taste her own wine? At least not in this world.

Anyway, Seghesio hadn’t released any more Marian’s Reserve until this year, more than three decades later. It was worth the wait. Zinfandel, Petite Sirah and Carignane grapes combine for a glass of sheer pleasure, with a nose to match. Also incredible legs, which undoubtedly would please Faye Marian. It sure pleased ME, and Leeser, and Andie. And it went very nicely with dinner, which was ribeyes charcoal grilled to perfection by Chef Tall; also asparagus, which doesn’t go with a dam’ thing, near as I can tell, besides Sauvignon Blanc; and mashed ‘taters a la Kim, which means sour cream instead of milk. And which goes with every wine under the sun. And moon. Which was waxing full, like my happy tummy.

Laura Bush is a big fat liar

2006-10-27T08:13:00.000-07:00

"My husband never misled about Iraq," says the First Lady. She's a big fat liar.

I just wanted to be among the first to say it. And now we know why she's still married to "the decider." She's his equal. His lying, denying equal.

I'll get to my wedding wines later. Just thought, when someone googled Laura Bush, they should hear it, plain simple and loud: Laura Bush is a Big Fat Liar.

My husband never misled about Iraq, indeed. And I never wanted to fire Rumsfeld. And Dick Cheney is a kindly elder statesman, and the moon is made of green cheese, and Bill never had sexual relations with that woman, Saddam was behind 9/11, and he had WMD. He did, so there!

One is silver and the other's gold

2006-09-19T14:53:00.000-07:00

Happy Birthday to ME!

When I was but 15, I befriended a lass some months older. We confided in each other, and over time became sweethearts – largely of the handholding and kissyface variety, but trending toward heavy petting. ("Heavy petting" -- you gotta love that euphemism.) We’d no doubt have progressed further along the route of physical intimacy, given enough time and privacy . . . but alas, our parents learned of our budding romance and nipped it in the bud.

Actually, they chopped it with a blunt-edged axe, threw it in a sack and dumped it in the river. It was the ‘70s, and our parents were of the military persuasion (Air Force), and there was nothing in their playbooks that allowed for same-sex romance. It’s a familiar story, but still painful enough that I don’t want to go into it. Besides, it isn’t very funny. Although there was that time when my little sister came home unexpectedly and we hurriedly threw on our jeans and tried to act casual in our flushed and flustered state, only to realize that Linda seemed to be wearing highwater pants and that the jeans draping my shorter frame were WAY too long. I hope you get the joke. We still laugh about it.

We still laugh about it because Linda is still in my life, 34 years later. Thirty-four years! And she’s still very lovely, still looks like the 16-year-old who crept into my heart and refused to leave. Lovely, and sweet. Almost scarily sweet and thoughtful.

We just got back from the Grand Canyon, me and my sweetie, Linda and hers. Now Linda has been with her partner for 18 years, and Andie and I are mere babes next to that sort of relationship longevity – but the four of us had a grand old time. The weather was perfect, the hikes great good fun despite my cramped little toe and its daily tantrums – and really, the views were unbelievable. I’ve never been to the GC before, and we were at the much-less-touristy North Rim, which is SO COOL, even though the only coffee for sale was swill, unless you ordered a double espresso on ice as an afternoon pickup, which I did. Again and again. Because Linda did, and we were on vacation, so there.

Linda and Daniela schlepped along a coffeemaker for me, along with a coolio insulated tumbler from the Summit Hut, our favorite Tucson store. Also my favorite coffee, Starbucks Anniversary blend. Every night, they bought us dinner at the Lodge, where reservations have to be made many months in advance. They paid for our cabin. They paid for the gas to GET to the GC, which is a fur distance, lemmee tell ya. They were, as they have always been, the quintessential hostesses, which is just to say that they spoil me rotten, which I love, and they do so in such an understated, gracious fashion that I almost don’t notice it.

Almost. See, when the Tucson girlz picked us up at the Phoenix airport hotel, they showed me the sixpack they’d stowed away for me. Three white wines, three red, and with the ho-hum exception of the Hess Chardonnay, they were winners. Hoo were they winners! And poor Andie not drinking wine on accounta I’m trying to knock her up.

Herewith my Grand Canyon, bestest-buddy wine list: The Brancott Sauvignon Blanc (2005, I think; or perhaps it was the Babich, or the Dashwood;) is a knockout example of the uniformly exceptional New Zealand SBs from Marlborough County: lime and grapefruit, gooseberry and passionfruit, delicious sip after sip, forcing me to drink it along with Linda, which wasn’t quite fair as she’s the white wine drinker, but what could I do? Ditto for the Kim Crawford SB we cracked a few nights into the trip.

I was happy to share my first red, Seven Deadly Zins (2004 I think), which was a classic Zinfandel fruit bomb, but Linda doesn’t like reds and Danny drinks the TEENSIEST glasses, so it took me 3 nights to make a measurable dent. I packed away the Seghesio bluecap Zin, which I know and love, then fixed my spoiled little eye on the remaining red.

Oh my. Ladies and gentlemen, I hereby urge you to go out IMMEDIATELY and score yourself the Mollydooker, The Boxer Shiraz 2005, the BEST wine I’ve had in recent memory. It is luscious, and I can’t find any back here in Kansas City. It’s a deep purply black , this full-bodied wonder from Australia (McLaren Vale, Langhorne Creek and Padthaway, go figure), exhibiting pure blackberries and chocolate, and with a finish worthy of the Grand Canyon.Robert Parker gave it 95 points, and who am I to argue with Robert Parker?

Yeah, I know, it doesn’t get any better. Except that it does. On our final night at the North Rim, the Lodge offered, and I accepted, a glass of Stags Leap Petite Sirah. Sigh and swoon. Good God Almighty, would that all birthdays were as memorable as this one.

So Many Choices

2006-07-14T14:54:00.000-07:00

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.

The tune in June is "College Starts Soon!"

2006-06-21T11:04:00.000-07:00

On the night of Greg's graduation, I sipped halfheartedly on a 1998 Banfi Chianti Classico Riserva. Muggy June nights aren't meant for Chiantis, even the good ones. If I had it to do over again, I think I'd crack the Cava Brut. I'd raise my champagne glass high, wink at Emily, and begin this recitation, which is intended for BOTH my favorite fair-haired Air Force brats:

More-or-less Obligatory Pontificating Graduation Speech by Favorite Aunt

Ah, college. Key to the future, right?

What they may not have told you is that college isn’t just this mythical place where you earn a degree, gain an education, snag a passport to a career. It’s a sanctuary, is what it is, an enclave where you get this priceless interim between high school and the world of full-time jobs. Don’t be in any hurry to get through that interim. Full-time work is highly overrated.

What you really get from college is four years, or six, or eight, to form yourself away from your parents; to grow more into who you will be; to shed expectations; to make brand-new mistakes and friends and opinions. To swim in a sea of curious youths who think nothing of staying up all night drinking bad coffee and analyzing just what it is about Antonin Scalia that is so profoundly disturbing. To position yourself in regard to money and values.

Here’s the thing: Money is the overarching reason people send their kids to college. It’s the Elephant in the Living Room of Non-Wealthy America. Because unless your parents are rich, and generous, you leave college expected to earn your own way.

In the humble opinion of your favorite aunt (you can call me that; I don’t mind. Favorite Aunt Kim. It has a nice ring to it.), it is absurd to expect an 18-year-old, or a 20-year-old, to know what he (or she) wants to be when she (or he) “grows up.” That is to say, when said post-highschooler hits the campus. It’s the rigidly weird, or uniquely blessed, person who KNOWS he’s called to be a firefighter, or doctor, gymnast or lobbyist. If you hear that call, before or during college, more power to you. More likely, you have tinnitus.

How many people do you know who really, truly like their jobs and look forward to going in to work? I can think of three, and it took me 20 minutes to think of them. It’s not the JOB that matters; it’s the connections you make. With others, and yourself.

I’m finally old enough to offer advice, and here it is: Experiment in college, as in love. Try on different courses. Don’t be shy about changing directions, or majors. Because it’s true: The secret of happiness is about doing what you love. Or really like. And you may have to keep searching for what that is.

(Also, if someone else is paying for your college, and especially if it's expensive, hold up your end of the deal by doing the work. That is to say, do as well in your classes as you can, even if you don't have Clue One about what you're doing. This approach will avoid a boatload of trouble.)

Once you’re out in the world of I-must-work-full-time-to-pay-the-mortgage, don’t be afraid to chuck it all and join the Peace Corps; or dive into broadcasting; or start your own profitable pyramid scheme. Whatever cranks your motor.

Others will judge you for not being stifled enough, or lucky enough, to know just what it is you want, and to plow relentlessly towards it. But what I, F.A.K., want you to know, is this: people always judge. Fu** ‘em, I say. As a wonderful therapist once said to me, “The opposite of love is always some form of judgment. And who among us has ever been helped by being judged?”

Here's to you. Both of you.

The Ambrosia of Commitment

2006-06-19T10:08:00.000-07:00

Help! What wine goes with a proposal?

I’ve never had occasion to research this. Never had occasion to think I would need this information.

Okay, it’s hot out. Scorching hot. White wine, then. Or champagne. Champagne! Only Andie doesn’t care for champagne. Dammit!

Should we go out? Stay home? Here I could crack the GSM. Or the Far Niente Cab. Or the Seghesio Old Vine Zin, or even the David Bruce Petite Syrah. All of them bound to be quite good. Unless they’re corked. Aargh!

Later that same evening. . . Whew. All better now. Andie – or, as I have decided to call her, “The Engagee” – opted for La Bodega. A solid choice, if one seeks wine and tapas. I still believe its predecessor, Boulevard Café, had a clear edge, but what the hey. It’s a fine establishment. Even with a new, distracted hostess and neophyte wait staff.

We sampled a $10 glass of some Albarino or another – there were quite a few on the menu, but all I can tell you is that it’s a pleasant-tasting white wine from Galicia, Spain. La Bodega has a number of Spanish wines on its list, and I’m always curious, but have yet to be wowed . . . in any event, the sample wine didn’t thrill, so The Engagee opted for the reliably good Guenoc Petite Syrah. I, sweltering in the heat – or was it nerves? – ordered up a glass of the Chateau St. Jean Chardonnay. I always try to give that vineyard another chance, on account of it has a BEAUTIFUL fountain out front and I might have been too cranky the day I sampled its wines and found them wanting.

The CSJ Chard was fine, especially with chevre and zucchini bruschetta, garlic mushrooms, and roasted red peppers wrapped around ahi tuna and rice. Such were our Mutual Proposal Accompaniments. We nibbled happily for a few minutes, chatting about nothing in particular. We were surrounded by boisterous, Friday-night-out hets, which I do believe put a bit of a cramp in our little lesbo commitment dinner.

La Bodega is a loud, open space where intimate conversations are challenging, to say the least. Andie – oops, I mean The Engagee – had to pull her chair around and lean in so we could hear one another. The good news is that in a place with that crashing wall of noise, no one else could hear us. The bad news is that I’m not sure we heard each OTHER.

I told The Engagee Previously Known as Andie that I loved her more than anyone; LIKED her more than anyone, which was just as important; and that I wanted us to share our lives. I asked her if she would marry me. She nodded, smiling. Who knows what she thought I was saying? I prodded her, “I can’t hear you.” “YES!” she said emphatically. I slipped the agonizingly-awaited, newly fitted ring on her finger, and she admired the sparkling art deco confection of white gold wrapped around sapphires and diamond. Circa 1920. Lilliane’s.

Then she launched into a speech about how she often took me for granted and was frequently too distracted with work and other stressors to think of me much. Surely this wasn’t her practiced proposal speech? I shook my head, trying to clear it of La Bodega cacaphony. “. . . amaze me, Kim. I’ve never known. . .” Crash of plates, clattering of silverware, chattering of diners. At least that last bit sounded more promising. The teeny bit that I heard.

The Engagee placed the ring on my finger, and I smiled down at the solid band of 18-karat etched yellow gold, deep emeralds flanking a lone diamond. I’m not big on diamonds. But I love this custom-made ring. To each her own.

We flicked our eyes sideways in homophobic reflex, then leaned in and sealed the deal with a kiss. On the lips. At La Bodega, on a June night in 2006, with me pushing 50 and the fertile young Engagee just rarin’ to have a baby. (God, who knows all about wine, and love, has a deliciously dark sense of humor, in case you hadn’t noticed.)

It didn’t really matter what wine we drank with dinner.

Happy Anniversary, Baby

2006-06-13T10:17:00.000-07:00

Everyone’s favorite fallback subject – the weather – is on my mind today. It’s beautiful out, 70’s and sunny. It can’t last, of course, this being Kansas City and global warming being a part of that “reality” so strenuously rejected by the neoconmen running our formerly great country. It will soar into the humid 90’s by Thursday, and at that point even a red-wine freak like yours truly will consider the benefits of a light, chilled wine.

The last white wine I had was a forgettable Lindemann’s Chardonnay. The inexpensive Australian producer has a consistently decent Semillon-Chardonnay, but the Chardonnay by itself was . . . I forget what it was. As I said.

With white wine as with red, the point is the nirvana achieved or strived for by its pairing with food. (Winos are free to disagree, but I will not be publishing their comments.) Summer wines go with summer foods, and that leads us naturally to the occasion of my second anniversary, on which my gift to my beloved was . . . dinner. The cooking of it, I mean. The menu selection was Andie’s, and not surprisingly she chose one of our all-time favorites, the gold standard Napa Risotto. A labor-intensive dish. Constant stirring, tweaking and sprinkling is required, but girlfriend didn’t care about that. NOOOOO, she did not, not being the risotto chef around here. Still, she cleans a mean kitchen, and that carries significant weight. With me. I who hate to do dishes.

A heavenly mouthful of asparagus, mushrooms and Arborio rice, this risotto exhibits exceptional flavor and fairly screams for a Barbera. We ignored its screams this time around, wanting to try out the Flora Springs Pinot Grigio 2003. I’m mostly indifferent to Pinot Grigios; they’re light, crisp and fruity, generally, but not exactly packed with flavor, to my mind. Laura favors the Santa Margherita PG, but the Bollini is at least as good, at half the price. And I figured Flora Springs would beat ‘em both.

Flora Springs is on my short list of wineries that should be visited during any trek to California. The wines produced there are stellar. Still, in the end, even the Flora Springs Pinot Grigio was just that, a Pinot Grigio. But OH, the risotto! It was my best attempt yet.

I used three kinds of mushrooms this time: portabellos, shitakes and button; I also added a touch of thyme, and a half cup of the Pinot Grigio accompanying our dinner. Most likely, though, what put the risotto over the top was the substitution of Boursin for the usual Fontina. (And the fact that I remembered to add the salt this time. At just the right moment.)

