Not at all coy with its confident composition– cherry and some plum-esque suggestion coupled with ripe earth and softly-sequenced black spice– but again I find a Pinot far beyond the simplification and convenience of descriptors or some obscure adjectives. I’m with that Literary shape of Pinot that loves its dance and its beat and the valley it calls home, most notably shown in its finish– chocolate chant and cherubic chime. Everyone knows I love Pinot and that I follow it and when I find one I love I become childlike. And now I’m childlike, again, but more than I was with the last Pinot I tilted into my talking, whatever it was… This glass’ song folds my introspective bend to something which screams for more connectedness to Pinot, but also warns me that most of them aren’t this coherent and convincing. Cummings said that “Kisses are a better fate than wisdom.” This Pinot kisses over, over, over and places me in reflective maelstrom, spinning till I can only hope to land for another kiss.
Gentle put persistent texture and a terrific turbulence about the concluding curves to the wine’s measures. And that has to be the winemaker’s love for 2012, and Pinot, and Anderson Valley, and all stories connected to narrative wines like this– I’m bedazzled by how the oxygen just pushes more from the glass, a step-by-step calculation of the wine itself, taking on cognitive actions and orations of its own– this is what makes it obvious, convex and complicated.
You might read this and think, “So Mike just writes about wine and drinks it and drinks more and that makes it easier to write.” At times, maybe, but not with this wine. It’s codified and inviting; defensive and seductive; sealed lips, but still eager for kiss next. I’m challenged by this evasive dark dancer, and I follow her. Wherever. A coherent contradiction. And that’s why it lasts and echoes and has the tremolo’d traipse about my Now. And my fate, better than any sagacity, or kiss– it’s this, this moment, the standalone second about how I scribble and sip, and sip….. Tomorrow I’ll fall or roll or stumble from the sheets thinking about that color, the darker-than-I-estimated shade of Burgundian beatific syncopation. I hear and taste the music again, carry it with me through the day, and I thank my favorite AV winery, and know I need to get back up there, someday, when I’m not writing. All wine writers or critics should write about wines they love to this extremity. “No you have to be objective,” says some wine mag galoot. But I don’t care, proud and posted in my partiality. Corking the bottle, sad as I sit, like that last kiss on a date, only to drive home remembering the meeting over, over… So I write a letter as soon as I’m home, to Pinot, to Handley, to AV, to anyone who’s had a wine like this. And hope I hear back. And if I don’t… then… then……..
I sip, write, imagine the kiss. Again, again…