In The Name Of The Father

“What about Father’s Day?” a response from a friend when I mentioned that I was aching to write something but having a hard time finding any inspiration or subject matter. “Well, I don’t really understand it” my reply after spending several minutes trying to find some pang of something; emotion, sentiment, rage, disappointment…anything when letting the word father swim around in my head, bang about in my chest. Nothing, or more confusion, more wonder then anything else. I’ve seen plenty of fathers, devoted and strong, loving and playful, terrifying and admirable. I’ve seen it, maybe touched it a bit being witness to the job Carl has done being a profoundly wonderful father to our son but to know, to truly know what it feels to have a father? Absolutely no comprehension….

“How was it this time?” my mother’s voice strained, painted with palpable panic and concern as I hooked my little fingers to the doorframe of the car before giving my lower half a wide swing which would lift me off the ground, giving my back a midair twist before sailing into the passenger seat, the thud from my wee rump just hard enough to force the air from the seat cushion and making a little queefy sound that always, always made me giggle. The knot in my tummy tugging at my insides as I did my best to boldly lie to my mother’s face, “It was fun! What did you do last night? Did you finish your book? What did you have for dinner?” my words rapid fire in her direction, a defensive offence of sorts as I tugged at the car door pulling it shut. How could I tell her? How could I look into those big sad blue eyes, the ones with the semi-permanent lake of tears that always seemed to be pushed up right against her eyelids, just waiting to be set free. How could I tell her that I spent the night pressed firmly into the corner of the dusty and herby smelling couch in my father’s living room watching as he every so often pulled his affected head off the dining room table, bits of pasta and tomato sauce still stuck to his face from when he slipped off into his needle induced happy place during our father daughter dinner…watched as he rose, made those awful guttural sniffing sounds before scratching his neck and resting his head down again.

I remember a fierce sense of guilt with being at my father’s, which only happened, as I can recall anyway, a few times. The drive over was thickly coated in wash of absolute dread, not mine but my mother’s. Her fear, anger, anxiety and likely jealousy, making even taking in a breath in that VW Beatle a laborious task. I would twitch, sweat and stammer away with five year old nonsense to try and lighten the load…my load. From the second I stepped into my father’s apartment I could feel my mother’s ache, her heart stabbing pain and seething rage, the twist of the heavy lock on his front door no match for her voice in my head and the layer of culpability that left its indelible stain on me. The only thing able to jolt me from my heavyhearted sense of guilt, the terrifying sound of teeth clamping down too hard on a fork, the eye lids too heavy to keep open, the nod and the deafening sound of cutlery crashing against a porcelain plate, an upturned glass, my heart creeping up my throat and into my ears, pounding against my eardrums as I leapt from my seat across from him and ran to that corner of the couch, looking back just in time to see his head of long hair land halfway on his plate. Pulling my knees tight to my chest and humming as I rocked myself back and forth to stay awake, and to quiet the screaming silence. How? How would I tell her all of that? Why tell her that, she was hurting enough. The rocking, the couch, the thuds and heart beats, the lies she needed me to keep telling her, those I could take, spaghetti on the other hand, never took that again…

“Well he got on the bus. He didn’t look good, I don’t know if he’ll make it to rehab.” My sister updating me on our brother, the only one we have and the one she had just shipped off to some state in the middle, away from us and near his daughter. He had one job to do in order to keep a roof over his head, not live on the streets and be given food and guidance, don’t use, drugs or alcohol, he couldn’t or wouldn’t do it. My sweet sister hearing the same excuses and being subjected to the same accusatory and defensive bullshit I’ve been hearing my whole life…her heart maybe less damaged, or just bigger, she keeps listening, I on the other hand, am done watching him try and kill himself…seen this movie already, hated the ending.  I knew the last time I saw Mike, frail frame weighing less than 100 pounds and looking like he was seconds from dying in a hospital room, I knew from the brief look we gave each other that we would never see each other again. I made whatever kind of peace you can with that heavy bit of sadness and walked away…now I find myself thinking of him more than I did before he left, not about him as much as his daughter. A sinking feeling really, that he may bang against his plate in her home, in her heart, and I can only wish the best, for the both of them. I chose to let him be….let him go long ago.

