Time. Why so difficult with me. Thought we were getting along, lately. At winery and have to be across the street for a Cabernet tasting, which I guess I’m a little excited about.. more excited to hear how others taste and what they have to say about the wines offered. Today, sprinting toward 5,000 words. The likelihood I won’t hit that is more than high. It’s likely. So, I just write whatever comes to head, this “Wine Wednesday”. Didn’t open any of the Calluna bottles as I wanted to. Had my eye on that Merlot, but settled for the rest of the Roth Pinot. Can’t remember vintage. May have been the ’14, but again… who knows. Loud sounds on the crush pad this morning, washing a bunch of bins and tanks, I think the press (one of them) again. And I listen from up here, not yet taken sip of winemaker coffee.
This tasting… going to settle on one word for each wine. Yesterday to students again stressing singularity and the explosive desire of a single word. Like for me, “Wine.” What I write about, but I write about so much more than wine, like my teaching and being a writing daddy, being Daddy, being the writer, being the tasting room person, runner (lately more of a wanna-be runner… have to get to the bloody gym). Loud bangs from pad and then I hear the hoses spray down something. Time running away from me. I feel frustration compound and mount and double and triple, and fly everywhere looking to feast on my patience and composure, character composition. Time, its seconds and minutes, hours, are like yeast chasing that sugar. Winemakers try to keep the yeast happy, but time is cold. Time is vicious. Time just passes, passively— heartlessly. So in writing about wine I can only dismiss waiting for the right moment to brandish any particular bottle, ‘cause who knows when the “right time” is.
Should get up and leave, within the next five minutes. Would rather be there early so I can photograph the empty room, the bottles if they’re there, and whatever else. Have a little notebook on me for such jots, my ‘vinward jots’— in the moment wine musings and deconstructions, introspections and metaphysical elections. The tasting room, have to be there in a fashion as well punctual. Okay, so getting up. I promise. Right now. “Aren’t you excited to taste wine?” You might be thinking. Well, if you should know, no. I’d rather write, set up for the day here. But I’m not going to grieve, I’m not going to resist. I’m going to fly up there and fly around the room with my vinward jots, notes, wine… stay in wine… what she says to me, what she wants me to do— realize there is no time. Life isn’t “short”. It passes too speedily to be measured or appreciated with simple words like “short” or “long”, “quick” or “slow”. Life is, then it isn’t. So while it IS, taste it all.
After tasting, I had funny descriptions in my thinking, circling and swarming and swimming rambunctiously from one continent and zone to next. Now that I’m home, driving through rain on Chalk Hill and 101, I can collect. Not sure how much writing I’ll be able to get done today, I mean tonight, with packing to do for hotel and how late I’ll be up. May do it, finally. Have that late night cup of either the cinnamon dolce stuff or the reg’ medium roast. Either way, I need to hit 3k, for day. At least. But never mind word counts, I want to think of silly sayings for this, what’s in my glass now, this ’14 Lancaster Sauvignon Blanc. OR, you know what, I don’t want to be humorous. Not with a winery like this, a wine like this, a winery and story I’ve been following since working at the box— in that cubicle, with that goddamn headset around my skull thinking to myself, “This isn’t wine life, this isn’t wine, this isn’t me…”
Not even the slightest diminish of rile or fortitude. Still with bright lemon and lime, melon muscle, a bravado’d acidity and coherence from initial to when she’s on your tongue. This bottle tells more than just any story, it tells THE story of wine and what it’s like to have your wine visions materialize. I refer to Ted Simpkins, the founder, working on the distribution side of things but really only wanting to have his own winery and name it after his family. But okay, all factoids aside, I’ll let you in on, well, what I’m pairing it with…. Goldfish. My babies’ goldfish snacks, the Pepperidge Farm huge pack wife emptied into the plastic container for them. Pairs well, if you must know. The SB’s acidity cuts right through and aligns divine wit the fishes’ texture and note composition. I’m set in my sitting, and I have to write fast, not edit at all as once the littles are home it’s daddy mode. Which I don’t mind at all. This wine writer needs as much balance and Equilibrium as possible for me to see the wine world and the world with its characters, for my books and my mental pervasions.
Not sure I ate much today. Must be why I had, just, my eighth or so handful. The wine opens up and welcomes more fish. I hold off to think about the different styles and shapes and dictions of Cabernet in the Chalk Hill boardroom. None of them riveted me, I have to say, confess… yes, more of a confession as I’m hesitant to write that, but that’s what wine is— honesty. I’m being candid. My friend Robert, Master Somm’ for the Foley fold, provided more than a resplendent and telling excavation of Cabernet’s story, purpose, application. But the wines themselves said not much to me. But my co- workers, all around me, from all Foley properties, wit their deconstructions and verbal elucidations of the glasses’ contents.. just what I needed. Once of my own notes, for Cabernet 6, one I could barely put to lip, “Chlorine”. And, “rotten egg-white water”. I know it’s indicative of either style or region, but at that point I was just enjoying language and its tussle with a particular wine.
Time runs out in my day. Quickly, more than quickly. It’s indignant and venomous in its passing of the writer. Pour self another…. Don’t care if I hit 5,000 for day. I’m taking all this delicious moment and pairing it with wine. My kids’ goldfish. What else do I need, does this story need? Don’t overthink it, just sip and scribble— or in this time, type. Vinwardly.