The only thing that would have made this dinner better was a Barbera. A Barbera d’Alba, a Barbera d’Asti, a Barbera from Seghesio. Or even my current favorite white wine, the Ferrari-Carano Fume Blanc. But the food, and the company, couldn’t be improved upon. I love risotto. I love my girlfriend. I love good wine.

Ethereal and Haunting. . .

2006-06-06T07:08:00.000-07:00

And that’s just the label.

Girlfriend uncorked a winner of a wine on Leeser’s birthday: the Bogle Phantom, a deep and luscious blend of Petite Syrah, Zinfandel and Mourvedre. I have no clue what the Mourvedre grape is, or how to manipulate this keyboard to put the accent mark over the first e, but the other two are my favs, for big flavor and spice. And the Mourvedre only makes up a fraction of the blend, 2 percent. Fifty-nine Pets, 39 Zin. That’s the percentage breakdown, and it’s inspired.

We all sniffed, smiled happily, slurped, and smiled some more. Yeah baby! Jammy, hints of black pepper, berries all over the place, and radiating heat. “Let’s get us a case of this,” Birthday Girl drawled. We liked that idea.

Alas, the Phantom proved as elusive as its name. Like the desperately needed leadership of this country, it was nowhere to be found. Invisible, vanished, gone with the wine. I mean wind. Andie tried Hyvee Liquors, where she’d stumbled across the bottle we had just ravaged. No luck. “We won’t have any more until next March,” said the horrible horrible bad-news-delivering clerk.

Gomer’s was no more helpful. Neither was Red-X. Even Lukas Liquors said “Eh,” explaining that its allotment of nine cases had jumped off the shelves in two months. Well, GEEZ why didn’t somebody TELL us Bogle had slipped yet another winner into the mix? We’d have filled our cellar months ago!

Bogle, for those of you not familiar, is a respected family producer of wines, with an always-yummy Petite Syrah and a very good Chardonnay. Bogle, in fact, is the reason I drink Petite Syrah. Such taste! Such value! Wines averaging about $10 a bottle, and both the Chardonnay and PS are always worth it, always worth much more, verily I say to you.

The Phantom is a bit more pricey, but still affordable, at $15 to $17 a bottle. And quite lovely, its stark black label splashed with gold, drawing the eye – and drawing the attention of Andie, which is the salient point of this observation. I wonder who came up with the label? (“Bogle” itself is a word of Scottish origin that means a friendly spirit, or phantom. I learned this from the Phantom’s cork.)

More importantly, I wonder who created this lip-smacking blend? What sun-kissed winemaker thought this one up? And why did no one clue me in a year or two ago?????Part of the Phantom’s yumminess doubtless derives from its 20 months of aging in American oak, which adds a grand touch of toastiness and vanilla. There are other herbs dancing lightly on the palate -- some tasters have discerned eucalyptus, and there’s a hint of cinnamon that appears after the wine has breathed for a while. Mostly, though, it’s berries in a big way: boysenberry, blackberry, maybe a little cherry and strawberry. And it’s nicely structured: intense, without being overpowering. Much like me, as a matter of fact, but with more universal appeal. And color.

The Phantom (again like me!) will certainly benefit from aging. This means it will get even BETTER! If you can find it to taste it. It’s the 2003 vintage that is out there now, in ever-diminishing quantities. Be vigilant in your search, because it’s worth it. You see, while Andie was fruitlessly ringing up all our favorite winesellers, I was searching industriously online. At a site called Bevmo.com, I located and promptly ordered every bottle of Phantom available. If it’s not a scam, those 11 elusive bottles will brighten our doorstep within the week.

It’s been a while since I had such an immediate, positive response to a wine, which overshadowed another favorite, the Guenoc Petite Syrah, ordered to accompany our tasty birthday repast at Pot Pie. We slipped the Phantom in in a sippy cup, unwilling to wait until after dinner to guzzle more of it. No one saw our little sleight-of-mouth, cuz, ya know, it was the PHANTOM.

Prosperity and a Room with a View

2006-04-27T10:35:00.000-07:00

Sun’s emerging after days of rain and clouds, and I am grateful – for the sun, for the Big Gulp of Aich-two-o provided to the thirsty earth, for my life of wealth.

I am so rich. How rich am I? I am so rich that I have the time (months!) to contemplate just what wines go with a milestone birthday and a week’s hiking in the Grand Canyon. I am so wealthy I have a cabin reserved with some of my favorite people at the North Rim, from which we will descend (I presume) on day hikes, returning before sundown (I hope) to reward our weary bodies with comestibles and libations. Vittles and licker. Red wine and food that is bound to taste great no matter what it is. How blessed am I?

I’ve never been to the Grand Canyon. I’ve been to a number of countries – Germany, Korea, Turkey, France, Spain, Great Britain – oh yeah, and a few days in Japan – (none of which compares to the journeys undertaken by my apparently ageless parents and ambitiously peripatetic sister Karen, who has parlayed an Air Force career into a personal quest to set foot just about everywhere) – but I have yet to see some of the great glories of our glorious-but-besmirched-by-Bushian-badness country. The U.S. of A. Hurray for the red, white and blue, where the bounties of Bryce and Zion and the Grand Canyon and oh so many other delights await!

What wines go with the round perfection of the half-century mark? Wiry tomboy Kim has morphed into middle age, um, roundedness. Fullness. Curves, that is. Full breasts, padded hips. Begone, tummy fat! Or stay if you must, and pass the wine. After a day’s trek in the grandest of canyons, we will need the medicinal euphoria accompanying the sound of a cork snicking from the bottle. And the more tired one is, the better the first sip o’ wine tastes, doncha know. Time for some vino planning. . .

I will of course need a Tomassi Ripasso, perhaps the lovely ’97. Luckily, I have one.

I will want something zinny from Seghesio, probably the reliable bluecap. It’s less pricey and more available than its big brothers, the Home Ranch Zinfandel, the Cortina, the beyond yummy San Lorenzo, the Old Vine. . .

Something from Dry Creek Vineyard, methinks, a Cab or a Meritage. My new favorite, the Guenoc Petite Syrah. Perhaps a white wine or two, and not just for my friend Linda. For her, I have selected (so far) the luscious 2005 Fume’ Blanc from Ferrari Caranno (91 points, WS), and will likely pick up a few Sauvignon Blancs from New Zealand, which almost uniformly top 90 points. Maybe a St. Supery White Meritage – I know I used to love that wine. Ooh, ooh! Perhaps a Montrachet, Puligny or Chassagne!

Damn, we only have a week at the Grand Canyon. A short week. How the heck are we gonna get through all the wine I want to taste to celebrate friends, and life, and the richness of my life?

Yes, I am rich. I am so rich that I only owed $92 in federal taxes this year, my income being discernibly non-existent, but capital gains taxes still rapping me lightly on the pocketbook. No income, plenty of pets, a cherished partner, and my oldest, dearest friend waiting for me at the Grand Canyon, corkscrew in hand. As my latest, Darcy-castoff sweatshirt proclaims, Life is Good.

Candy: I'm a lover, not a fighter

2006-03-16T14:22:00.000-08:00

Candy is dandy,
but Liquor is quicker. -- O.N. (and Em)

With a nod to Dorothy Parker, Bitchqueen of Wit. "I'd rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy."

Oh that RWH!

2006-03-15T11:01:00.000-08:00

A Strange Sulfite Blush
Debunking the Myth

Ow ow ow OW! I woke up with a killer RWH today. That is, I went to bed happily tipsy, dimly aware that my head was aching, and toward morning could no longer ignore the painful throbs beating against my skull. The inside of my skull. With a Thor-sized hammer whose blows increased in intensity with the rising of the sun. Or so it seemed. This, THIS is the price one pays for loving red wines. Sometimes that price seems too high, doesn’t it?

RWH=Red Wine Headache. It’s a recognized medical syndrome. . . recognized, but not well understood. Probably because would-be researchers are afraid to ask for grant money. Here’s what the pusillanimous scientific sorts have come up with on their own: What causes the dreaded RWH may be tannins; it may be histamines; it may be tyramine or some other chemical effect. What RWH is NOT caused by is sulfites.

Sulfites, which popularly are blamed for the queasy, stuffy-nosed, red-cheeked skull-pounding aftereffects of drinking red wine, are actually more prevalent in white wines. To which I say, Nya-nya-nya-NYA-nya. (Although I shouldn’t gloat, as white wines don’t usually cause headaches. What I SHOULD do is drink more white wines. Happily, that bit of self-advice coincides with the advent of warmer weather, always an inducement to quaff the clearer spirits.)

Sulfite, a natural byproduct of yeast fermentation, is used by winemakers as an antioxidant and anti-microbial. The FDA more than 20 years ago (that’s Before Bush, back when the FDA actually relied on science to formulate its positions) determined that a small portion of the population – less than 1 percent – is allergic to sulfites. These people lack the digestive enzyme that allows the body to process sulfites, which are also found in foods like cheeses and lunchmeats.

With its finding, the FDA required wines containing certain levels of sulfite to say so; that’s why wine labels may contain the phrase “contains sulfites.” Such information has oft been interpreted as a warning that people who get RWH’s should avoid red wine because of the sulfites. Not so. The warning on the label is intended for the wee minority who are allergic to sulfites. Sulfites can produce an allergic reaction – usually a breathing problem – in those lacking the aforementioned digestive enzyme; sulfites give headaches only to asthmatics.

In sum: If you have a sulfite allergy or asthma, you should avoid wine. I am so sorry.

For the rest of us, there are a few remedies out there to lessen the impact of RWH. First, ibuprofen or aspirin should be taken prophylactically. (If you don't have friends who are physicians, and therefore aren't familiar with this adverb, it simply means to take the pills BEFORE you begin your evening of wine.) I’ve tried this, and it seems to work. It is also suggested, probably by client-hungry dentists looking to bleach teeth, that one ingest black tea before and during wine drinking. I can’t remember why this is suggested – something about Quercetin, a bioflavin. I have not tried this. I think it would detract from the taste of the red wine, which is largely the point of red wine. For me, anyway. Also I think one would risk looking foolish, or piggish, or dam’ thirsty, with a mug of tea in one hand and a fat winey Riedel in the other. But suit yourself.

Or you can try mitigating the less pleasant effects of wine-drinking with some experimentation, with yourself as the subject. This needn’t be unpleasant; it merely requires that you record what you drink. Try different wines; different grapes; different countries of origin. Write down what you drink, and your reaction to it – your PHYSICAL reaction to it, not your degree of silliness or loquaciousness. Unless you want to.

The journaling/experimentation approach would involve sipping a half glass of wine, then waiting 15 minutes to see if a headache materializes. No headache, no problemo. At least not with that particular wine. See, write it down. Immediately. “I drank the Clos du Bois Zin (’99) with no ill effects.” Bad example, actually, as the 1999 Clos du Bois Zin isn’t a wine I’ll try again, most likely. It wasn’t big and Zinny enough, and there aren’t too many ‘99s out there in any case. But it didn’t give me a headache. And the point is that you can drink some reds without resultant headaches. You simply must discover which reds they are.

Joe Coulombe, the founder of Trader Joe’s, thinks that the solution to RWH lies in drinking older wines. Predictably, most Americans drink very young red wines from California. Enfants terribles, apparently: Some of the substances that cause hangovers become inert with age, so Coulombe suggests that drinking older wines will reduce both hangovers and RWH’s. The distinction between hangover and RWH? If you are laid low by a headache that comes six hours after “a full evening of drinking,” it’s a hangover. Don’t blame the red wine, don’t blame the sulfites, don’t blame your generous hosts. You overindulged, you’re hurting, and you need caffeine.

Winetaster opines that it is best to hydrate while imbibing, and to drink only really good red wines. Because guzzling water alongside your wine helps, and at least if you get a RWH, it may be worth the suffering.

There is Truth in Wine

2006-03-13T07:19:00.001-08:00

The Age of Bullshit

I was reading about the "bullshit pandemic" the other day, and my mind leapt naturally to wine-tasting; that is, it jumped to wine-tasting terminology and how fatuous/pretentious it rings.

When Andie and I ordered up the premium tastings in Sonoma and Napa, we did very well for ourselves. The servers seemed to like us, and we had a good time with them, chatting and sipping and laughing. At almost every stop, we'd be offered extra pours of many wines not on the tasting list; often, these bonus pours were of expensive, lush wines far beyond our budget, but great fun to sample nonetheless. We speculated that the special treatment was due to our obvious, simple enjoyment of and appreciation for wines. It certainly wasn't because we're wine experts.

The servers at California's wine-tasting rooms have heard it all; don't even TRY to impress them. They sneer at and tell stories of those snobberooskies who belly up to the bar and act as if they know all there is to know about wine. "Ah yes, the 2001 meritage," (swirl, sniff, sip, exaggerated palate action) "the Cabernet grape is predominant, but the softer Merlot comes through, and oh what a nice bit the Cab Franc adds to the mix."

Whereas I, slurping at the Flora Springs Triology (a classic Bordeaux blend), blurted, "Yum!" Joe behind the bar smiled at my delighted grin, as I added, "Cherries and raspberries!" I did NOT say, "Ah so, Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, Cabernet Franc, Petit Verdot and Malbec, to be sure." Wine masters can distinguish all these grapes with a swirl, sniff and sip -- not I. I could tell only that it is Cab-based, with cherry and raspberry dominating, and very smooth. Also a withering $60 a bottle, retail. But still, yummy.

"Yummy" about says it for me. "Yummy" or "Eh." To my knowledge, I have NEVER said anything remotely like "A soupcon of cocoa, with overtones of tar and leather. Brambly and a bit tight, but I daresay it will open up splendidly." Andie is more likely to say, "Omigosh, I like this one!" or, "I need chocolate with this." Mind you, at Dry Creek Vineyard, where the premium tasting led happily to the further exploration of another half dozen wines, Girlfriend managed to snag our server's interest with this pithy observation about a white wine: "It's got a bubblegum nose!" Rather than sneering, our amiable server arched her brows, grabbed a glass off the rack and poured a sample for herself, sniffing deeply. "I thnk you're right!" she laughed. "I can't wait to spring THAT on the winemaker!"

We very much enjoyed our tasting at Dry Creek, and recommend it if you're taking a Sonoma tour. http://www.drycreekvineyard.com/ Dry Creek pours its wines in a handsome building set on lovely made-for-picnicking grounds, only a few miles from a "garage winery," Amphora, where there's nothing but gravel, grapevines, a house, a cellar, and a Johnny-on-the-spot. At Amphora, you taste the wines in the cellar, a.k.a. basement, and if/when you spit, you spit into a drain in the concrete floor. Not in a nearby beaker, which Andie did, and which occasioned a near-panic on the part of the winemaker, who was (who could know?) blending and tasting and doing something scientific in advance of a reviewer's visit. Amphora is also the site of an annual semi-naked grape stomping by enthusiastic beauties from the valley who may not even DRINK wine, but know a good, messy, underwear-clad party when they see it. If you time it right, and if you're female, you too can whip off your outer garments and plunge into a vat of purple goop while drunken men take your picture.