“Let me guess, the salad bar” Mom in a semi-playful tone as the server at Marie Calendars asked for my order. She was right, it was salad bar, was always salad bar whenever it was an option. I used to tag it on to whatever sandwich or gawd awful steak at The Sizzler, neither of which I would eat, (big arguments those) because I was stuffed to my lobes, (I have ‘em but you gotta flip me over to find them) but eventually I skipped the pretense and boldly, excitedly answered the, “And what can I get for you?” with a loud, “I’ll be having the salad bar!” and got my sassy, swishy walk on, long “Oh look at me go” look over my shoulder back at the table as I made my way to the long treasure chest of cold and crispy goodness while the others sat and waited for their stoopid, warm, and made for them food. Chose feeling fancy and in charge….

Goes way back my love for the bar of salad, so far back in fact that I can actually remember my mother having to take me, rest me on her hip and let me point to the various items I wanted. Kinda weird thinking of that now, can’t remember another time I was held in my mother’s arms, not that she didn’t want to hold me but because I was uncomfortable being scooped up, held, off my feet or off the ground with someone else in charge of moving my parts around, even then. Salad bar, there was a place, a magic place full of unlimited food, (an idea so alien to me that it took years to not feel like I was stealing when I went for a second plate) that I could float around, high off the ground and high on the very idea of me picking what was about to happen. Sort of the only time it happened that picking for myself stuff. The only time I can remember filling myself, both actually and emotionally, with my choices back then…million miles away from upturned glasses, funny herb smelling couches, palpable Volkswagen anxiety and spaghetti.  

Mounds of fresh green lettuces, firm and tangy beans, spicy hoops of red onion, bouncy and flavorful hard boiled eggs, sweet and sour strips of pickled beets, briny black olives, garlicky croutons, earthy sunflower seeds, a sparse smattering of shriveled but sweet raisins and a generous blanket of creamy, sharp, nose widening blue cheese dressing. Me, this was me in charge of my moving parts. In charge of what was going to happen even if it only lasted the 40 or so minutes it took to get through dinner. The sadness in the car, the tummy sickening nod, the guilt, the thuds and nights with my knees dug deep in my chest, the given parts of a life I walked into…this bar of salad business a glimpse…a hint of what can and will happen when I get to choose and just how refreshingly sweet it could feel.

“Sam, come taste this wine” Randy’s boomingly warm voice both a source of welcome and absolute fear. The way he called me to taste wines, the way he smiled off my brisk and rather shitty responses to his continued efforts to share wine, his love, with me. That first glass of Zind Humbrecht, golden, sweet, powerful enough to rest me upon its hip, Randy’s hand in the small of my back as he lead me to the salad bar. The oily textured white wine filling and awakening my palate, his face always across from mine as I worked my sassy, swishy walk across the globe of wine. I don’t know father but I now know nurturing. I now know passion, dedication to work and relationships, utter devotion and pride. I know a world of food beyond the crunchy bits stuffed into the ever vanishing bars of salad, I know how to feel good about myself, feel proud of myself and that I learned from that warm Randy paw in the small of my back, that big smile and the occasional bite of, “Quit being a dumb ass” he gives me when he sees his “little girl” stumbling or being an asshole. I chose Randy…..or maybe he and wine chose me.

