Someone To Watch Over Me

“So what do you want to hear?” Randy’s friendly warm voice calling out above the booze saturated noise that bounced off the walls and vibrated through his living room. Our company holiday party coming to a close over the crackle of stately hunks of wood blistering in the fireplace, the scent of smoke mixed with pine, sweet cream being washed from shallow bowls and the whisper of Cognac or Calvados scented voices. Randy’s feet stretching towards the peddles and fingers lifting the cover on his piano keys, my voice, for once, louder than any of my coworkers, bolting from my chest and lips like a five year old rushing down the stairs on Christmas morning, “Someone to watch over me!” my request, always.  The notes flitting about and sending a hush throughout the rest of our party goers, the soothing stroke of a room being filled with honest and homemade music. The clink of keys that can only be heard when you are standing close enough to the piano to feel the tension of the cords, mostly because every fiber within you is building and descending with each rise and slope of sound.

There’s a somebody I’m longing to see

I hope that he

Turns out to be

Someone to watch…

Over me

I still can’t remember precisely the first time I heard the song. I mean, how old I was, where I was or who was singing it, but I will not ever forget the way my eyes instantly, almost intuitively, filled with tears that silently floated down my little cheeks. Maybe I was just born a Gershwin girl, I’ve Got a Crush On You and They Can’t Take That Away From Me, have been a part of my toe tapping, and smile inducing for as long as I can recall but Someone To Watch Over Me, that one? That one evoked, or stirred something inside me that I’d either never felt before, or was only spoken in tiny remote sentences of deeply broken language that they were completely foreign to my ears, and heart.

I requested the song nearly every holiday party and each time I swayed back and forth to the music my beloved buzzy Randy agreed to play for us, my song, it felt like I had crawled barefooted atop his shoes, his big meaty hands enveloping mine. The way he smiled and led me, “Taste this”, “We’re going to dinner here” the “Sam, I trust you” and, “I’m sending you to France, to learn those wines, that food, those people” his sturdy learned feet lifting me, spinning me. His willing and wanting to teach me, bestow those immeasurable treasures upon me, feeling like a loving hand in the small of my back. 

There’s a somebody I’m longing to see

I hope that he….

Long time readers here know all too well that I was raised without a father. First because of his addiction and then because of his death from that addiction when I was six years old. I can remember his face, it looked, at the time, too painfully like mine. I can recall most definitively his smell, that combination of dirty clothes, marijuana, patchouli, wheat and the rancid stink of cooked drugs and dried blood. He was never unkind or even cruel, not that I remember anyway…and if he was, I’m glad I don’t. A few years ago his brother came looking for me and I was given the gift of replacing my indifference about him in general, and my somewhat hard-skinned,  “he picked drugs over me” attitude with a softer, more compassionate sadness, for what he had been through and lost too. Sure I learned that he was not only fantastically handsome and possessed a sensual core that drove women weak with willingness, (my mother had shared that bit of information hundreds of times. Both in woeful and wistful tones) to forgive, ignore, crave and ultimately care for him, but that he was almost terrifyingly smart, maybe too smart in fact, and my uncle was pretty sure that he suffered with some serious mental illness. 

So yeah, that someone watching over me thing? It was never even really a thing, which is why I’m sure when I let those silky and powerful words slip past my filter and tiny clinched fists, well I’m sure that’s why I cried. I didn’t know what it felt like but I knew I didn’t have it. I had an older brother that was truly awful to me, his father even worse and the men that sadly came in and out of my mother’s life were more like acts of flagellation than any kind of inspiration or aspiration for me. I learned to watch over myself and before long one learns that’s a pretty narrow scope, albeit a safe feeling one.

Won’t you tell him to put on some speed

Follow my lead

Oh how I need…

Been sitting here tonight, crap, this morning now, thinking about how easily I let that stranger of an uncle soothe my ruffled and life permed hair. The way reading words across my screen, my father’s story as told by a brother that loved him, didn’t spark any sort of “How come?!” or “Why didn’t he?!” sort of feeling. How that big empty space where father had been suddenly felt like a little frame that was just in need of a picture. How could thirty plus years of empty be filled so quickly? Glass of sweating Rose in my hand, the cool, crunchy minerals landing at the same time fruity and salty on my palate, Gershwin looping in my head and that was when it hit me.

I’m a little lamb lost in the wood

I know that I could

Always be good

To one who’ll

Watch over me.

The loving wine shop owner that took hold of this silly heart and litmus leaning palate, shoving me, sweetly in a direction that would forever change me.