You see, at Amphora, the slogan is " Only women can touch the grapes." Seriously. The winemaker, Rick Hutchinson, loves women and wine with a happy-go-lucky intensity. Don't ask him to choose between his two passions (and I second that emotion). Amphora also has begun to use its annual grape stomp to raise money to fight breast cancer. Wine, women, and breast cancer research: There's a winning combination. BONUS: They make Petite Syrah! It's a bit pricey ($30), but it's a deep-hued, delicious mouthful of ripe blackberries and pepper. In other words, Yum. http://www.amphorawines.com/

Gosh, I wish Kansas City had vineyards. . . and some mountains. Maybe a shoreline or two. . . but then it wouldn’t be Kansas City. It wouldn’t be affordable. It wouldn’t have those small plate tastings I’ve so enjoyed at Pierponts. . . where at least the wine steward speaks (mostly) in English. Commendably low on the bullshit factor, that’s what I’m trying to say.

One night at Pierpoints, Charlie the Wine Steward was talking up some Muscat or other multi-named French white wine, describing its lemony notes and its “hint of melon." I don't mind such descriptions. I can relate to lemon and melon, and those descriptors at least give me SOME idea of what to expect from the wine. That sure beats the graduates from the Wine School of Instruction who would have you believe Sauvignon Blancs often smell like cat piss. And that that is a good thing.

Lordy, I have three cats of my own, and three step-cats, and I can tell you that smelling their urine is not a pleasant experience. I can see saying, "herbal notes, grassy, citrusy." I can even see saying, "Ew, cat pee." What I CANNOT see is saying, "ew, cat pee," and then DRINKING.

I almost always pick up the scents and flavors of lime and grapefruit when I sample a Sauvignon Blanc from Marlboro County in New Zealand, the Emperor of Sauvignon Blanc. And I almost always read on the label of said wine that the wine supposedly smacks of passion fruit and gooseberry. As if. As if I even know what those taste or smell like. And if I did, I'd still sound like a major b.s. spouter if I said so. "Ah yes, I'm picking up notes of passion fruit and gooseberry." Try saying that at your next party, and let me know the reactions of your guests.

Words mean whatever I say they mean. Isn't that what Lewis Carroll wrote? It's apt for wine tasting: Whatever you, the sipper, tastes in the wine; whatever you, the imbiber, thinks of the wine, is the truth. In vino, veritas. Also a great deal of bullshit.

Straw-colored Surfaces

2006-03-09T06:58:00.000-08:00

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.

By-the-Glass Gouging

2006-02-10T11:37:00.000-08:00

I had planned to share in this space the fortuitous news that the 1991 Cascina Morassino Barbaresco from my wine cellar was neither oxidized nor corked, and thus served as a fitting tribute to the life and death of Brandyn, my companion of 20 years. February 9 marked the end of her life in 2005, and Andie and I held a private memorial service for her last night, toasting the spitfire whose memory lives on so indelibly that it should survive any dementia or Alzheimer's that may shadow my waning years. Lift your glass, fellow lovers of wine, and repeat after me: To the Queen of Felines, the Queen of Wines, a garnet-shading-to-amber vision of Italian smoothness. And a taste like no other.

My beloved cat notwithstanding, I go where my mind leads me. So it is that I found my thoughts this morning consumed not by the pain of love's loss, but by indignation about restaurant wine lists. I refer not to their quality or readability, but to the Enron rapaciousness that allows dining establishments to so cavalierly charge outrageous prices for wines by the glass. I take you to the environs of Washington, D.C., and give you as a prime example the 2002 Newton Claret Napa Valley offered at 2941 Restaurant, which apparently thinks it perfectly permissible to demand $15 for an unassuming Merlot/Cabernet Franc/Cabernet Sauvignon blend. As Lucy might say, Good Grief.

Now, 2941 is an excellent restaurant; how could it be otherwise, given the previous and present chefs? But it is LUDICROUS and PAINFUL, it is ludicrously painful, to charge almost as much for a glass of wine as the cost of a bottle retail. We know that it is customary for restaurants to charge 200 or even 300 percent of retail for a bottle of wine -- but to put this by-the-glass gouging in perspective, a bottle of the Newton Claret at any decent wine shop will run you about $18. Not that I'm recommending the Newton Claret, because I am not. Certainly not at a 400 percent markup, which is conservatively the case in this case. And probably not at a 200 percent markup, because I've had the Newton Claret. 'Nuff said.

To add wine insult to injury, we're talking an ungenerous 6-ounce pour. I submit that, at $15 the glass for an undistinguished wine, the pour should be a fat seven to eight ounces. Have these wine purveyors no decency? At long last, have they no decency? I cannot begin to imagine what the Wine Autocrat at 2941 would charge for a small taste of my Barbaresco (okay, I CAN imagine, but it's obscene, since one could conceivably, for the same price, order up the Black Truffle Love Letters, the Seared Yellow Fin Tuna AND the Dark Chocolate Fondant. Which I would love to do, believe you me, but then I wouldn't have any money left for wine pairings. So what would be the point???)

Perhaps this outsized love of profit is but a deliciously subversive way of inducing customers to smuggle in their own wine. I rather hope not, as that might work for a time with white wines, but we lovers of reds would invariably, sooner rather than later, ruin our suitcoats and/or handbags with our leaky sneaky carry-ins. Oh HEY! Perhaps this is where the corkage fee custom originated! "You there, with the stain in your hip pocket: That'll be $20, buddy. And be happy we're providing the wine stems."

I'll concede that storing wines carries a cost, and that wines by the glass have long been what I call "Big Ol' Moneymakers," and I would not quibble with this American tradition. More than I have already. However, I would suggest that, when tempted to order an expensive wine by the glass, there are alternate wine routes to consider. The first of these, if you have never had the wine before, is to ask your server for a wee taste. That's the beauty of wines by the glass, you see: You can try them out to see if you like them. It's doubly painful to spend an inordinate amount on a glass of wine that is not to your liking, and it's a simple matter to dip your taster (lips, shnozz, tongue) into a modest half-ounce sample.

If you've never asked for a small advance taste, let me assure you that I have never been refused in this. In fact, I have had servers offer me tastes of three or four wines in one evening, helping me to select just the right one. A good server will do this, cheerfully.

If you fear the censorious frown that may appear on the face of a lesser server, you can either stretch your bravery muscles and plunge ahead nonetheless, or charm your dining partner into ordering a half bottle. This is often a better deal than the wine-by-the-glass approach, although perhaps not as good as ordering a full bottle. Half-bottles may be marked half-bottles, or the wine list may read "375-ml." As most full-sized wine bottles hold 750-ml., 375-ml. means exactly half that. Watch for that designation on the wine list whenever you think you're getting a reasonably priced bottle, lest you be disappointed at what arrives at your table.

At Restaurant Eve, they kindly mark the entire half-bottle selection "Small Bottles," bless them. I do not bless Eve for the pricing on the Green and Red Zin. Yes, it's a 2001, and a fine example of Zinfandel, with vivid berry and black cherry, redolent of earth and spice. I LIKE this wine, and I am not offended when asked to pay, say, $8 a glass. But $61 the bottle? When I can go out and buy it for $19? I clearly need a course in wine pricing. Because it makes no sense to me; Restaurant Eve offers a full bottle of David Bruce Petite Syrah 2003 for $40, and THAT, my friends, is the real deal. Not EVEN double the retail price, and a wonderful wine in its own right.

It is possible that I'm being too hard on these fine dining establishments, which surely pay less per bottle for their wines than we do, meaning that their markups are even more exorbitant. Or perhaps the word I'm looking for here is "extortionate." Oops, I'm pounding the sommeliers again. What I was GOING to say is that perhaps they're not so much greedy as mathematically challenged. You know, the Ignorance Defense so prevalent in our capital city. "Sacre bleu! You mean to say that we are making more than $50 profit on a $20 bottle of wine? Astonishing, monsieur!"

What is truly astonishing is that we're expected to bend over and take it. (Now I'm starting to sound like the Rude Pundit. I do apologize.) Me, I don't like to be so door-mattish, merely because I like wine and am fortunate enough to have the funds to dine out and sample them. Because that's surely the rationale, don't you think? -- "If these people can afford to eat here, they can bloody well afford any price we choose to slap on our wines." My response to that, apart from a brief tirade about the rapidly escalating income gap and disappearing middle class, is to vote with my feet. I love good meals, and I love good wines, and I will likely seek them out more often where the price-to-value ratio is less liable to tweak my Inner Tightwad.

For fair pricing, I like the wines-by-the-glass list at 1789 Restaurant, where most of the offerings are $7 to $8. The list features a St. Supery Sauvignon Blanc, as well as a Babich Sauvignon Blanc from the wondrous New Zealand Marlborough County. Get one of each, for delectable comparison, and try to talk your dining companion into the Baby Barbera d'Asti. I'm a fan of Barbera, and at $6 the glass, SOMEONE oughta try this Baby out.

The Art of Wine Tasting

2006-02-07T06:59:00.000-08:00

Tasting wine is clearly an art, not science - at least for the millions of us who are not wine masters. Wine tasting is such a SUBJECTIVE experience; it's colored by company, atmosphere, circumstance, mood. I can think of two occasions in the past year when I absolutely loved a wine ordered with dinner; went out the next day and purchased said wine; and discovered it didn't taste quite as good as I remembered. Same wine, same vintage -- different setting.

So when I'm asked to name favorite wines, it gives me pause. Easy enough to say, "Ooh, ooh! The Altumura Cab! The Tomassi Ripasso! The Stag's Leap Chimney Rock Merlot!" But there are so many wines out there, thousands of them that are GOOD. I think of the Cain Cuvee NV -- but do I remember it fondly because I first tried it with good friends at Pierponts? I LOVED the Seghesio Sonoma Zin we had at Pot Pie with Leeser and Nancy on my birthday last year, and the Hess Cab we had there on Andie's birthday. Ditto for the Flora Springs Cab I had with Linda and Danny in Tucson. And yet something is missing when I try these wines at home. They are still good, but something is lacking.

And anyone who tells you she's not swayed by a pretty label or a glowing review is, like our Commander in Chief, a Big Fat Liar. For example, I was just reading about the Thorn-Clark 2003 Barossa Valley Shiraz Shotfire Ridge, about $16 a bottle. If I saw this wine on the shelf, I know I'd buy it. Why? Well, just look at the name: Shotfire Ridge. How fun is that? And then one reads, "A huge mouthful of peppery black cherry, plum and exotic spice flavors pulling themselves together into a supple wine that actually strives for elegance. It's all in the balance, which lets the rich flavors ride on a sleek track and linger beautifully."

Linger beautifully. . . rich flavors riding on a sleek track. . .striving for elegance. . .see there, a wine with a fun name, and a poetic description. I am predisposed to like it.

One night in the not-too-distant past, at The House of Ellen, we cracked the 2001 Dry Creek Mood Hill Cabernet Saugivnon we carted back from California in July. To accompany the "Mood," Ellen whipped up sauteed spinach and a killer szechuan dish, one of three meals at which she professes culinary mastery. (No, I don't know what the other two meals are. But I intend to find out.) Her dish was delicious, and so was the Mood Hill - - named after a vineyard named for the years in which a single father raised two teenaged girls. Heh-heh! Yet I'm guessing that both dinner and wine would have tasted less scrumptious in other company; Ellen and Andie were delightful companions, and mostly I remember good tastes and lots of laughter. Also a visit from a neighbor who was locked out of her house. Alas, like the nice neighbor's key, the Mood Hill by that time was history, so we were unable to share it with her.

Then there was the happy hour at Poco's Latin American Grille, with Katie and Darcy, and eventually, Laura and Sus. Some of my favorite people, which is probably why all the wines I tasted tasted great. ALL of them, even the Santa Barbara Pinot Noir that Katie ordered (the winery's name escapes me), and I am NOT a Pinot Noir fan, as readers know, although I loved "Sideways" and wish I DID like that finicky grape, so I could preen like the connoisseur I wish I were. Just as I wish I liked dark beers, and salmon -- it seems the thing to do, but I lack the tastebuds for it.

Along with our topnotch appetizers (goat cheese and veggie tamales, crab cakes, fish tostadas, white bean puree and some barbecued oysters that were every bit as weird as I'd feared) I had the Equis Something-or-Other from Spain, a Tempranillo-based red that is blended with Bobal, a grape I had never heard of but which has a GREAT sound to it, don't you agree? -- as if it belonged in a nursery rhyme. Or perhaps I'm thinking of Babar. The elephant. And as any good progressive will instruct you, Don't Think of an Elephant.

I also sampled the Casillero del Diablo Cabernet Sauvignon, a tasty offering from the Concha y Tora estate in Chile. The name supposedly derives from the winery's founder, Don Melchor, who in the 19th century discovered that his vineyard workers were sneaking samples of his greatest wine. As the story goes, the Don spread the rumor that his deepest, darkest cellar was the devil's abode - Casillero del Diablo means, literally, Cellar of the Devil. THAT kept the thieving tipplers away, and a legend was born. More to the point, this smooth, deeply red Cab is mixed with a touch of Carmenere, and a nice touch of toasty American oak. A great nose, with tastes of cherry, vanilla and plum, along with a great finish. What's GREATest about it is the price, a steal at $11 or so retail.

The Red and Green Zinfandel also took my fancy during this evening of tasting. It's full and fruity, with rasperry and cherry and something herbal. The 2003 R&G rates highly with Wine Spectator, but in that price range (around $18 retail), I prefer the Seghesio Zin. I also prefer my red wines served a bit cooler, so perhaps that was why I found the Red and Green Zin less compelling than I might have. But lordy, it was so much FUN to try all these wines!

Yum, yum and yum. Since every wine offered by the glass was $3 during happy hour, I felt free to knock myself out tasting, and so I did.

"Sir, this wine is a dog."

2006-02-02T18:46:00.000-08:00

Corked, battered, and fried

I've been thinking about how some wines are like stray dogs. I don't (necessarily) mean that these wines are smelly or cheap, or frisky; they may be, like some strays I've known, pregnant . . . with possibility. What I mean by this comparison is that you, the putative owner of said wine/stray, do not know its history, its true age, its potential.

Take Dio, my aging canine. Please. Dio wasn't impressive-looking when he showed up, but he turned out to be quite a dog. Like when you pay $12 for a wine and get it home and it is so much better than $12, and you're happily surprised because you were drawn to the wine but the bottle is dusty and the label unprepossessing. Although Dio is a good-looking dog, with a beautiful blue eye and a gorgeous brown eye and a big-chested body that would appear to make him a blend of Malamute, German Shepherd, and Collie. Like a baby meritage, only more expensive.