I don’t understand Father’s Day. Maybe don’t get what father really means, least not in a context that fits into traditional definitions and expectations. I’m okay with that. Might have missed some stuff but now, now I have this willingness to be hoisted up, carried around and lead to the next thing that is going to make me work my sassy swish walk. Thanks to Randy’s warm smile and repeated choosing, his banging heads with me drowning out that heart stopping clank of silverware against porcelain. To feel so safe, wanting to please but safe, to be in love and alive in a way that couldn’t have been fathomable before him, shan’t be forgettable because of him. The people I’ve met, the voices that are now in my ear each and every day…this voice of mine he helped me find, the flavors, scents, sights, moments that caused me to suck my breath deep into my chest with shock, awe and sheer gratitude. The pride I get to wear each and every day I walk in the store he lets me be and intricate part of, the one he lets me sass and swish away in the front of….well I don’t know what father feels like but I know what true love is, I chose this and would over and over again. From the very deepest part of this silly heart of mine, I thank you for that Randoo…

Not sure that I will ever be on board or acutely aware of tradition, not sure if that is a curse or a blessing but, I keep thinking about a very late night, heavily booze soaked conversation with a rather Fancy Pants man, one that most would crave swapping life placement with, his smirk digging deeper lines in his tanned and lived in face as I goofily stumbled through our chance meeting. His deep eyes swallowing me in big thick hunks, my awkwardness shedding with each sentence as I scrunched up my face, went mug to mug with this renowned expert and only backed down when his honey soaked voice said, “Miss Samantha, you are delightfully unbound by convention”….exhale. 

I choose

All of this

My life

My husband

My job

Our store

My son

My voice

Your willingness to hear

Cheer me on

Come here and visit me…

Randy, Michael, Carl, Ron, Jeremy, Eric, John, Charlie, Thomas, Anthony, Kermit, Alfonso, Wayne, Winey, Don, Joe, Kevin, Bill, Ed, Andy, Rinaldo, Jason, Stephen, Robert…all of you fantastically loving and supportive men, (And yes, I know I left like 100 of you out but don't think I don't think of you) I want you to know, own and know, just how much you mean and have changed my life. I wouldn’t be me without you and each tiny piece of you I get to touch is like fingers dug deep into my spine, pushing me to boldly blurt out what I want, sachet about and feel like your little princess, in thickly muddy boots. Never in a million years thought I would love that feeling but…it’s my crunchy bit of chosen so thank you.

Happy Father’s Day all

I love you..

I know how to love because of You…..

Salad eater

Samantha 



Looking For More Dad Stuffs...
http://sansdosage.blogspot.com/2011/03/understanding-my-terroir.html 

Going, Going, Gone.....

Happy birthday ahhhhh

Happy Birthday ahhhh ahhhhh

Happy birthday ahhhh-choooooo!

Whimper…..

Woke Tuesday morning, slight spring in my sleepy step as it was the day before my 42^nd birthday and the morning of the day we were going to celebrate it by going to a big fancy steakhouse. I happen to love steakhouses, the rustic cowboy variety and the high-backed leather booth and ala carte sides kind of situation. Just dig ‘em. I’m a meat eater of first order, I swoon for relish trays and believe with all that I am that a perfectly executed wedge salad is a crisp, crunchy thing of sublime beauty. Love them. So it makes sense that the morning before I was to be partaking of an icy cold martini and spooning onto my plate a steaming mound of tender, cheesy, creamy potatoes gratin that I would be in a damn fine mood. Nearly skipped to the coffee pot, half-teaspoon of sugar, glug of cool milk and I settle down in front of my laptop for my first eye-opening sip, “Ouch!” thinking my coffee was must too warm I waited a few minutes and reached for another, “Ouch! Goddamn it”…

“Oh I must have been snoring or something” I said to the husband who was concerned about my constant wincing and somewhat garbled speech caused by the buildup of slobber I was struggling with while trying not to swallow, you know, because it burned and junk. My assumption being that having only one day off before having to head back into work, with the prospect of a long celebratory week that would end with me pouring for one of the store’s most highly anticipated and historically crazy busy tastings of the year, our annual Rose & Aioli Fest, well I figured I had slept like I was getting paid to do. That not moving, dead body, sucking the cottage cheese off the ceiling kind of sleep, thought my throat was just raw from that, tossed my computer and work keys in my bag, with my delusions and off I went. 

