Interntervals of Sip Sanity
Decided something today, and with a serrated fervor: I’m writing about wine the way I wish, not the way I think would be marketable or received well, accepted or even rejected. I’m just going to write about wine, and about the wines I wish, and how I wish. My MOCK SOMM column, taking new form and mold. The wines that I wrote those poetic or versified blurbs about, racked over to another project— and now, I sit on the couch in my house, one kid asleep the other feeding with wife and I don’t have much time, and that’s much of what sequences and summons this new “style”, if it’s even a style (What would Vonnegut say?). More a decision, and declaration. Of what? Me. Wine. That union… MY union with it, and that I have the fearlessness and confrontational disposition to do so. “Confrontational?” I can hear a reader saying, “That’s not a good thing. This is a small industry.” Something they always love to say. but I’m not concerned. At all. This wine writer loves fallout and thinks the industry and wine world itself needs a bit of a cleanse. Tonight I’m sipping the Merlot I made in ’12, at Kunde. I don’t remember this one of the two I made that year tasting this floral and poetic; precise and promising. Reminds me of other wines I’ve tilted a glass with recently that have made me think, made me order to self “oh, you need to do a wine review to this one…”. But not writing “reviews” anymore. Just about wine, wines, wines I love and need to again sip, wines I’ve only met for a brief time perhaps sipping one that someone brought into the tasting room and I just thought, not analyzed, but thought, appreciated, loved.
A 2012 WillaKenzie Estate Pinot Meunier, Willamette Valley, that I had the other night, Easter actually, at Mom and Dad’s paired with a ham reminded me that I need to travel up there, to my other home state of Oregon and explore my varietal adore of Pinot and its neighboring identities. The wine was darker in complexion and affection than I measured, and with a charming coherence and reverb that told me to travel, explore, disobey the industry’s orders and just love wine, love what it does and how it makes you feel, what it encourages you to do, write and speak to your audience.
Another, a ’14 Quivaira “Refuge” from Dry Creek— luminary flavor maelstrom. This is also a wine that teaches the sipper, and encourages wine writers like me to care less but care more about wine itself, just enjoy what you sip and know that wine is more than a simpleton’s listing of 2nd grade adjectives and “descriptors”. God I hate that bloody word. I sipped this in the tasting room, couriered by a friend’s girl friend who works at the winery. Kind of her to share, and more impactful than I’m sure she ever thought would result. I decreed something internally when sipping it, just never paginated the emancipation till now, on this couch, while my babies sleep. Wine and I have written a business play and plan, a life model and mode. And tonight is merely the inaugural inoculation.
How much of my ’12 is left?