Thing is, I don't know how old he truly is. The vet examined him when first the wayfaring, slutty stranger showed up, and pronounced, "He's somewhere between two and five years old, near as I can tell." Which is not so near, when one considers that that was in 1996, and Dio is a large dog. So he's, I dunno, older than God, or at least 12 to 15 years old, near as I can tell, which means he's teetering on death. Although many days he doesn't act like it.

*WARNING: Tortured segue coming up.

Large, like the Dio-dog, only not neutered, Barbaresco* is called "The Queen of Wines," like Barolo is the King. But the 1991 Cascina Morassino Barbaresco in my wine cooler is more a stray dog than a queen. It was given to me, and I don't know its pedigree, nor what its life circumstances were before I adopted it. Is it an OLD 15-year-old wine? Has it had a rough life? Been bounced around? Stored poorly, subjected to repeated temperature fluctuations? I have to open it to find out its life story, and once I open it it's either yummy or not, and either way it has less than a week to live once I pop the cork. So I guess that means some wines are like stray dogs that you ultimately kill, or on which you perform autopsies. Eeeewwwww.

Perhaps this is an imperfect analogy. What I think I was aiming at initially is that, while I'm looking forward to trying this Barbaresco, which costs a fair amount and is rumored to be hugely tannic, I'm also fearful that it will be dead already. Corked, or mistreated and heated to the point of Thanks but NO Thanks. And a wine doesn't even have to be very old to be on its last legs, or dead already, like the 2003 Goats do Roam Laurie Lou provided a few weeks back. Determined to more precisely identify the nose and taste of said South African wine (call it my New Year's resolution, Mastering the Art of Wine Description), I pulled out a tasting wheel chart as I sniffed the Goats. Which is more accurate a phrase than you might guess, if goats are, as I am guessing, a bit musty-smelling. A definite whiff of damp cardboard. The odor of old basement. Not an aroma that induces one to plunge one's mouth into one's wineglass.

The wine smelled gamey, or moldy, something that was saying to me, without benefit of tasting chart, "Don't." I did anyway, and it wasn't awful. It was scarcely drinkable, but it wasn't deathly awful. I'm not familiar with this wine, but I think it's safe to say that Eau de Goats/Cotes du Moldy Basement is not the nose OR flavor at which the winemaker was aiming. The dang wine was corked.

What IS "corked," really? I'm so glad you asked. A "corked" wine is a wine that smells and tastes goaty, a wine that has been bottled with a cork that is contaminated with TCA (Sus, my slender chemist friend, this one is for you: 2,4,6-Trichloroanisole). This TCA contamination usually comes from the cork itself, but it can also come from the wine barrels or even the wood in the walls and beams of the wine cellars. So sometimes, a "corked" wine isn't directly the fault of the cork, a conclusion I have just drawn and find weirdly entertaining.

Still, given a winery-admitted TCA contamination rate of at least 3 percent (that's a LOT of wine bottles), many wineries are eschewing them. Corks, I mean. (Aside: I saw an actual cork tree at the Ferrari-Caranno estate, and it was way cool, not having been made into bottle stoppers. So I don't really mind if corks are replaced with plastic or even screwcaps. Long live the cork tree!)

TCA doesn't present a health risk, but it does foul the wine. Even in tiny tiny quantities, it can screw up the fruit flavors. As my preferred google result had it, "it imparts the aromas and flavors that are found objectionable." What is also entertaining, at least to me, is that most contaminated bottles are not returned to stores or sent back in restaurants. And I will just bet that that is because most people a) have lousy palates or mistakenly think the wine is MEANT to be goaty; or b) they don't want to deal with snooty servers who imply that they are wrong or morally suspect for impugning the expensive bottle of corked alcohol they have just opened. Or c) like me, they open the wine years and years after they bought it, and who knows where they bought it, or when? If it's b) for you, pal, and you're afraid to return a wine that tastes "off" because you're afraid the pretentious wine steward is gonna give you trouble, make HIM taste it. Works every time.

Did you know that the REASON one is supposed to swirl and sip just a splash of wine in the glass BEFORE sharing it with guests is precisely to identify corked wines BEFORE everyone else has a glassful? So you can replace that bottle immediately. It's corked, or it's oxidized, or lightstruck, or has "undergone unplanned secondary fermentation," which sounds like getting drunk twice in one night when you only meant to get sozzled once.

"Lightstruck" is a wonderful word, don't you think? It sounds as if one is dazzled by beauty. "Rarely have I been so lightstruck, but when that luminous redhead sashayed by the table, I fell to my knees and begged her to have my baby."

What the term actually describes is a wine that has been exposed to light (duh), causing a reaction that produces offputting flavors and aromas. The French call this ickiness "goûts de lumière," and it's more likely to happen to white wines in light bottles. A wine that is lightstruck will have a nose of what is described variously as cooked cabbage, corn nuts, wet dog or wet wool. See there? "Wet dog." I managed to get back to the topic of dogs! Oh ye of little faith. . .

You just don't know what you're getting with a wine until you try it out. Like Dio. Man, I love that dog more than all the wineries in France. And then some. No matter how old he really is.

*Postscript: This post is already too long for me to wax eloquent or otherwise about Barbaresco. Suffice it to say that it is one of the great wines of Piedmont, of ancient origin, and is, like the King, Nebbiolo-based.

Filibuster Alito! And pass on the Pinot.

2006-01-27T08:15:00.000-08:00

The other day I unleashed a withering and largely unprovoked attack on Pinot Noirs for which I feel the need to explain.

It was like this: I had a rough day. A challenging day. A day where I inadvertently mailed a smarmy Web link to some friends; gave myself a fat lip; and scraped a cocklebur over my face. On such a day, let's face it, Pinots are an easy target.

The porn-ish URL I sent to some email buddies was the result of being a fan of rudepundit.blogspot.com. Which is over the top on the best of days. And on THIS day, AFTER I'd sent the link, I discovered Mr. Rude Pundit had written a new post. About our esteemed Commander in Chief being a serial masturbator, about which I can offer no information, except to apologize again to my friends for the very very very detailed depiction of the aforementioned activity. If "activity" is the right word.

On this same day, I had developed a little blister on the inside of my bottom lip, aggravated by salty foods at a potluck. I love salty foods. I don't love cold sores or fever blisters or whatever the heck this annoying little thing was. So I dabbed it with a solution given to me by a friend for just such a purpose. I thought. This liquid, Ora5 I believe it's called, is actually copper sulfate. Which apparently is a chemical developed to burn human skin. What it did was annihilate the blister, oh yes indeedy, in about three seconds flat, the same amount of time it took to give me a lip that puffed up like a poisonous toad.

My day was not over, sadly. Later that evening, I selected a clean washcloth from the laundry basket and proceeded to wash my face. Oh what a selection that was: As I was rinsing, I felt a big owie on my forehead. And stared at the washcloth in disbelief. There, embedded in the dark fabric, was a cocklebur. This was not an ordinary, flea-sized cocklebur, but a largish cocklebur. A cocklebur on steroids. Which had left its marks, nay its RUNNELS, on my face.

Following the tearful icing of my lacerated lip and grooved forehead, and leaving aside the unanswerable question of how Atlas Cocklebur came to live in my clothes hamper, I reflected on my misfortune. 'Twas then I realized that it was no ordinary day, no, for I had sipped a Pinot Noir with dinner. I had my culprit.

I also have fresh gashes on my neck courtesy of my step-cat Jake, who has taken to using me as both rickshaw and rickshaw driver, soaring to my shoulder to hitch a free ride anytime he dam' well feels like it. As his mother was ignorant in her youth and so had him declawed, which is essentially like having the first joint lopped from one's fingers, Jakie clings with his back claws. Clings for dear life.

But really, what are neck scratches when compared to, let's say, the lower right quadrant of a mouth that is shedding flesh like a legless reptile? And what is THAT shredded flesh set next to the prospect of Samuel Alito protecting our Lawbreaker in Chief and other corporate miscreants from his lifetime perch on the Supreme Court? (Interestingly, it is Rude Pundit who offers the best summary of the Much Scalito Ado About Nothing brouhaha. So go here, if you dare: rudepundit.blogspot.com)

And now, dear reader, I head into the weekend, scarred and humbled, sure of only one thing: 'Twill be a while before I again try a Pinot.

WWJD?

2006-01-26T07:27:00.000-08:00

The Princess and the Pea (no)

We pause here for a word about Pinot.

Okay, several words.

Pinot Noir, not Pinot Blanc. This is a red wine blog, in case you hadn't noticed.

Pinot Noir. Eh. I simply am not wild about it. I know, I know, the movie Sideways kicked Pinot Noir into high gear, popularity-wise. Big deal. My tastebuds don't know from popular. And Pinot is all over the map. Yeah, yeah, it's a "finicky" grape. Very sensitive, very reactive to, I dunno, everything. Fog, sun, clouds, wind, weather, bumptious tourists clumping past the vines. . .

Here's what I say: Get over yourself, Pinot. What a wuss you are. Suck it up like the big boys, the Cabs and Zins and Petite Syrahs. Get some STRUCTURE already. Burgundy shmurgundy.

Yes yes, I'm quite sure you're right, and the problem is that I just haven't had a fine example of the grape. So ship me one, already. I keep trying Pinots, goodness knows I keep TRYING, and for what? They fail to impress. And woe is me, my beloved Costco is pushing the Pinots heavily, allowing them to take up a good third of the top-tier wine bins. Argyle, Erath, King Estate, Yadda Yadda. It's like a bad wine cable show: All Pinot, All the Time.

I did like the 2003 Mirassou Pinot Noir well enough. Cherry, vanilla, easy drinking. Not bad at all, and you can't beat the price with a gnarly stick. The 2003 Stephen Vincent Pinot that Laura popped over with is decent. I suppose. Can you hear the enthusiasm dripping from the keyboard? Pinot for me is like an okay writer; he's sometimes a good writer, sometimes not so good, but he's yet to be memorable. Who the hell wants to read an "okay" writer? I'm too OLD to spend time with "okay" books! I want GREAT books. Like books, wines are ubiquitous, and there are many many good, and some great, examples out there. (And yes, this is a wake-up call to the members of my reading group. Why why WHY are we still plodding through "okay" or "merely good" books? Your assignment: find some GREAT ones to recommend. And YES, Rule Number One still goes: You have to have read it yourSELF! and LOVED it!)

But Pinot Noir ain't cuttin' it for me. Which is why I can't remember the ones I've sampled. I do remember that, when someone orders a Pinot at a restaurant (needless to say, that someone ain't ME), they're generally pricey. Yes, yes, it's true, Pinot Noir is a good food wine - for when you want a red wine but all that seems to go with the salad or fish or whatever dish is white wine; then Pinot is an option.

Just not a very attractive option. I give you television, where show after show features characters sipping on a glass of some supposedly red wine. These "red" wines are always anemic-looking, as if the props people just couldn't be bothered to add a touch more dye to the dam' colored water in the goblet. This makes me CRAZY, as when someone throws in an irrelevant and highly irritating apostrophe, especially when trying to form the possessive "its," or when butchering a simple plural. As the pirate said, "ARRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHH!"

People, is it so hard to find a REAL red wine for the show???? These "television wines" are not the right color for a blush wine (rose'), and they simply don't have enough hue or density to be red wines. They're not crimson, or deep reddish-orange, or purply. They look fake. They do not look like wine. They are WEAK. They are the centrist Democrats of the wine world, DINOs (Democrats In Name Only) doing a lousy imitation of the real thing. Chateau Lieberman, that's what I'm saying.

My point here is that either these insipid-looking faux wines are BAD PROPS, or they're Pinots, or they're suPPOSED to be Pinots, because gee, what ELSE would our characters be delicately slurping? Gosh, I dunno, how about a Shiraz? A Tempranillo? A Malbec, a meritage, a modest Sangiovese? A wine with legs, a wine with body, a wine with COLOR? Is that too much to ask from a red wine????? I think not. And given the flaccid look of these made-for-TV wines, this wonkette would even settle for a Merlot.

What would Sandra Oh drink? Heck, what would JESUS drink? Ask yourself that. Because I do not think the Big Guy would have wasted His time turning water into Pinot. At least not the Pinots I've had.

Fine/Fun Wines of '05

2006-01-20T08:10:00.000-08:00

My motor is still running on '05 time. That's the only excuse I can muster at this hour for my shameful delay in publishing my wholly arbitrary Best Wines I Tasted in 2005 list. To wit, and in no particular order of merit:

The 1998 Gallo of Sonoma Barrelli Creek Vineyard Zinfandel (and I only wish I'd had the funds or foolhardiness to clean out the shelf at Hy-Vee Wines. Thank the gods I still have one or two left.) $22 or thereabouts. A favorite.

The 2001 Guenoc Petite Syrah (no surprise there). Sigh. I love this wine, at home or at Pot Pie, but not at Poco's, where they want close to $50 for it, dammit. You can find it for $17.

Every single yumalicious Zin I tasted from Seghesio. From the blue-cap Sonoma to the red-top San Lorenzo Alexander Valley, this vineyard iz a Zin master. $17 to $40. Definitely my favorite winery of the year. Their Barbera is good as well. . . we're saving the Omaggio Super-Tuscan for another year.

The St. Francis Zinfandel, 2001 AND 2002. We found this in Nancy's wine rack last summer, and oh what a pleasant find it was! (Nancy, if you're reading this, I'm very sorry you weren't home to enjoy the wine. Rest assured the rest of us did.)

A nod of best-value admiration to the Columbia Crests Two Vines Shiraz, both the 2001 and 2002. 88 to 90 points, and $6!!!! Can't argue with THAT.

The 2001 Columbia Crest Grand Estates Merlot, at $10 a total steal, 90 Wine Spectator points of smooth lusciousness.

The 2001 Simi Cabernet Sauvignon. Of course. 90 or 91 points, and $18 at Costco. And to think I squirreled away a bottle of the hard-to-find Simi Landslide, which rates even HIGHER! Life is good.

The 2001 Dry Creek Mood Hill Cabernet. IMHO, if it says Dry Creek on it, you're home free. Probably about $17 at the winery, which also makes good Zin and a great Meritage.

The 2001 Flora Springs Cabernet Sauvignon (89 points, if it matters). Actually, as was the case at Seghesio, I liked every single wine I tasted at Flora Springs. "Spring" for the Trilogy sometime, and call me! ($60)

Nobilo Sauvignon Blanc, 2003, 2004. . . and every other S.B. I've tasted from New Zealand's Marlborough County. Kiwi, lime, grapefruit, wonderful summery goodness. Yep, a white wine made my list!

