A universal style of Zinfandel. More communicative and with composition, and no shock from this bastion of a wine temple. Herbal stomps fixed within the voltage-readied berry vortex… in sip, and I just try not to think, honestly. End of day, perfect Zin interpretation with which I just collect and relax and think only about the moment itself. Right now. This is a bottle of pronounced literary quality and whimsy. As she intones more quixotic vocal I lean into chair and think further into this character’s air.
On floor, thinking of what she’s saying now to me. I have no idea, frankly, other than into a Zin as I am. This was the only bottle of a Zinfandel in my vault. And she decides my scope, senses and sitting. More mint and damp deep-forest stone make more visible and connected to message and thesis. There’s nothing left to interpret. Her pages in sips transcend clarity and sensory pulse.