An importer that let me tuck beneath his wing, made me feel like, in fact called me, a peer and spent years spoiling me rotten with palatable treasures that to this very second I can still smell, taste…feel. Pried open this largely flapping mouth and inspired me to share.

A young brown-skinned squishy thing that came from me, looks oddly like me, pigment aside, that first taught me how to be strong in a way that didn’t involve hurting or shunning others. In a way that allowed me to splay myself wide open and show my tender little bits. His tiny little brown fingers wrapped around mine as I lifted my awkward feet and tried to show him the way. His big feets leading his own way now and to my great honor, they are still very close and I know how watched over I am with each daily kiss upon the top of my head that he plants on me. 

A writer that took the time to encourage and engage me. Made me lose consciousness with pride and inspired me to read my own work and wonder, “Could I be half as good as he tries to make me believe?” which to this day can make me sink my teeth into my lip and scrape at my insides in a way that has me up, still. Wanting to be better. Wanting to please. Craving the idea that he might still be watching and like a little girl dancing on her tippy toes, dreaming of possibilities.

There's a saying old says that love is blind
Still we're often told "seek and ye shall find”
So I'm going to seek a certain lad I've had in mind…

Twenty one years ago, today, I let a very strange, socially awkward, drug affected pale, 21 year old man in horrific clothing lean in and kiss me. Not sure what came over me. Why I let him do it. How I could have even considered it, and no matter how many times I pushed away, tried to sabotage or run from it, that kiss grabbed my tiny fingers, let me step barefooted, and splayed, upon his bigger-than-mine feet, held with a loving death grip to the small of my back and danced me, 10 years ago, today on our 11 year anniversary of that first kiss…my son, now our son’s, 15 year old hand in mine, down the aisle. A man that taught me through example what being a father means. One I admire and find myself, even after all these years, increasingly in awe of. The finest and most loving father any man could hope to be. Proud to know him so you can just imagine how honored I feel to call him my husband.

A fatherless woman loving watched over by some of the most amazingly brilliant, loving, talented and supportive men on the planet. That's how it was so easy to fill that space. The "big empty" as it were, as it turns out, was far from empty. It had been filled by some astoundingly large shoes.

Those tiny cheeks covered in tears so long ago, they, in this very second, feel like more of a test of patience...

I waited

And

Now I see

There are so many

To

Watch

Over

Me

Thank you.....

Feeding A Thirsty Heart

“I’m sorry, and you must forgive me this shit eating grin but, I haven’t had my heart roll over in my chest like that in, hell, has to be at least 10 years” his hand like a spindly paw resting right in that concaved dip between my neck and my shoulders. I felt my face go hot in that way that makes me sort of wish I had one of those filters that could run a quick scan and keep me from spilling every last ounce of my guts before any poor soul that happens along my path, and in a way that lets me know that if I didn’t share all my junk, that I wouldn’t have these little stolen….shared moments of honesty with a face and heart that is vibrating, and pinging a little bit of brightness I brought him right back onto me.

He has been coming in for a few years. His group of amateur gourmands converging upon our store, and me in particular, to help them pair wines with their often grandiose and complicated dishes. A group that meets once every few months or so, for years now and one that has pleasingly, for me, chosen me to be their wine steward for their shared and slaved over meals. Used to be one cat that came in and challenged me to pick wines to pair with whichever multi-layered dish he’d been charged with bringing, but after a year or two it became pretty clear that I’d not jacked things up too terribly and now the rest of the group were coming in, printed menus clinched in their hands asking for assistance. Always so much fun thinking about all the dishes, each wine we’d settled on and having this next list of flavors to play with and bounce off the wines we already had in place. Dig these folks and their fever for fine food and wine and I feel pretty damn lucky to be involved with their meals and this whole, “Who’s pairing is better?” thing. This one gentleman however, he just makes it that much more fun. 

Tall, lean frame, warmly toned skin with deep slashes of life proudly worn on his face. He smiles a ton and those deep grooves assure me, he always has. Most often walking through the door with that welcoming smile, squinty eyes trying to blot out the sun behind him as he scans the store looking for his wine pro, (that would be moi) white t-shirt lying flat and crisp against his chest, barely colored cargo shorts, scrunched white socks, headful of age bleached hair proudly combed tight on the sides and with a James Dean like swoop in the front. This man is 70 if he is a day and every goddamn time he comes in with is list of ingredients, that smile and willingness, well he makes me puddle and want to please him. 