The 1999 and 2000 Masi Campofiorin Ripasso - Kim Tappan votes with me on this big guy from Veneto (Italy), a brawny Valpolicella that's fantastic every vintage I've tried. Dudes, it's only $15! (Although if wine push comes to wine shove I'll take my tried-and-true Tomassi Ripasso any old night of the week. Heaven.)

I almost forgot: 2001 Dark Star Cellars Paso Robles Syrah from Meeker Vineyard. Don't know why the guys at Gomer's Liquors dog Paso Robles; not when there's this wine to sip.

For everyday drinking: Always decent, and decently priced: Hess Cabernet Sauvignon; Bogle Petite Syrah AND Bogle Chardonnay.

Emotional favorite: the Icon Syrah Laura brought on our late-season camping trip. Although she spilled most of hers, several times, this Ravenswood bottling won "best of campsite," which wasn't hard given the Croatian bottlecap swill we began with -- but it also beat out a stellar Merlot. I blame the Icon for the out-of-context crude-sounding phrase with which I assaulted everyone within earshot as we snortingly shared, 'round the campfire, what we remembered of our first sexual experiences; it was a rousing, soused evening highlighted by Sus's observation that, in my knit cap and jacket, I looked like "a salmon fisherman setting out to sea." This from a woman so bundled up all we could see of her was her perky little nose. . . and why SALMON, I ask you? What was there in my drunken demeanor and carefree ensemble that spoke of SALMON? Why not swordfish? Why not tuna, or tilapia? And while I'm at it, do I LOOK like the old man in The Old Man and the Sea? ("No," I can hear Sus saying thoughtfully, "but you do remind me of my Polish grandmother." Sus is given to such cryptic pronouncements. Pronouncements that do not sound flattering, drunk OR sober.)

The morning after gets my nod for second-worst morning of 2005. A hangover, a hard bed, a cold tent, a disgruntled girlfriend, and a lost key. The key to the car. The car that held our food. Our breakfast. And it started raining.

Happy new year to you, and remember: All bad mornings must end eventually, and all bad wines can be recycled. Poured out, or given to Mom for cooking, or foisted on friends who ain't so picky.

Hedonism in November

2006-01-17T11:37:00.000-08:00

It was a wine-off.

I suppose it was because no one was going to try to compete with Leeser in the food department.

It was her housewarming party, and as usual she was working under the "Nothing succeeds like excess" credo. The girl, brought up on a dairy farm, doesn't know how to make a normal amount of food. (I don't know that her outsized cooking is a result of the cows surrounding her childhood home, but SOMETHING about her family background is surely responsible.)

Figure maybe 15 or 20 people invited to her party. Figure a few of them won't show. Figure she had enough food for dozens more: Hummus oozing with olive oil, roasted garlic and peppers. Brie buried under pounds of walnuts and clover honey. An antipasto platter groaning with meats, artichokes, tomatoes and olives. Mango salsa, tomatillo sauce, breads and crackers and chips of every variety. And Rotel burning in a crockpot in the kitchen (not Lisa's fault, or mine, neither the Rotel nor the burning thereof).

All this from a kitchen the size of a car mat.

And there was enough beer stacked on the back porch to satisfy a concert crowd. But enough about beer: I selected a half dozen wines for the party by virtue of their sale price and drinkability - Rosemount reds, for the most part, blends of Cab/Shiraz, Grenache/Shiraz, Cab/Merlot. Perfectly respectable wines for casual drinkers. . . But I had no intention of drinking any of THAT.

For myself and a few select others, I chose the Guenoc North Coast 2001 Petite Syrah, and it was a highly inspired choice: Rich and fruity, balanced and big, it went with EVERYTHING on the overloaded table. Plus it was PRETTY, inky and purply dark. I poured a wee glass for myself, Andie and Lisa, then tucked the bottle carefully behind a stack of cups and plates, from which discreet location it was steadily, happily depleted*.

The next bottle through the door was a Nouveau Beaujolais, always festive in November. Except it was dreadful, according to those unlucky enough to try it. I never expect much from a Nouveau Beaujolais, with reason. So who cares who made it? Not I.

Then Laura arrived, with her own bottle -- not, as I might have expected, the Icon Syrah, which we had camping and which I liked quite a bit and which Laura didn't get much of, on account of she kept knocking over her glass -- and it was (practically) our first bottle -- but with the Sin Zin. A fine name, a fun label, featuring a 17th centry German etching. I'd been wanting to try the Sin Zin, and it was good, warm and spicy/peppery (someone else said it had raspberry-rhubarb notes), although I still preferred the Guenoc P.S. And so did Laura*.

Another guest -- Kathy? Sue? -- brought in a Sangiovese, the Italian Di Majo Norante. It was ruby colored, tasting of plums and earth. I'd had it before, and while it was no Sin Zin or Guenoc Petite Syrah, it was decent. Price breakdown on the featured bottles? About $17 for the Guenoc P.S., about $20 for the Sin Zin, maybe $10 for the Nouveau Beaujolais and the Sangiovese. The Rosemount blends run about $8, the more flavorful single grape bottlings a few dollars more.

I confess a nostalgic fondness for Rosemount wines, as it was the Rosemount Merlot that got me started on my love affair with reds. And oh baby, Rosemount doesn't make solely inexpensive, easy-quaffing wines. Their 2001 GSM, which I believe is a Grenache/Syrah/Mourvedre, racked up 93 points from Wine Spectator and costs less than $30 at GOC (good old Costco). That's considerably less than Lisa spent on the spread for her little housewarming, the leftovers from which fed Andie and me for days.

C'est amusant, n'est-ce pas?

2005-11-01T10:46:00.000-08:00

I keep forgetting to write this piece. Just as I forget to write down my dreams. I also forget to write down the entries for the one book I hope to finish before I am too decrepit to pick up a pen. If pens still exist at that time. Which they probably will, since I am halfway between youth and death. I think.

I've always been forgetful. At least I THINK I've always been forgetful. Hard to remember, actually.

But I haven't always been indifferent to the Columbia Crest Two Vines Shiraz. The 2001 version of this wine rated 90 points by the Wine Spectator, which is as good a benchmark for trying wines as I know. Certainly better than relying on movie reviewers for one's weekend viewing fare. But I digress. Which is a book title if I've ever heard one. It could be a bumper sticker as well, perfect for me no matter the vehicle: But I Digress. Like a professor of mathematics or science, I digress more than I. .. what's the opposite of digress? Transgress? Egress? Largesse?

The largesse offered by the Columbia Crest Two Vines line is notable. Lower in price than the Columbia Crest Grand Estates line, the Two Vines Shiraz - and the Cab as well - offers considerable value. The wines are often on sale for $6 or so, a price even my mother would like. I think. Hard to say, really. Mom does like a bargain, but she also sneered at the first-class digs I arranged for her through Priceline at the Hyatt Regency. Too fancy. No Continental breakfast. And horror of horrors, no coffee maker in the room. But I digress.

The thing is, my taster is off. I don't know if this is a hormonal issue, but I DO know that wines just ain't tastin' right to me of late. Case in point: Sunday at the potluck, we carted in a CC Two Vines Shiraz -- a 2002, which rates almost as high as the 2001 -- and the Ravenswood Syrah from Southeast Australia, both of which I've had before and really liked. The CC Two Vines Shiraz is full of berries and chocolate, and it's smooth. A terrific wine to adopt as one's "house wine," good at 3x the price, ya know? But, even given the fact that Leeser and I like some roughness to our wines, the CC just didn't cut it. And neither did the Ravenswood. The Ravenswood wines, as ubiquitous as the Columbia Crest offerings, are usually DECENT quaffs -- although for sheer consistency and value, the Washington wines of Columbia Crest can't be beaten. Columbia Crest bottles zillions of wines every year, and it's hard to believe how good they are, produced in such quantity. The CC Grand Estates Merlot 2001 is a 90-pointer, and the Chardonnay ($11 or so, $9 at Costco) is always yummy, especially for lovers of oak. But I digress. . .

Lately, there have been other wines that have left me grimacing, wines that I had previously enjoyed. I can't blame it on a bad bottle, because Andie and Lisa found them tasty enough. Do palates shift that much? I know they do change, but I always thought that was a gradual process. Like the first time I ever tasted "fine French wine," I almost spit out a mouthful. I was only 16 or 17, and I'd thought "real" wines would taste BETTER, somehow. Up to that point, I'd slurped Boone's Farm, Strawberry Glen and Ripple, Pagan Pink or Precious Pear or somesuch, so I'll grant you I was expecting more of a grape juice experience. EESH.

Clearly, that was many years ago. Many wines ago, many women and songs ago. Years matter. YEAR matters. As in the year grapes are harvested. During Sunday's foray to the Hyvee Wine Shop (which is kickass, Kansas Citians. Many selections, many wines on sale), Leeser was talking aloud about the vintage: "Well, I know we liked this wine before. 2001, 2002, there's not gonna be much taste difference, is there? Same label, same. . . oh. The weather WOULD make a difference in the grapes each year, wouldn't it? Duh." Lisa was raised on a farm. She should know that stuff. For those who don't, just remember, the year written on the wine label is the date the grapes were harvested, not the year the wine was bottled (which may be years later). Again, that date on the wine bottle is called the vintage.

I can't recall the vintage on the astounding Croatian wine we took camping last weekend. I can recall just HOW and WHY it was astounding, but I'll save that story for another time. If I only remember to write it. Like that book I want to write. It's a book of titles. Titles of would-be books, titles that pop from people's mouths in the course of everyday conversation. I can't remember any of those titles right now, but I know they're amusing and quirky. Which sounds like one of those too-too wine reviews. "The Menage a Quatre 2003 is an amusing and quirky little effort from the folks at Screw Napa Vineyards. . ." As if that description helps one pick a wine. Although I gotta tell ya, it's a great way to pick a girlfriend.

Virginia Ain’t for Lovers (of wine)

2005-08-29T11:02:00.000-07:00

Oh, the perils of red wine drinking. The fuzzy tongue, the puckery tannins, the headache, the arrest on criminal charges. . .

Okay, that last side effect of red wine wasn’t one I’d ever come across. Or considered. It is, however, what happened to my favorite niece Tamsin*, who’s facing a big fine and time in the slammer for drinking responsibly. Who knew that was a crime? In George Bush's America, for crissake!
*The miscreant's name has been changed for blogging purposes, and to protect her identity until after the court date. Because her mother is still my big sister, and I'm still afraid, I mean respectful, of her.

Background. . . Tam’s story is this: Home for the summer after her first year in college, the slightly built, slyly humorous 19-year-old was hanging out on the deck of a friend’s house with some of her buddies. Wine was offered, and consumed. She doesn’t know what KIND of wine, only that it was red, “and came in a big bottle. Not a jug, but one of those bottles that are bigger than the regular kind.”

Okay, so we can’t indict her for the crime of drinking wine from a box.

Tam, whom I’ve not known to be much interested in alcohol, had a couple glasses of wine that fateful evening. If you’re thinking “DUI” at this point, you can think again. Bright girl that she is, my niece had her friend Drew drive her home. “Home” is in Alexandria, Virginia, and Tamsin had been told more than once by the parental units to look out for the speed traps in the upscale ‘burbs, like the one in Vienna. The one where Drew was pulled over and ticketed when he unwittingly drove 45-mph through a 35-mph speed zone. His first ticket -- and on such a memorable night!

Now Drew hadn’t been drinking. Still, there he was, getting a ticket for speeding, probably grimacing at Tamsin during the process. It may be that Tam grimaced back, and the cop observed the telltale purply tongue that says so clearly, “I’ve been slurping red wine. Or chewing purple gum.” Or perhaps Tamsin leaned out her window and breathed a big red wine breath all over the traffic cop. Although I can’t think why she would do this, or why a passenger in a car would attract the attention of a police officer writing up a speeding ticket. It may be there are details Tam has not shared with me. It may be that she was lolling drunkenly on the driver’s shoulder and leering up at the officer. It may be that the cop had just bet his partner he could slap two tickets on the next car to set wheel on his turf.

Here’s what happened: The policeman asked the slender blonde college girl -- the PASSENGER -- to take a Breathalyzer test. Is that weird, or what? (Her lawyer's explanation was succinct. "This is Virginia," he said. Whatever that means. Although since it was prom night, I think it means, "Virginia cops are mean bastards, and love to pull over kids they think have been having too much fun at a high school dance.")

Mindful of stories about brutalizing police types, and nervous as most of us are when faced with an intimidating uniformed officer of the law, the PASSENGER agreed to the Breathalyzer. Now she’s been charged with “illegal possession of alcohol,” having registered a blood alcohol content of .08 or so. (Tam can’t be bothered to remember little details like her offending BAC, a quality of insouciance that endears her to her mother.)

As I’m hearing this story, I’m laughing my butt off. Insensitive on my part, to be sure, given that the responsible lass is facing a stiff fine, possible jail time, and undoubtedly many hours of community service, not to mention lawyer fees, but “illegal possession of alcohol?” I guess her bladder and bloodstream were in possession of the offending liquor, because there were no open containers of alcohol in the car, which would be a crime under Virginia law. And there was no driver who was intoxicated, or under the influence, or impaired, which would be a crime.

I try to google this authoritarian overreach, this railroading of a harmless, responsible imbiber, but everything out there is about the perils of drinking and DRIVING, not drinking and lounging in the passenger seat. In fact, on the Young Adults Educating Responsible Drinking site, I find practical advice under “What Should I Do if I Drink Too Much?” Not surprisingly, the reader is instructed to “Find someone who has not been drinking to give you a ride home.” Maybe Tamsin can sue YAERD to recover her legal fees and fines. “Your honor, it’s true that I’m under 21 and I drank a little red wine one night. At a friend's house. Whose parents were home. That makes me FRENCH, not a criminal.”

Tam would appear to be guilty of underage drinking, which in Virginia means that, if you’re under 21, it’s unlawful for you to register a blood alcohol level higher than .02%. (Where's the zero tolerance? Why not 0.00%? I think of this as the “Nyquil loophole.”)

I'll repeat that: She's apparently guilty of underage drinking. Guilty of underage drinking. Her attorney could have a field day with this one. "Your honor, let he who is without guilt cast the first fine here. Our jails are full of drug fiends and poor black men; we can't conceivably fit in another 100 million underage drinkers and those who would confess to having BEEN underage drinkers." Suddenly I'm transported back to my halcyon high school daze in Nebraska, a blur of weekends out under the trees sampling the delights of cherry vodka and Boone's Farm. . .

One question keeps nagging at me, all the more so because I’ll never get an answer: What kind of red wine were they drinking???? Tamsin has no idea.

