And I met one, a Rhône blend I love. In fact, as Poe said, it’s a love that’s “more than love–”. And I do, I do! Finally! Pardon my effusion but I can’t seem to conceptualize why it took so long to find this prominent small producer, but the Story made it so, with Ms. Chelsea and her amorous little daughter, Emilia, walking into my tasting room. She gifted me a bottle of their blend and I tasted it nearly immediately; it had everything I look for in wine character; credibility, believability, narrative, conflict and tangibility of persona– and I know, a somm would break the wine down by remedializing descriptors, but this wine, my new love with its Literary pervasiveness and apparition-like palate, warrants more. Poe too said in his ode to his love that nothing could dissever him from her. And that’s just what my inner-narrative composes alongside this wine, such staunchness and genuine harness, with its gentle but assertive and definite palate intention; red fruit and a serenading attack of spice swarms, introduction to conclusion. And with my consideration of this new oeno-seraph, its producer in downtown Healdsburg, near the square which I transfusively adore, I want to let it connect a bit more with oxygen, which is what I did, pouring myself a full glass soon as in my writing cave– And then, connection and dialogue and I found myself like Kerouac atop his underwood, traipsing further into the blend’s paragraphs and sensory syntax– me, the writer, caught, with bottle now versifying more energy behind the crimson fruit catapult– and I love when wine does this to me, and few do, especially Rhône blends. And what would other critics say about it, I don’t care, I’m in zealous sentiment, partiality. I feel like Hemingway when he saw the dark-haired beauty, noting a sense of belonging. I belong to this blend, and how I don’t need to figure out– I’m compelled, propelled, to my own Heaven and Hell. Singing alongside the Rouge, feeling wild and roaming with the boars and finding a sheltered sepulchre; all life, no exit. In the ‘Tusque’ room, fulfilled and fostered in tasted intricacies– No Rhône before’s done this to me.
Yes, you’re expecting an ‘MM’ score, but I’m not a bloody sommelier. I’ve written my capillaries with this bottle, and that’s what I intended note. I’ll be by their tasting room before long… Was supposed to go today but Life slithered toward my periphery. I stare at what’s left in the bottle, maybe enough for another glass tonight. Which saddens me. Only so much of the Love tarrying. Perhaps enough for two glasses, maybe. Eager to see what new chimes me await in palate and odorous plumes, resonance.. I wait.