That wooing style of Pinot I love, and chase, but rarely find. But I have it now, oh do I have it now with the rose pedal flirtation and light red fruit with understated but still altogether relevant vanilla, encircling my senses with its little urging vignettes of flavor and voltage– olfactory momentum only augmented by what greets the tongue– syllabic syncopation and thorough exploration of the varietal’s ebb and origin. Mendocino, more and more ardent in its stage presence and voice– even as the hour onward urges I write for this wine and not that it needs me to I just note so I don’t forget; this Pinot’s one I want to remember far after the bottle’s left vacant on the countertop, there just looking back at me, knowing it has me and its spell quite affective, it won I lost and I’m more than at peace with the peace it gave me, a piece of it mise en scèn, its ubiquitous aura and rush about my stages, imagined and actual, lost in the Pinot path again and I’m like an ant, looking for something, not food or any substance but reason, why it took my so long to find the farm, this shape of Pinot and these chapters that I sipped– the bottle looks back at me from the counter and I feel regret and victor syncopatedly. I walk over to the bottle and just stare at the label, want to know more about so I do some research and now understand why I’m so driven and drawn to its design– they catalyzed humbly and understand and remain so. Or not so, as this bottle can’t be ignored, passed, or spoken over, or for. This is my rile reconfiguring my rationale, so pardon– It’s autonomous and quite vaunting about its phenolic jargon. Still talking to me, even after the last glass which I finished well over ten minutes ago.
This wine has me on its mission, to realize Pinot’s innermost character, the compounding of delicacy and assertiveness. And as oxygen saunters into its makeup the floral notes and theses of vanilla and cinnamon, maybe saturated forest soil or something, present themselves and with artful rhythm. And the Literary qualities? Everywhere, in all stages of its development and stance, it doesn’t taper or fade or relent in its spell. Narrative, development, contradiction and plot anomolies… and if I’m one of the ants on the farm I’m more than elated with such, my new story sipping this Pinot form. I’m more than certain most I know haven’t tasted a Pinot of this expressive elevation. Or maybe I’m wrong. Either way this should be studies, not duplicated– well, it won’t be, it can’t. Only by its creators.
Its own scenery, ambient consistency it how lassos your attention. Like staring at the ocean, or walking in the Mendocino woods, there’s pace in this bottle. Vineyard Zen couriered to the glass, and now to the writer– our narratives again soon hopefully meet. And now I think more about what it said, what it commanded– And I go back to my glass. Another visit.