I’m betting it was Glen Ellen. Or Vendange, or Inglenook. Or even Sutter Home. You know, those inexpensive so-so wines that often are packaged in double-sized bottles (they're called magnums, Tam). The wines that are at least wines, and a bare step up from boxed wines or Ripple or Strawberry Hill, or the mongo jugs o’ wine from Gallo or Carlo Rossi that were a staple in my parents’ fridge while I was growing up.

God, if only she’d been arrested for sipping on a ’99 Brunello, or a Tomassi Ripasso. The situation would still be ludicrously stupid, but at least it would be worth it.

The Reign in Spain

2005-08-12T09:16:00.000-07:00

Sum-sum-summertime

Still "under the weather." Still soulsick in this unrelenting swampy Kansas City heat. Nothing unusual in it, but not much to like, either. It's gone on long enough that I was starting to reach for more white wine, reds seeming too. . . I dunno, warm, thick, HOT . . . but whites just don't trip my taste trigger like reds. They're refreshing, yes -- and another tip o' the winetaster hat to the consistently good Sauvignon Blancs from New Zealand's Marlboro County -- they're refreshing, and tasty on their own, without food, whereas reds seem to need food accompaniments to come alive -- but anyway, good old Costco had a bin of Rioja Crianza that caught my eye.

And am I glad it did. I picked up a bottle of El Coto Rioja Crianza 2001, even though I don't often reach for Spanish wines. Don't know much about 'em. . . This one, however, is made solely from Tempranillo grapes, and that's a grape I like. With pizza, for sure -- and with BLTs, as I just discovered. My gosh, what a GREAT summer supper: fresh tomatoes, bacon, lettuce, mayo on good wheat bread, with an ear of corn on the side. And a big whoppin' glass of the El Coto. Happy mouth!

Andie's tip on this wine: Let it breathe. She claims it tasted better the second glass.

Rioja lesson of the day: I just read this online, "Rioja is to Spain what Chianti is to Italy." Hmm. At first, when I read this, I thought, "Oh." Like I understood it. Because Italy is known for Chianti, and Chianti is seemingly ubiquitous -- so that must mean that Rioja is the big common wine of Spain; but then I thought, "Well dang, I don't LIKE or TRUST most plain old Chiantis. Chianti Classicos, sure. But there are a boatload of bad Chiantis out there. . . " Come to think of it, maybe that's what it meant. Widely available, and wildly inconsistent.

Here's the little I know: Riojas are blended from a number of grapes (which isn't true of Chiantis, which as far as I know are basically made from the Sangiovese grape). The primary Rioja grape, though, is Tempranillo, which has a nice spicy red cherry flavor to it. "Crianza" means the Rioja has been aged for three years before being released. If it's been aged four years, it's called a "reserva," and if it's aged six years, "gran reserva." My Spanish is pitiful, so forgive me if I butchered that. In any case, the Crianzas are more affordable, having been aged for a shorter period of time -- but I PREFER them to the reservas, because they're. . . fresher, I think is the word I'm looking for. More fruit forward. Young and summery.

The El Coto Rioja Crianza 2001 has won awards, I see. Well, AN award, anyway: a silver medal in an international competition. More importantly to me, it wins the Winetaster Summer Sippin' Award. Go fix a BLT, cool this baby for 45 minutes in the fridge, pop it open, and enjoy. It's only ten bucks.

I'm heading back to Costco for more.

The Color of Exploitation

2005-08-11T13:56:00.000-07:00

It took three separate trips to California's Wine Country for me to get it. It sunk in slowly, one lush vineyard at a time, one campesino at a time: The color of wineries is brown. Beige, tan, rust-hued, like a rose gone bad. Like a peasant driving a horse-drawn wagon up a hill winding through endless rows of vines; like a Mexican immigrant trimming the artfully landscaped shrubbery at a faux-Mediterranean villa complete with fountains, ponds, bridges, sculpture, marble; like the dirt under the nails of a laborer in the fields whose native language is not yours. Or mine.

Like wine that derives from juice pressed and separated from the grape skins right after crushing, the color of wineries (in this country) at first appears white. Pale, like a straw-shaded Sauvignon Blanc, pale as all the servers in the tasting rooms, all the courteous Caucasians waiting on the pale-colored tourists at the counter, pale as the winemaker emerging from his immaculate, sunless cellars. Yet behind the pleasantly bland, colorless exterior presented to the public is the darker backbone supporting the wine industry, the sweat and the toil of the sun-baked peasants who work the fields to produce the grapes to make the wines of the white white owners of the wineries. Always it has been so, in California. Inside the white. Outside the brown. Inside the air-conditioning, the money, the pleasant chatter of the vacationing class. Outside the heat and the dust, the low wages, the halting English and fluent Spanish.

On some level, I've known for a long time that the serving class in this country is not white, not of this country (with the exception of servers at restaurants, who are most often white. White actors. . . ) But I've been color-blind when it comes to wines; that is, when it comes to the effort required to produce them. I love wines, as I love good coffee. Now, in addition to fending off attacks from friends who cannot understand my attachment to Starbucks (it's the coffee. But not just the coffee. And that's a story for another day.), I find myself defensive about wines. And with good reason.

Last night, I dreamed of wine. I dreamed that I called it "reflective, literally and figuratively." Smart dream, that: Wine is literally reflective, catching the light in crystal shards and tossing it back in the drinker's eye; and it's figuratively reflective, inducing meditative thoughts with its liquid beauty, its color. Its color. . .

I lift a glass of the Dry Creek Mood Hill Cabernet to the light, and it looks red, so red. I pour out a class of the overpriced, delicious Viognier from Pride Mountain, and it's so very white. Red, and white. Blood, and tears. How obvious is that? I've been colorblind.

It's too dam' hot!

2005-07-29T13:25:00.000-07:00

How hot is too hot?

The dam' dog days of summer are upon us, and this scorching, unrelenting heat tests the tastebuds of red wine lovers. I like my red wines to warm my belly -- with flavor, both subtle and big. Hence, I favor Zins and Petite Syrahs and elegant blends, like the 2002 Omaggio we scored at Seghesio Vineyards in Healdsburg. That's in Sonoma County, above San Francisco, and it was one of our favorite wineries on our late June vacation. We had a great time with friends who've just bought a Victorian rowhouse on the Castro - you know, one of those classic turn-of-the-century houses used in movies as an INSTANT symbol of San Francisco? That and the swarms o' gay men -- more than usual, as we unwittingly planned our summer sojourn in California to coincide with Gay Pride. Unless you've been to New York, you don't know from Pride until you've seen hundreds of thousands of wildly-clad gays bumpin' like ants spilling from an anthill. . . the hill being the Castro. It's quite a hill: Climbing back to the rowhouse from our morning walk to fetch coffee from Spike's was a calfburner.

But back to the Omaggio (which means "homage," I think). That's a Super Tuscan (a Sangiovese and Cabernet blend, in this case) first made by Seghesio back in '95 to honor the 100th anniversary of the winery. A century of great Zins, and the Seghesio family has only had three winemakers in all that time. We had a splendid premium tasting there, trying just about everything but the ubiquitious "bluecap" Zin that made us fans of Seghesio in the first place. The bluecap, around $20 at retail outlets, is a fine fine Zin, esp. the 2002 and 2003, but it's so popular they had none left at the winery. The Omaggio, at $40, was Andie's choice for our first anniversary wine. She also fell for, and purchased, an Arneis, an Italian white, mineral and clean, perfect for summer, and a nice surprise for both of us, as she has not previously warmed to whites.

Warmed to whites. Heh. It's the reds that are generally served too warm in restaurants, room temperature these days being quite different from former centuries. I still have to overcome snotty server attitude, or at least a dubious look, when I courteously request a chiller to take a red wine down to 64 degrees, anyway. Even places with good wine lists often serve the reds at least ten degrees too warm. Dulls the taste. Like this Kansas City heat dulls everything: appetite, energy, motivation. . . I ask again, as I always do about this time of year, Why do we live in Kansas City?

Used to be we could answer, "cost of living." Our property taxes skyrocketed this year, we longtime supporters of fringe neighborhoods getting socked with the bill for the city choosing to waive taxes on new developers and the yupsters who can afford to buy the condos multiplying in Midtown and downtown. But hey, even though San Fran has Wine Country, it also has housing prices that truly beggar belief. Our friends pay 60 percent of their combined salaries on an interest-only loan for what is actually HALF of a rowhouse. The location is killer, but with a mortgage like that, they can't afford much wine. And yet, and yet: It's ALWAYS wine-sipping weather in San Francisco, with the locals having the temerity to COMPLAIN about cool summer days that require sweatshirts and jeans. We loved it.

Tippling in Tucson

2005-04-11T14:37:00.000-07:00

Ah, Tucson. Perfect balm for an endless Kansas City winter. Clear skies over the mountains, desert in full, gorgeous bloom, my oldest friend and a bottle of wine waiting for me. Now THAT, Grasshopper, is a spring break.

The bottle of wine was a 2000 Dynamite Cabernet Sauvignon. Friend Linda had no notion of its quality, as despite her many attributes she is a white wine woman. The Cab was a gift from a patient of hers, she said. Funny, that: It would never occur to me to gift my physician with a bottle of wine. Unless I were invited to her home for dinner.

Linda is a doctor (a pulmonary specialist), and we did present her with a bottle of wine, but that was for the friend, not the physician. She seemed to enjoy her 2004 Nobilo Sauvignon Blanc, a prime example of the luscious SBs from New Zealand's Marlborough region. Andie and I enjoyed the Dynamite Cab, too, but not as much as we enjoyed the 2003 Windmill Zinfandel that accompanied our Sunday night pasta, which was smothered in garlic and fire-roasted tomatoes and green chile. At $12, the Windmill Zin is half the price of the Dynamite Cab -- proving that price does not necessarily match up with taste. Or preference.

At the Rum Runner Wine Store, we had a delectable dinner at The Dish, a small restaurant tucked at the back. The food was quite good (although the prices caused my beloved's already pale face to blanch further), and the wine list naturally had quite a few choices -- although not by the glass. I sampled most of the interesting-looking reds on the by-the-glass list after first trusting the server and trying the Duckhorn Meritage. Eh. A funky, earthy nose, and a less smooth finish than Danny's choice: the velvety 2001 Flora Springs Cab, 89 points if I correctly recall my Wine Spectator rating. I also tried a Spanish wine and another meritage, without achieving satisfaction. In the end, for my second full glass, I ordered up the wine I'd recommended to Danny: the Flora Springs Cab. A $23 retail price tag, although Costco offers it for $18.99.

Strangely, The Dish was one of those upscale restaurants that serves its wine-by-the-glass selections in little carafes, presumably so they'll be precisely measured. I didn't like the presentation, though; surely they know how large their red wine glasses are? I'd have found it more aesthetically pleasing to have it poured from the bottle. Given that there's a 250 percent markup (over RETAIL), I wouldn't think they'd be losing money should they pour the occasional extra ounce of wine.

Passing the Baptist church at 29th & Holmes today, I read the sign. I note it here without comment: "Stop, Drop and Roll Won't Work in Hell. Jesus Loves All."

Okay, I'll comment: Hee-hee-hee!

Jes' Wine

2005-03-29T07:11:00.000-08:00

Tonight we sampled the modest ($8) Black Swan Cabernet Sauvignon, 2003, a putative "Best Value" according to Wine Spectator, whose experts surely have tasted more wines than I (the bastards), and surely know more than I. About wines, anyway. Although palates vary. I suspect friends and couples do best when they share similar palates. My friend Leeser and I are palate pals: We both love big garlic and big wine that has some spunk to it, like Zins and some Syrahs. Also basil and mushrooms and bleu cheese and pecans. When we taste dishes we're cooking, we usually agree on what's missing, what's overdone, what needs to be tweaked.

The Black Swan Cab didn't do much for me, or Leeser, or Andie. Not the first time around, anyway. We moved on, helping my sister Kelley with her bottle of Nobilio Sauvignon Blanc (the 2003, I think). I don't drink much white wine, but this one was terrific. Grapefruit nose, which Lisa calls "cat pee," and wonderful muted citrus flavors. I think the label was touting gooseberry and passion fruit, but I have no notion of what those might be. The New Zealand Sauvignon Blancs from the Marlborough region are just flat out GOOD. They often have a grapefruit and lime nose, and they're wonderfully refreshing. Those of you who don't like heavily oaked wines, and are tired of Chardonnays, have a wonderful surprise in store if you try these winners from Down Under. (Is New Zealand Down Under, like Australia? I mean, of course it IS "down under," but does one only use that to refer to Australia and not its more progressive, much smaller neighbor?)

And they go terrifically well with Thai food. Lisa, long may she wave, swung by the Westport Thai Place and picked up veggie pad Thai, coconut shrimp, basil chicken wings and spring rolls for our weekly L Word fest. Food review: good pad Thai, very good spring rolls, so-so chicken and "eh" shrimp. Television review: I'd rather have seen more Alice/Dana action, but at least Dana mustered the cojones to kiss off her icky, cat-killing fiance (who'd already moved on for Melissa Rivers, as it happens. Hee-hee! This season, the writing seems much better. And let's drink a toast to Jenny's new haircut!).

Lisa had a Nobilio tucked in her fridge, but we opted for the screw-top Kim Crawford Sauvignon Blanc 2004, another Marlborough/New Zealand SB. Once again, grapefruit and cat pee nose, and some pear. It was lighter/less distinctive in its fruitiness, and although it costs more and usually rates higher, none of us liked it as much as the Nobilio. Which is not to say that we didn't drink it. I drank it, actually. Way too much of it. Had a headache that lasted most of the night. Hydrate, Kim, hydrate! That's the problem with white wines -- they go down very easily. I'd never have slurped three glasses of red with dinner. One glass does me just fine -- and I remember to drink water.

A follow up note: The Black Swan Cab was MUCH better the next night, when I sipped it solo, with soup. I think it needed to breathe. As do we all. . .

March Madness

2005-03-15T09:19:00.000-08:00

The Burning Bowl Ceremony

We broke in the fire bowl this weekend, setting the patina on the copper with a great little blaze out under the apple tree. And in case you're wondering, the wine we chose to salute the flames was a modest 2000 R.H. Phillips EXP Viaje Syrah. Smacked a bit of sour cherry, as I recall. With over-and-undertones of wood smoke.

I love a good fire, especially outdoors. It's like the hot tub, more enjoyable under the open sky. Although maybe I feel that way because my own fireplace has been rendered nonfunctional and I'm too lazy/cheap to have it fixed. I have two towering chimneys and a beautiful mantle/fireplace from 1910 -- but I've never had the satisfaction of kindling a flame in the hearth. Not in this house.

We had ourselves a regular weinie roast, we did. Okay, feta and chicken sausages, from free-roaming, vegetarian hens. Oh the irony. Stuck the sausages on sharpened sticks and thrust them into the flames. They emerged. . . edible. To make sure they were SAFELY edible, we nuked 'em a bit afterwards. Next time I'll fire up the little charcoal grill alongside the copper bowl, so we can have satisfying flames AND satisfying food.

