…like, “chocolate” for a Cabernet, and “wild berry” for a Sonoma Valley Zin but I thought it sounded so lazy and effortless, like I didn’t care about the wines I was tasting. Like the wine deserved more than that. And she did, does. I do, too. If I were a wine right now, I’d be not exactly engaging, inspiring, or even drinkable. So I continue to play the game, first changing the music I’m listening to, some Lo-Fi Hip-Hop instrumentals on Spotify, some playlist I found. Actually I think it’s more trip-hop, or ambi-hop. I don’t know, but it’s not helping my temperament. Ugh, neither is this new track.
There. Thievery Corporation. Much better. What I see playing in my eventual wine room, MY tasting room, pouring MY wines. So… the descriptions, I’m still there, wanting to play with them, yes play the game but be more playful and not in any dote predictable with what I write about wines I’m tasting. The other day actually tasted a bottle of DuMol Pinot that a girl I work with at Lancaster brought in from the night before, an even she worked at the Mayacama club or whatever. The wine was realized in its identity, with busybody cherry and berry layers, promises of cherry and mint, some rich and compact rain-told soil. Not like “forest floor” as so many of these rusty bot wine “writers” put to page about Pinot, but with a nearly palatable terrestrial seduction to her. The DuMol reminded me what I need to be doing, and differently that all these others assembling paragraphs about wine. If you could call them paragraphs. If you could call them assembled or coherent, convincing or even alive.
I have been advised, told, suggested, even taunted to write about wine. Only wine.