We had opted to do fancy steak dinner the night before my actual birthday because, due to being super tight staffed right now, I was scheduled to close on Wednesday which would push steakhouse dinner back to somewhere near 9:00 and while not unheard of in the least for us to eat at that time, Tuesday just seemed like a better option, that way we could meet with a group of friends for dinner somewhere local on Wednesday, and not be out until the asscrack of dawn or whatever. Got lots of paperwork and meeting with suppliers done on Tuesday, the fire in my neck more a petty annoyance than anything else, but I was starting to worry when the burning would not cool down once all lubed and stuff, in fact it was getting far worse. Soothed myself with the promise of an icy cold Gin martini and gleefully glugged one down, let the cool nectar splash against the walls of my fiery throat as I crunched through my salad and greedily slurped away at the 2008 Domaine de Montille Nuits-Saint-Georges 1er Cru Aux Thorey, the delicate fruit and savory flavors flitting across my tongue while hacking into a thick and perfectly cooked New York strip…bliss. Burning but blissful still. Fell into bed and woke Wednesday hoping to be done with that throat nonsense only to take a deep morning swallow…Ouch!

I had only one appointment Wednesday morning but it was with a importer that has quite a drive to come see me so I sleepily popped into my fridge and looked for an open bottle of wine to see if my taster was off. My throat still ablaze and now my head beginning to fill I was worried that my importer buddy might be wasting a trip. A quick swirl of Rose in my glass and I could smell freshly cut watermelon, minerals and citrus…not too shabby, a quick swish in the mouth and the Provencal Rose danced about so vibrant and lively that I could not bring myself to spit the tasty liquid, so I stood at my kitchen sink at 7:30 AM taking a couple sips of cool, racy Rose. Not too terrible, that cold on my throat and I was secretly hoping that even that tiny amount of alcohol might numb me just a bit. Sent the importer a quick email alerting her that while at the time of writing I still had my nose and palate but I could guarantee that I would still by the time she arrived. 

Nose and palate still alive enough by our meeting we had a nice chat, she even gifted me a bottle of her husband’s rare and highly coveted hot sauce before she headed out. I was thrilled to have been able to keep my appointment, although unsure of my palate was 100%. It wasn’t until I was trying to distract myself from the heat that was starting to come off my chest, and the cling film like bubble that began forming around my head, when I reached for that bottle of hot sauce, cracked the seal and at first, just vinegar. Dammit. Took a wee bit more time, dumped some into my palm, took deep chest filling sniffs and took a little sauce on my tongue, then I got more nuance. More complexity, more spice, more pepper flavor. It was going….

Got to dinner that night, my big loud group of close friends scrunching into a both that would have fit us perfectly if it were not for the three hulking wine bags stuffed with bottles and ice packs. First out of the bag, N.V. H. Billiot Grand Cru Brut Reserve, a Pinot rich bubbly that has been a long time favorite of mine. We were asked if we were celebrating to which I responded, “No” only to have my buddies out me and tell the server that it was in fact my birthday…assholes. She asked if we would like flutes, I declined and asked for white wine glasses, poor girl, just could help herself. Gone for-ever and out she comes, all proud and stuff, with 7 dripping wet flutes…ugh. All of us doing our best to dry out our wrong-for-the-job stemware, I poured the Billiot, not sure if it was me or that stupid fucking glass but I got nadda on the nose. “I’ll take a Pickletini” I blurted before our sweet but not so much with the listening server could scurry off. A round of drinks for everyone at the table and the first food arrived. Bottles being pulled from bags, corks flying and requests for new glasses, the cling film starting to seal tightly around my noggin. 2007 Dagueneau Silex, 2009 Dagueneau Silex, 2010 Dagueneau Buisson Reynard Pouilly Fume. All fiercely aromatic wines, wines full of depth and complexity and while I was able to smell and taste them, (hard not to with such demanding wines) I was feeling pretty grateful that they were sturdy, broad wines that I could feel as much as taste, if not more. The gorgeous texture of the wines comforting me as my usually sharp palate rolled over them like a big dumb marble. When we got into a second bottle of French Rose I felt a little pang of, “Oh hells yes!” when upon tasting it I was able to discern that it was corked, and not even that bloody obvious kind of corked.  Going, going but not quite gone……