I'm just grateful we could enjoy an evening outdoors. In February. In Kansas City.

March Madness

Whether I'm sunk in a will-winter-never-end depression, or still stunned by the loss of my baby Brandyn, this past month has just SUCKED for any sort of productivity. Oh, the kitchen is largely painted (still needs the trimwork), and thanks to D. the dead redbud is no longer threatening to take down the north fence -- but I haven't been able to write, not even to blog. I'm as paralyzed as those boxes of clutter in the computer room that just sit there, month after month, defying my glares and groans of helplessness.

There's always wine. Thank the gods (Bacchus?). Which is why, Sunday evening, I prevented Leeser from pouring the entire 2000 Lake Sonoma Cabernet Sauvignon on the 'shrooms (she has a heavy hand with wine when it comes to mushrooms). Turns out this Cab was better than what the birthday girl had selected for our pasta, a 1999 Reserve Chianti Classico from some winery that features a unicorn on the label. The CC was a bit thin, lacking structure. Ah well. Insipidity happens.

Like I had this godawful boss who defined insipidity. And pettiness. And incompetence. The only way to celebrate her nasty life would be with a bottle of White Zinfandel. Across the bow of her sinking ship.

March wine tip: Somebody at Costco rated the 2001 Blackstone Syrah a lousy 83 points. I'd tack some points on that, and recommend it as a good everyday wine. Some cherry, some blackberry, a bit 'o pepper, a splash of oak. And a great nose.

Grief and Gallo

2005-02-23T07:48:00.000-08:00

Blogging Hiatus.

February 11. I am beginning to believe I can survive anything. It's been 40 hours since my baby left this world, and I'm still breathing. Raggedly. But breathing.

Not that survival is the name of the game. LIVING is the point. And I will live. I've had some time to try on the fact of Brandyn's mortality, and God has blessed me -- the universe has blessed me -- with someone who could hold me through this. I never thought anyone could, because I did not think anyone would UNDERSTAND my feelings for my spunky, harrumphing kitty. It took a person who was foolish or courageous enough to open her heart to a 20-year-old cat, a person who could both see and accept the bond I had with my little girl.

Have. I still feel Brandyn and realize I always will. Twenty years marks the longest intimate, unbroken relationship of my life, and now I see that it will be ongoing. That I will continue to commune with my baby girl, that I hold her within me. When I considered just what wine would be worthy to toast her life, I realized there were none. I toasted Brandyn's life and death with no wine at all.

It's days later and I'm still reeling. I'm in that weird purgatory place, neither where I was nor where I will be. Who I was or who I will be. . .

I will still be a wine lover, this I know. HOORAY for, of all places, HyVee Liquors at 75th and State Line Road -- not the grocery, but the wine store across the street. There I found -- or rather there the resident wine freak found -- me -- perusing the Zins. Lo and behold, he too was a Zin fan. He turned me on to a closeout, the Barrelli Creek Vineyard 1998 Zin. He bought up all he could find, and claims he cleaned out St. Louis in the process. I grabbed one, and took it to Kimmy Sue's, where we polished it off before our dinner. (Which was our own adapted recipe, kickass Chilean seabass, basted in white wine and lemon, and encrusted with pine nuts. We knocked it back with the 2001 Simi Cab, which is always good, but not, IMO, as tasty and full as the Barrelli Creek Zin.)

The good news: I love this wine. It's yummalicious smooth, warm and hearty, but not overpowering, with a delectable finish.

The bad news: It ain't available, even at $21. Also, one has to overlook/forgive the fact that it originates with Gallo Sonoma.

I did grab three bottles off the near-empty HyVee shelf a few days later. One is intended for my big sister Karen. Like me, she tends toward Cabs. But we seem to have similar palates, and I can't imagine her and Bill not loving this concoction. I like to get her wines she can't always find for herself.

The Barrelli Creek Zin tastes of black cherries and boysensberry jam, according to its label. Which also tells us that it's aged about a year in oak -- but for me, the real kicker, the main reason this wine makes my mouth so happy, is that it's not a "pure" red zin, but is blended with 20 percent Petite Syrah. I LOVE Petite Syrahs!

Funny that I can still love the taste of good wine when my heart is clenching and my eyes blurring with the pain of missing Brandyn. Some nights the bed screams out her absence, and I can't sleep, even with my plump, fat boy kitty gargoyles purring on opposite corners. But last night, I finally saw my baby in my dreams. I was hoping she would have plumped up on the astral plane, but I guess that will take some time -- for me. Brandyn has all the time in the world.

D-I-V-O-R-C-E

2005-01-24T06:51:00.000-08:00

It pains me to admit it, but Saturday night came and went without the imbibing of wine. It just didn't seem the thing, after Lemony Snicket, popcorn, Junior Mints and Schlotsky's.

Or maybe it's that the only open bottle at home was the 2002 Seigneurs de Bergerac, a blend of Merlot, Cab and Cab Franc that sounded promising. It was inexpensive (Lucas Liquors), and since it was a baby meritage, I had hopes for it. They were dashed. Had I considered it beforehand, I might have tried smuggling in a smidge of wine to accompany my Schlotzky's veggie sandwich. What goes with salt and vinegar potato chips? I'll have to ponder that.

Eh, as I've said many times before, and as the Stones said before me, you can't always get what you want.

In less than a week, I'm going to say goodbye to my two children, Ellie and Max. I've housed them and fed them and loved them for half their lives, but the time is upon me to let them go. Their Mom needs them, and I must learn to live without them. I have other children to tend, and Ellie and Max are returning to the home in which they were raised. They're actually my stepchildren, you see, and I have no wish to engage in a battle for custody. No, they rightfully belong to Kathy, and to Waldo they must return.

Not that Ellie is going to understand that. She's a sensitive, moody, needy girl, and I've spent more time with her these past years than her Mommy has. In fact, I've slept with her in my bed more than I have with Kathy, strange though that is to consider. I expect the adjustment will be most difficult for Ellie. Max is okay as long as his sister is with him -- she always has been -- and I will be okay. In time. Eventually. With some months under my belt. And the other babies to distract me.

And really, life will be easier. Physically, anyway. Tons less poop to pick up, Tons less chow to feed, Tons less mobile veterinarian visits, But still it makes me weep. . . (with apologies to Marilyn McCue and the Fifth Dimension)

This is the bitter taste of divorce. It sucks. It blows. It hurts. Despite the lack of a marriage contract. Despite the fact that Ellie and Max are frisky dogs, not little people. It's a sad truth that sometimes love just ain't enough. Not even when it's returned.

For Kathy, with whom I shared a home, a family, a life:

Interlude

On a suspension bridge
we are suspended
clear bracing air filtering the brown breezes
filling the space that surrounds us.

Rocking in a simulacrum of safety
familiar as salt
familiar as the cradle of your arms
I cannot believe we are at an end.
The bridge is so long
so seemingly strong/though
I cut the trusses myself
though I had help
though I know
outside the rocking I know
I had help.

In the dear known planes of your face
I touch my home
in the wrench of your mouth
I know my pain
and yours
and the pain to come.

Below us the tidal basin.

When the sun breaks
we will fall
Remember my heart
the art of floating.

The bridge tips toward the water
Iron. Inexorable.

Thrumming with terror
out beyond the collapsing span
I set my eyes on a splash of light
in the west.

I will miss Ellie and Max. I miss their mother. I love her, of course, and when she stops hating me so much she will remember that she loves me as well. We're family. We became a family because of love, and we'll remain family even as we step into separate lives, in separate houses.

The thought of this loss makes me want to howl at the moon. That's what wolves do. Dogs do. Humans -- well, we've been known to wail, and to gnash our teeth. We're animals, after all. When we're wounded, we howl with misery. And sometimes we drown our sorrows. What's the proper wine for the deep sting of divorce?

The Days of our Wines

2005-01-20T10:38:00.000-08:00

My baby cried out in her sleep today. I ran down the hall and into the bedroom, heart in mouth, to find her curled up on the bedspread still snoozing. It's come to this: She even calls to her Mommy in her dreams. Usually, she pads crookedly into the computer room to bitch me out for some perceived failure to anticipate her needs -- hunger, fresher litter, some plain old wait-on-me need for attention. (It's Andie, without the arthritis! With the fur coat! Without the litter box! With. . . you get the idea.)

Last night, Brandyn shared our in-bed feast of guacamole and veggie tacos, but skipped the accompanying Dark Star Cellars 2001 Paso Robles Syrah from Meeker Vineyard. Tasting Notes: Yum Yum Yum! Let's hear it for small family wineries! And small families. . .

A long time ago, in a land called Missouri, in a country called America, where a man named Ronnie was King, there lived a couple in a house at the end of a dead-end street that abutted a horse pasture. This couple had a feline child, Radclyffe, who died young and broke their hearts. They also raised another child, Jackson, a canine gamboler of mostly German (shepherd) descent. Long after the couple divorced, the woman Laura lived with Jackson, who gladdened her heart.

When Jackson passed on to the great Robandee fields in the sky, I (the other half of the couple) wrote a story of his life, and death. Although this was many years ago, I cannot read the story of Jackson without crying, even now. He was a gallant, steadfast, headstrong dog, and his like will not soon come again.

Laura was blessed with another puppy, Pablo, a Chocolate Lab who grew to be nearly 100 pounds. She was so close to Pablo, so entwined with him, that her friends could not decide if their attachment was humorous, or scarily intimate. When Pablo became ill, diagnosed with an advanced stage of cancer, Laura spent much money and time to help her friend. Pablo, sweet and loving Pablo, died swiftly for all Laura's efforts, and a new wound was laid on her heart. And mine.

WHY do we have animals? WHY do we raise pets? They cost money, they cause trouble, they end up breaking our hearts, and they don't even clean house, or fetch wine. What's the POINT? What's the POINT, I howl to the maddening sky, what's the POINT???? I'm TIRED of losing my best friends!

When I was a high-schooler, I and all my peers read Kahlil Gibran, the Lebanese prophet, and were enchanted by such wisdom as "But let there be spaces in your togetherness and let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another but make not a bond of love; let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls. "

Yesterday, decades after I last read Gibran, I came across this quote of his as I lay sniffling with my old baby cat in my arms, "Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding."

Bitter Dregs

2005-01-19T08:46:00.000-08:00

The words have been changed, but the wine remains

Today's original post is being excised at the behest of an introvert, who had suggested that for her, wine was a more apt metaphor for love than life. "Love is more like wine. . . Life is something that happens to us - we are born, we die, today is cold, tomorrow is warm, yesterday there were floods. . . Life happens every day. Love/wine - now there's something we choose! And develop our "palates" for...."

As if one needs another reason to drink. . . The journal Diabetes Care tells us that drinking alcohol -- in moderation, folks -- makes one less likely to develop such yucky things as high blood pressure, a chunky waist and low levels of good cholesterol. (I can never remember -- is that HDL? LDL? LOL? AWOL? But enough about our Liar-in-Chief. . . ) Drink up to 19 glasses of wine a month and you're 35% less likely than those pitiable non-drinkers to have those symptoms, known as metabolic syndrome.

Drink more than 20 drinks a month, and cut your risk even more. Stick to wine, that's the ticket -- and don't overdo it, or your health will get WORSE, not better. You can also court health with a beer a day -- if you must. As for me, beer is only good ice cold, on a hot day. And even then, one is more than enough.

Another Saturday night, and I ain't got my honey. . .
Yes, let's hear it for the Virgo! My way belated birthday gift from Debra is the 2005 Wine Guide, and a bottle of wine that she left on the counter at home. She claims. We were forced to start the evening with my 2003 Concho y Tora Casillero del Diablo, an inexpensive Chilean Cab with vanilla and cherry notes that isn't memorable enough to buy again, despite its 90-point rating from Wine & Spirits.

Then it was off to Houston's for a veggie burger. Luckily, there was only a 40-minute wait. They claimed. So there we are at the crowded bar, all abustle on a weekend night, lucky to snag stools, and Debra is ordering her usual potion, Malibu and pineapple juice. Yo-ho-ho! I'm perusing the wine menu. . . Hmm, a Newton Claret. . . . I consult the bartender; she's of the opinion that if I like dry wines, the Newton is gonna be too sweet. I talk her into a sample. She brings over a more than healthy shot, two or three ounces, and it's. . . completely non-descriptive. Nothing to object to. A bit too warm - hey, it's Houston's -- and smooth.

Next, she suggests the Firestone Cabernet. I swirl, I sniff, I sip. It doesn't turn my crank either, although the service I'm receiving is turning a few heads. Another young bartender volunteers a smidge of the Clos du Val Merlot. So now, I'm at this packed bar and I have three large glasses in front of me in a matter of 90 seconds, all sloshing with a shot o' red wine, and I notice I'm being noticed by more than a few fellow bar sitters. I exchange a comment or two about "Sideways" with the person nearest me, as my friend swears I am NOT a wine rep, or a wine buyer. A bit shamefacedly, I order the Merlot. 'Cuz it may be a Merlot, all soft and non-challenging, but its TASTE beats the Newton lips down, and I can't remember a thing about the Cab.

And as a gray Kenny Rogers/Kris Kristofferson clone keeps his eyes pinned on me from across the bar, I wonder if it's the flashy blonde giggling animatedly at my elbow (friend Debra happens to be eye candy), or if it's that I'm so obviously a wine freak. I try to sniff and swirl inconspicuously, I swear I do -- all I want is to experience the nose and the first palate impression -- but still I must stand out, if nothing else by virtue of the wine glasses lined up before me. I wish that guy would stop staring.

Too bad I'm a Virgo, not a Leo, or I could leap up on the bar clutching my three glasses and yell, "Got WINE?" Then I'd smile at the graybeard, point to him, and say, "The gentleman there is buying a round for everyone!" I'm sure Debra and I could escape in the confusion of Musical Chairs that would follow.

