Pinot Noir like this reminds me of moments, their solitary value and flavorous vortex. ABV’s a bit higher than you might expect from a Pinot but, honestly, who cares. It doesn’t interfere with the palate or varietal identity even in the slightest and I’m pulled further into its containment and general expression. You want “notes”? “Nuances”? Fine…. Cherry, medium-dark.. mint… moist, thick, black and rich Sonoma County (“west county”, as they say) ‘forest floor’. This wine draw a promising prance into senses for a writer like I— And I blindly follow, I have no problem, and how can I with such tenure and texture and rile, playful pose and tangible accumulation. Meeker…. Meeker…. Why are our visits so out-spread? Why do you hide from me? Now that you’re here in this home offie with a writer, the quakes take place— slightly-sweetened cedar, wild freeness in pose and poise, immediate note of saccharinous pencil led and European cobblestone, plum-skin and granular salt…. All in the writer’s head and this Point want me to play with description, with paragraphing, with what I share with students in the classroom about their prose and truthfulness— a bottle that teaches me about me, and more than ‘me’ that intersects with wine’s actuality. I’m lost in what I want to say and not many wines can do such a thing, especially to a strong-headed, stubborn writer like me…. OR maybe I’m not stubborn, the Meeker’s persuaded me to ponder. Maybe I’m just devoted, and obsessive with my sentences and finishing a book, doing something great like Pinot has in the wine consumer aggregate structure, showing there is no prestige and there is not a status when it comes to wine. This moment, is stamped in my character’s sinew.. new ado.. More value than I’ve time to address. Poured self another glass, eve’s capping if you want to put it that way, and I’m in the couch, thinking about everything… typing and scribbling then thinking about typing more “notes”. And while some sommeliers want to flash that banal micro-pin the sport I’m focused not on me but this bottle, the Pinot, what it say and puts into its pages for any wine adorer to incur. Certain seraphic xanadu, poured and so visual it does more than lasso itself around my CNS, it tells me to write a certain way, with its foggy sussurus, decreeing plank of all oscillations– I get lost, I can’t find my way back and I forgot all my Pinot “knowledge”— but I’m re-placed and comfortably and invitingly place with this bottle. Meeker, a producer I’m not so familiar with, there on the Geyserville stretch, the small squinted street, Northern Sonoma County.
Final notes— night, coastal air… strawberry and strawberry seeds plus milk-chocolate dust and campfire embers…. I’m in a morning and a night, talking to old friends and friends I’ve never known but could have been friends. This Pinot does what all wines should— provoke you to entertain everything that you’ve crossed and met, lost and let…. Now I find my perplexing pausing pleasurable.. odd. What can I do, out of the tasting room but imagine I’m there, pouring for people tasting something like this and asking more questions than they need to, when they should just stand there in elevations of what touches their lips in a reserved and tip-toe-y advance… it’s wine… just sip—