Made it to work yesterday, not hungover as one might suspect but still feeling pretty much like warmed over butt. Hot, scratchy, cranky, coughing, stuffy and discovering that those cough/throat drops, they do in fact give me gas….fantastic news that considering the coughing and sneezing that are pretty prevalent during times when one might take or use those drops in the first damn place, but hey, least I can practice my clinch. Ugh!! My staff urging me to go home, me thinking they were probably right seeing as we are down two people already and are going to be horribly tight, staff wise, come Saturday, or Rose Fest day. Piled in my car, kept the windows sealed tight for the ride home, letting the warm dry air swim around my head hoping against hope that it might dry me out, at least a little….didn’t. 

Busted through the front door my head so thick and heavy I stood before my “What are you doing home so early” hubby, arms in wide swoops as I tried my stuffy headed best to describe how I was feeling but settling on, “Pretty sure this is how a whitehead feels” before kicking off my Chuck Taylors and heading to the kitchen. I knew what I needed, even more, it was what I wanted. This here was a job for some kickass chicken soup and I, if I do says so mine own self, am one kickass chicken soup maker. Carl was kind enough to head to the butcher for one of their deeply flavored birds, you know, one that tastes like actual chicken, and I got to prepping my pot with a smear of bacon juice before getting a dark brown sear on my onions. Carrots, celery, some whole garlic cloves all sweating away in sizzling, spitting oil, I pulled them out and got to getting a deep browning on the bird before its time in the bubbling tub. Patience, kinda rough when you are a grumpy, snot-filled person so I got a “good enough” sear on the bird before deglazing with some white wine and soy sauce then dumped the softened veggies back in the pot just in time to hear, “Something smells goo-ood!”my wee boyfriend’s pop standing at my dining room window, drawn away from playing baseball with Tyler by the aromas coming out of my pot. Thing was, as brown and hissing as my pot was, even standing there with the steam creasing my eye shadow, cleaning my pores, and sticking my hair to my sweaty brow I got nothing….n-o-t-h-i-n-g. I could not smell a thing. Whimper…

Carl and Jeremy opted to meet a coworker for sushi, I had the house to myself, the television stuck on something stupid, pot of soup on the stove giving off nothing but warm aromatics to me. Gave the bird a good 2 hours soak before my sick tummy’s grumbling became more than I could bear. Limp veggies discarded, plump chicken cooled and picked and I cranked the notch on my stove bringing the dark mahogany broth to a rolling boil before adding tiny pasta shells. I hung my face over the pot, begging to get any, any kind of chicken smell but alas settled for bits of break in my cloggedness that the steam provided. I loaded my shallow bowl with tender hunks of pillow soft white meat chicken and long strips of Parmigiano-Reggiano, all lacy and delicate before dunking my often-used ladle below the steaming surface, scooping up what I hoped would be deeply flavored broth and toothsome little noodles. I watched as the Parm began changing form beneath the hot liquid, from airy little strips to gooey, shiny, oily pasta coating blobs of creaminess. Gave everything a quick toss with my spoon before settling my chunky rump at the dining room table, lowering my highly anticipating noggin over the bowl, the heat and steam slipping into my nostrils and lungs and….fucking nothing. Argh!!! My gorgeous soup, the one so aromatically enticing it brought my neighbor over and even caused my stuffed to the gills sushi eating husband to have a bowl, a dessert of sorts, when he got home and me, my snotty, cling film tightened head, couldn’t smell or taste a thing. Literally tasted like slightly salted hot water. Blew.