Chaos and Zins

2005-01-13T08:44:00.000-08:00

The most difficult thing I do most days is to decide what it is I'm feeling; what it is that is churning the most intensely in my belly. Is it my fear of loss, triggered by Brandyn's impending dance with the Grim Reaper? Is it money worries? Is it that feeling of being overwhelmed by mess and minutia, as when I step into my "office" to see mounds of paper leering at me; or panic at structural decay, touched when I see that the kitchen is beyond needing new paint, or the gutters need cleaning and the driveway needs patching and the hot tub needs a new filter and the birds are pooping all over the porch and where did I put that bill from MasterCard and the junk drawer is spilling over and I haven't gone to the rental house to clean up the gross fridge yet and I have cases of wine stored in the basement instead of the wine cooler which is full and will that wine age properly and why hasn't Laura called about that book I want to borrow and oh crap I forgot to call Kelly back about a coffee date and I need to start gathering stuff for my taxes and ask Sus's friend about getting that de-wormer for Picasso and talk to Jay again about the tree trimming and the oil gasket leak and remind Darcy that Jay isn't working and dam! I forgot to drop off Susan's New Year's gift but the sidewalks are so treacherous and Dio is whining for a walk but he's got that bad paw and everything is so icy and I want to send Cara that link about the self-destruction of the GOP but don't want to offend her and if Andie picks me up for dinner should we change the sheets then or wait until later in case Pook has an accident and I wonder if Robin reached Sherri about her overdue payment and why hasn't Gary dropped off his check and if Debra wants to hang out here Saturday I need to find time to do the floors and is it best to do my workout when I'm fresh in the morning or should I stick to the afternoon and save the early part of the day for writing and should I call the doctor to cancel that appointment to see if I have skin cancer since that ugly mark is fading on its own and when will Linda give me her 3-month schedule so we can plan a trip to Tucson and why wasn't I invited on the Galapagos trip not that I could go because of my ailing baby, but still. . .

Okay, it's definitely the overwhelming thing today. So: Just pick one task to tackle. One at a time. That's the way to beat back the chaos. And when that starts to grate, I'll give myself a break and do a Gomer's run, beause they've got their Zinfandels on sale and I'd like to try that Rosenblum Cuvee, and maybe the Cosentino Cigar Zin. It is so much fun for me that Andie is starting to dig wine. My grin leaped to my earlobes the other night when I walked up her drive and saw her through the window, sitting on the couch, scribbling on the crossword and pausing to lift a glass of wine to her lips. The look on her face was so contemplative, so considering, that I knew what she was doing was TASTING. Really really pausing to taste her wine.

The King-Sized Diaper

2005-01-10T07:43:00.000-08:00

In what I hope is not a preview of my own dotage, I now sleep under a diaper (on my king-sized mattress) composed of two tablecloths sewn together by my domestic goddess, she of the copper hair and Woody Woodpecker laugh. The tablecloths are green, a nice touch to match the eyes of Brandyn, the reason for the creative diaper. Along with her chronic kidney failure, my 20-year-old companion is exhibiting signs of incontinence, mostly when her geriatric shrunken little frame is sound asleep at night. In short, my baby is starting to wet the bed.

I change my bedding enough, thank you very much. Andie's supersized diaper saves me much time and frustration: A wet spot? Whisk off the top coverlet, toss it in the wash, wipe down the vinyl urine-catcher, toss on a new top cover, et voila! Fresh diaper, fresh bed, happy sleepers.

The Pookster and I slept very well last night. She was happily drowsy after chowing down on her late dinner, Salmon Surprise, delivered by me from the Andie manse in Waldo South. I was replete with dinner and the Lindemann's Reserve 2003 Shiraz, rated a respectable 89 points by Wine Spectator. Not as distinctive as the Milton Park 2002 Shiraz, but plummy and pleasant. Worth the sale price of $10, though I'm not sure I'd pay the full $13.99 it usually fetches. For that, I could snag another bottle of the Banfi Chianti Classico 2000. And a note of warning: the lower-priced regular Lindemann's Shiraz isn't worth the $7 it costs. You're better off with the reds from Rosemount if you're looking for decent quaffs under $10. Still, the Lindemann's Semillon/Chardonnay is always good. Go for the cheaper Australian whites, is what I'm sayin', not the reds.

I was crushed to find that Costco didn't have any more of the Simi 2001 Landslide Cabernet Sauvignon, by all accounts a massive wine, and a steal at $24. Osco on Wornall has it for $29, and it's worth every penny, according to the resident wine freak. Costco looked to be low on most offerings in the wine department, perhaps a result of the recent holidays; or, more likely, the long-lasting ice storm hangover. People flock to Costco to stock up when there's warning of bitter weather. Most of my own Sunday Costco run had to do with refilling the pet larder, as both dogs and cats were running low on grub. The Costco Kirkland brand is excellent, and less than 40 cents a pound. Winetaster's shopping tip o' the week. . .

Picasso and the Dog Catcher

2005-01-08T09:19:00.000-08:00

Barely fortified by a middling sized (grande) cup of Verona from the Westport Starbucks, I made it back from Waldo South by 8 a.m. On a Saturday. After a Friday evening spent at Fric 'n Frac. Bad mommy, bad! All the companion canines had their legs crossed -- hello, biped, how would YOU like to go 11 hours without a pee? Nah, didn't think so! Still, it's not as if the pups had a skinful to burden their bladders -- and neither did I. Sigh. 'Twas a wineless evening, as horrific as that sounds.

It's a Fric 'n Frac thing. Stopped girlfriend from ordering wine at the neighborhood joint. Inferior jugs, open god-knows-how-long, do not make for quaffable wine. The tiny slosh of pink stuff delivered to a nearby table confirmed my disdainful take on "bars and grills" -- unless yer a fan of "White Zinfandel," don't EVEN order vino at dives. Order things that come in closed containers. Beer. Or beer. Or perhaps beer.

Not being a beer drinker, I had what is quaintly termed a "margarita" at F & F. It's not lacking in tequila or mix, but it always comes. . . carbonated. Bubbly. Ennyhoo -- I slouched home from Starbucks with my companion firecracker, she of the red hair and fiery disposition. It was a new day. A Saturday.

Dropped off Picasso's daily fare (a few cups of Kirkland Chicken and Rice, dry, with a partial can of wet) in the evergreens, a task made more challenging by the ice-coated evergreens bending down to the ground. Slithering on my belly, I managed to snag the empty bowl and replace it with the full, gathering the usual pine needles down the back of my pants, with the lovely addition of sleet particles. My darling wild dog did not make an appearance during the butt-chilling morning foray, but I didn't think much of it, being more focused on rushing home to Brandyn and the rest of the pack.

Pack sated, Brandyn doing better, I was startled to see an Animal Control truck slowly cruising down my street. Startled, and suspicious. And, quickly, anxious -- anxiety being my forte. From calm to fretful, in five seconds. Was the guy after Picasso? Worse, was Picasso injured, or dead? Stomach jumping, cursing not so softly, I watched from my window as the truck driver walked a small circle around 26th and Charlotte. He didn't seem to find anything, which perked me up a bit. No way Picasso would get caught by ANYONE, if he weren't crippled.

Girlfriend and I hit the streets just as the truck departed. Slushy, frozen, grey snow/ice crunched beneath our boots as we made the trek 'round the block, tracking doggie footprints and wondering where in Hades the warming trend was. It's been four days since I was able to enter my icicle of a car, and I had hoped to make a Costco run. . . ah well. We proceeded to Picasso's evergreen hideout, his Midtown den where only I and a few others know there is an igloo doghouse cached away from prying eyes.

I don't know if Picasso has ever USED his kennel, mind you, but it comforts me to know that he can survive any Kansas City weather if he's inside it. And the boy is a survivor, no doubt about that. It's been years, perhaps three, since Laura and I first spotted him limping through the neighborhood. No one has ever gotten close enough to pet him, although for many months all the Hospital Hill interns and students dumped fast-food leftovers by his intersection.

I spotted Picasso as we turned the corner onto 25th Street, heading east to Charlotte. He seemed okay, and I inwardly cheered his victory over the forces of Animal Control. The driver probably never even saw our boy.

Picasso knows me, knows my voice, as much as he knows anyone, I suspect. I'm the daily deliverer of a hot breakfast, and that counts for much, even in the world of wolves. Wild dogs, that is. Lone ranger. Piney recluse.

Still, even though I'm the feeder, and the namer, I was surprised when Picasso popped out to follow me up the street. That's only the second time he's ever done that -- the other time when I was walking Dio. That was when I first wondered if Picasso were a female, Dio being a stud of a dog and Picasso showing friendly interest.

"He just wants food," Andie opined. "Well get him some then," I responded, worried my Picasso would cross the street into traffic. I crossed back to his side, and waited while girlfriend trudged up the hill to fetch the grub. Picasso had re-hidden himself by the time his second helping was deposited, but I imagine he's up there now, snoozing on a full belly and dreaming of how well he's got his humans trained.

That's what HE thinks. No way I'm sharing my stash of wine with that mutt, no matter how prettily he bats his eyes.

A Toast to Barbara Boxer

2005-01-07T13:39:00.000-08:00

If Senator Boxer were in my home right now, I'd salute her with a raised glass of '99 Tomassi Ripasso. I'd even offer her a 7-ounce pour in my favorite oversized crystal. My favorite wine, in my favorite glass, for my favorite U.S. Senator: the only member of the Senate with the balls to lodge a symbolic protest against the "irregularities" of the 2004 election.

Irregularities being shorthand for voter fraud, disenfranchisement, long lines, scarce machines, Blackwell shennanigans, Diebold boasts, electronic disappearing ink, and everything else that reminded us all of the stolen election of 2000. People, how long does it TAKE to clean up our voting act?

Ugly shades of Katherine and Jeb: Repug after Repug lined up at the mike to tell America that Rep. Conyers, Tubbs Jones and every other concerned member of Congress who had the temerity to speak out for voters that -- there was NO problem with Election 2004! And besides, it's all Michael Moore's fault!

Rest easy, Bill Clinton: the G.O.P. hatemongers have a new whipping boy in Mr. Fahrenheit 9/11. After they draw and quarter the oversized rabble rouser from Flint, that dam' Barbara Boxer better watch out, cuz thar's a dunkin' stool in her future. Burn that broad at the stake!

Sigh. I love my country. But this Bushco-aided slide into neocon, religious extremist, sociopathic fact-denying intolerance has me longing for a drink. And it's not yet 4 o'clock. Still, it's Friday, and even if the Milton Park 2002 Shiraz bit the happy dust Sunday, today is another weekend. I'm thinking Chateau St. Michelle 2001 Cab. . . only it needs to breathe. After the disgusting spectacle of Dems joining Repugs to endorse the specious Electoral College tally, I need to breathe myself. I might even need a beer.

Life in Wine

2005-01-06T08:06:00.000-08:00

No doubt there are hundreds of clever ways to compare wine to life, or life to wine. I'll let others do that, or I'll attempt it on a day when I'm less sad, or lazy, or snowed in. For now, I'll just say that I can't imagine a life without wine; that is, I can't imagine MY life without wine. I'd sooner give up cheesecake, or sour cream, or Tucson sunsets.

Okay, maybe not Tucson sunsets.

Life is choice; is acceptance; is plateau or tsunami (the word 'o the week, and much preferable to Iraq; devastation; immoral war; Bush; Gonzales; Rumsfeld; lies lies and damned lies).

Life is choice. Why not choose wine? Why not choose that which tastes good, which warms the belly, softens the humors, blunts the edges of a painful world, provokes conversation (at least for the first two glasses) and promotes the bonds of friendship?

Speaking of friendship: For New Year's Eve, Andie and I schlepped two bottles of red to Laura's, to celebrate her fourth anniversary with Porkchop. One was a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon recommended by the wine freak at the Osco at 75th & Wornall (yep, the Osco), a soft Chilean beauty whose name utterly escapes me at present; the other a simple El Viaje Syrah -- both bottled in 2000, the year our happy couple met.

It was a purely symbolic gesture, as Laura opted for a very wet Ketel One martini (her second of the evening), and Porkchop stuck to a mug o' Guinness. Still, Andie and I enjoyed the fruity charms of Dame Dona Whatshername, and all of us were sufficiently freshened to slope to the living room for a rousing, amusing hour of karaoke. Porkchop is an accomplished singer, of course (appearing at Jilly's this Saturday night!), and Laura is a Leo. My own vocal talents are conspicuously absent, a sad deficiency in an otherwise richly gifted individual (okay, I can't draw, either), but Andie. .. oh Andie, redheaded extrovert of my heart. We couldn't peel the microphone from Andie's warm white fingers. (Girlfriend was way sore-throated in the morning. Although perhaps that was the Macanudo with which she puffed in the new year.)

Nor did we try. Even though we had to listen to WAY too many songs from Grease. And Sonny and Cher. Still, Porkchop and Andie were more than passably good on their unrehearsed take of California Dreamin'. I don't know who was the Momma and who the Papa.

Andie and I saw in The Year of Our Lord 2005 with a private turn on the dance floor to Hallelujah, k.d. lang's cover of the Leonard Cohen ode to painful love. And speaking of painful love, you don't know pain until you learn that your love of 20 years is dying. Oh, she's been fading slowly for a while now, growing ever skinnier and slower, her stark beauty dimmed by the ravages of time. I've been in love with her since we met, all her demanding, spunky, peevish intensity and huge green eyes combining to send a bolt of pure passion through my heart. I love her more than wine itself.

And she's dying. Squeezing my heart 'til it drips tears of lemon. These next few months are going to test me more than her, I suspect. I've always been there for her, and that won't change. But I will. I can't conceive of a life without her, although I know it's coming. I've always known it was coming. Known that I courted the largest loss of my life in loving her, known that the price would have to be paid.

For Brandyn, love of my life, I wrote this elegy. I wrote it a number of years ago, when I could still breathe through the wind of pain whistling through my bones. I wrote this for me, for her, at a time when I drank as many white wines as red. That time is behind me, although Brandyn isn't. Not yet. Not quite yet.

Out of death

you sprang
into my life/my house
irascible, querulous, demanding.
How could I know
you'd outlast four loves
two therapists one marriage
watch me through my transformation
unchanged?
In your annual descents into madness
morphing into a white-fanged demon
of a vicious sudden moment
I hid my fear, swabbed the wound
waited for reason to return
held to the unshakable debt I owed:
your steadfast gaze seeing me through
those suffocating sweat-soaked nights
of doom and lies
when I sank in mortal sadness
you climbed on my chest
quieted its frantic panicked beating
with your soothing ready rumble
carrying me safely into morning.
Owlish one, you promised me twenty years
do you remember?
And oh the laughter
your loud admonitions
to quell my own loud anger
or off-key singing
your tarantula dance
sibling cuffs
peevish prance
honey bear mantra
on the rumpled covers
happily growling
your greedy imprecations
for oil, milk, treats NOW!
And I tell you these things now
in this Elegy for Brandyn
I do not wait for that day
when your heart stops
when you leave me
my voice will flee me
my pen lie crushed/mute
I'll propose bargains with god
pacts with the devil
I'll trade all the snowfalls
that ever were or will be
to have your soft footfall
padding across the room
your insistent satin nose
nudging me
your velvet paw
stretched out to touch my face.
And how will I ever sleep again
what comfort can the night offer me
without your sweet face near mine?
You promised me twenty years
that day you squalled into my life
but I prayed for more.

She just came in to fuss at me, so I'm off to tempt her waning appetite with some cream. Who cares about lactose intolerance when you're 100 years old and in chronic renal failure?