Ate enough to not be hungry, no easy task when you have to stop mid-chew to catch your breath because your stooped nose is full, (hate that so friggin much) and ended up just giving up. Crawled into my most favorite jammies and slathered on a two-inch layer of Vick’s Vapo Gunk on my chest, even gave myself a Dirty Sanchez…a smear beneath my nose and above my lip, (um, don’t really recommend this maneuver when you’ve spent days blowing and wiping away at your nose…sort of stings like a mug) and still, nothing. Could not smell the Vick’s even, that ought to make clear just how jacked up I am, birthday week indeed. Humpf!

So this morning I can report, I’m still palate and nose deficient. Coffee smelled and tasted, “warm” but that was about it. Toast was merely hard crunch then sawdust, and you haven’t lived until you’ve been sent into a gagging fit, on cough drops mind you, after chocking on bits of sawdust toast. Yeah, still grumpy I’m sure you can tell and the one thing that is seriously plaguing me, I mean aside from feeling like warmed over butt, I have one of our most important tastings of the year tomorrow afternoon. Our Rose Fest where I get to showcase 12 of my lovingly chosen Roses from the South of France and pour them for what has been up to 120 people…and I can’t taste or smell a thing. Goddamn it.

Was going, going and now…

Gone.

Boo.

Wish me luck, sure as hell going to need it.

Whimper….

I'll Take Your Snob & Raise You A Twat

Yesterday morning I was scrolling through the lines of babble over on Facebook and I came across a quote from Wine Journalist Eric Asimov that had been posted by a friend with a line attached, “This quote by Asimov really resonated with me” so being the good Facebook friend I am I clicked the linky thing and checked it out. The quote was, "But much of it is mundane. Why should anybody who cares about what they eat and drink settle for familiar and icy rather than something full of character? The wine industry has no problem with that sort of unconscious drinking. It feeds sales and increases profits. Hence it promotes the notion of “starter wines,” mediocre bottles that help ease newcomers past the shock of transition until they are ready to try the better stuff. Nonsense. The idea is merely a rationalization for selling millions of bottles of mass-market junk wines. Skip the insipid wines. Go right to good bottles. Discriminate!" I found myself nodding with Eric’s assessment, and mini rant, about insipid Pinot Grigio being foisted on the masses as if we were doing them some sort of favor by dumbing it down when my eyes happened upon the first comment or response to the quote, “Snob”. 

Never ceases to floor me how often people cover up their own insecurities or lack of…not sure which it is, interest or taste, by calling anyone the least bit discriminating a snob. I know my idiot of a drunk and living in a shack brother calls me a snob simply because I am a French wine specialist….as if I ever said, “Domestic wines are shit and I shall only allow French wines to pass between my lips”. And I’ve been seated across the table from my in-laws at brunch when the nice man comes around, screwtop bottle of “Champagne” wrapped in a white towel only to hear my mother in-law, in her New England tone and volume, blurt out, “Oh! Sam will never drink that!” always with an emphasis on the never and always with a slightly embarrassed and slightly mocking ring to it, followed quickly by a, “Oh like we could tell the difference” as if simply because I can in fact tell the difference, and would rather partake of a Bloody Mary at brunch than that bubbly junk, well that makes me a snob? Kinda thinking if you can just name call like that, you might just be more of a snob than the rest of us…..

Have seen the same thing in the world of wine/booze media as of late. Not sure if it was just on blogs that I was sent links to or if they were from actual publications, like where these wankers are paid to be blowhards but after reading a whiskey lover rant against Robert Parker scoring Bourbon, and how now all the wine “snobs” he encountered on his last trip to Napa, the ones he described as such“the sheer douchebag factor of guys in their 60s tooling around in Porsches with chinos and checked oxfords dangerously unbuttoned at the collar, made safe by the addition of a blazer. Perhaps a cable-knit pastel sweater was draped over their shoulders with an artfully-tied knot designed to look careless and casual, while saying all the while “I sweated the hell out of this knot” would be gobbling up all the precious Bourbon he and his, I don’t know…regular not snobby Bourbon sluggers, have been tasting, reading about and studying for years? Finishing his “Not snobby guy” rant with, “For the average consumer, it’s yet another crowding out at the hands of shameless trend-hoppers who saw this on TV, will make no attempt to understand the culture or the spirit, but instead will blindly make pronouncements in the absence of knowledge” Wow, sort of like name calling and bashing of whole groups of people that just happen to be into something different, just as geeky mind you, but different than you are? Hmmmm, just wondering Mr. Pot, what color is your kettle? Top that with reading some stupid article saying tasting notes are pretty much full of shit, one that ended with, “You’re better off drinking beer, its better anyway” and I’ve had it up to my pickle green irises. Sick and goddamn tired of everyone and their holier than thou horseshit, finger pointing, eye rolling, chest huffing and….oh but wait, in all fairness let’s give the other side, the everyman his chance to un-stuffy this fancy and snobby world of wine. Give the icy cold Pinot Grigio huffers their whack at it as it were….

A quick 15 minutes on the internet and I can say with all honesty, I’ll take your Snob and raise you a Twat.  Counted no fewer than 10 chocolate and wine tastings happening in the next 2 weeks, not one but 2 salsa and wine pairing tasting events, countless cupcake or Girl Scout cookie wine events and my latest favorite, a reenactment of the wine world’s most adored Jersey Boy, Crank Yanker, that Gary VanderwhoZit goodfella, another whole article on breakfast cereal and wine, this time taken up a notch. Where Gary V paired Riesling with Cap’n Crunch, (“The single greatest product ever made” according to the Yanker while burying his nose in the glass of Spatlese and telling us all to take a, “Sniffy sniff”….fuck me) and milk, no this new article….wine in place of milk in your breakfast cereal. Fan-freaking-tastic. Nothing says everyday wine lover like a snort of Bordeaux in your Cinnamon Toast Crunch, that or raging alcoholic, take your pick.  I browsed the rest of the blog/site, my eyes blinking wildly as I tried to figure out if this was some joke when I saw a link to a previous piece called, “Six Tricks to Sound Like You Know How to Pair Wine With Food” and before I could even finish processing that I said, “Not one of them is telling anyone to pair wine with cereal you wad!” So if being picky about what I put in my mouth and not trying to shove wine in places where it has no business makes me a snob, dude I’ll take that over fake-ass-wine-yanker trying to pretend to be sophisticated by having wine be so non-fancy that it can and should be poured over your Corn Pops, I’ll proudly display my snootery if you concede your twatitude.  Deal?

Look, I think many tasting notes are over-the-top and full of descriptions that the majority of people imbibing in a glass will never pick up. Not all of them but some which is why I tend to write notes more focused on weight, structure and texture, often with emotion, than to rattle off shit like, “tomato water and pickle skin” when describing wine for our customers. I just turned in about 25 shelf talkers for 2012 Roses, any idea how hard it is to do that? For one article? I would love, just once, to list the wines with their prices and in the notes section write, “Everything you want in a dry Rose” but being that it is my job to find the subtle differences, I can assure you, they are there and those regular folks, least the ones that shop at The Wine Country, they want to read about them. Are they going to get watermelon rind and lemon oil when they taste their Rose, dunno but it sounded like something they wanted and they bought the bottle so we tools that write those notes, we see them as the tools they really are….and most of us aren’t going around calling you all names because you don’t agree. You cookie and cereal folks on the other hand….I might have a name for you.

Sigh.