Our last exchange was me picking wines to pair with a colonial type meal, roasted game birds, cherries, root veggies and such. I stood there with his list in my head, his tall frame bending toward me as it does, and our playful banter feeling something like sparks jumping from stones that have been stricken together. Smoldering, but sweetly. He craves my palate, I crave his charm and readiness to let me drive. I picked his wines, we laughed and talked about the other dishes that were to be at the table and the wines I’d picked to go with them, his grin sturdy and gaze just enough to inspire me, “You know, I just hope that my husband stays as fired up and stimulating as you are. You sir, you give me lots and lots of hope. Things to come look so much better when I can see, all this here, on your face.” As the words fell from my lips I could feel the atmosphere around us change.

Long pause, my whole body starting to bead with sweat, my head kicking the shit out of my, well, out of my head as I wondered what the bloody hell I was thinking. I didn’t move. Wouldn’t crack. He was/is a wonderfully compelling man that makes me challenge myself, feeds my inner geek, makes me feel talented and appreciated in a way that flips all sorts of buttons in me and I told him about it. Now if I could just hit fast forward on those agonizing 15 seconds where I waited to see if I jacked it all up. 

Those deeply folded smile lines. The glow from those eyes that were fixated on mine, and wearing the kind of new confidence, because of my adoration, that made me squirm about beneath my flesh and shift my girth from one unsteady side to the other. The sound of my own breath blaring in my ears as that thin, long fingered hand reached for me….my feet seemingly rooted to the floor, both in the belief of what I had shared, and the hope that he was about to break that seal of separation and actually touch me. A new swath of skin landing on mine, the swelling of my shoulders as my lungs sucked in all the air around us. My body’s attempt, I suspect, to catalog that moment and affix an aromatic tag to it. Me standing there, falling into a second of falling that was perfectly harmless and just as perfectly invigorating, for the both of us. Fuck. I love, miss and need more of those.

I find myself holding tightly to a handful of fears. The kind that are terrifying enough to keep me from taking, “Those”  next steps, falling, floating, screaming, crying, begging and stomping my feet as I dust off my thick ass because I stumbled and fell, but for the most part I try, sometimes desperately, to live in each and every second. Living for me means feeling all those beats, the ones that sting and the ones that thump away enough at my aging heart to keep me wanting…needing that next hit. I sometimes fall victim to holding so tightly to the things I’m too afraid to let go of to grab the next bar and swing myself forward, heart racing, hair flying, mouth bending my face into a set of deeply lived smile lines, and I hate it. Sure it’s easy to plunk yourself into each day of regular or unruffled, walk into work and do the same routine, come home and drop forkfuls of normal and comfortable into your face, crawl into bed and make love, politely, with the lights off before rolling over and getting in a solid eight hours of sleep….just to wake up, hit repeat and secretly wish there were a pause, or ejector button. My exchange with that handsome, stately, lived in and willing man, it reminded me. 

I’m older but far from dead, so laying still, well that shit I’ve had enough of. I want prickly forkfuls of awkward, long slow tugging sips of “up too late”, and “damn, that feels so fucking good” to spread my tight throat wide open. Tear at me until I am raw, exposed and leaking with experience. It’s time to fall in like, love, lust, want, whatever, come back for more. Time to slip my thumbs along the waistband of those comfy pants, wriggle and peel the saturation of complacency away and drop them on the floor with the rest of my unwashed goodies and let myself feel the deep swish of naked swing me forward. Let myself pickle in the marinade of things that braise and brine me….

Things that have recently left, teeth marks

Mark Twain

Been devouring all that I can get my hands on from this iconic and brilliant man. Had one night where I randomly snagged shit from the grocery store, the Vons even, where I ended up with Lay’s Sour Cream and Onion chips, a clam shell package of bologna and a squishy loaf of store brand white bread, I grabbed a copy of Time magazine that was devoted to the slightly dangerous mind of Samuel Clemens, have not been the same since. I’ve pretty much fallen madly in love, he’s way too smart for me but that makes him even sexier. The wit, the bite, the willingness to speak his beliefs politically…much of which could be said now and still be relevant. Damn…

Fish Sauce

Obsessed is way too insignificant a word. Started with a trip to a local Vietnamese restaurant. One with spring rolls that were tight, chewy, stuffed with roasted duck and firm spears of asparagus. The rolls that required me to pull them apart from one another, like unwashed bits of sweaty skin, dunk in a shallow pool of duck sauce and then take a deep splash into the other bowl, the one with tiny flecks of red pepper. The one that apparently unlocks the aromatic seal once disrupted and unleashes a hedonistic, gamey, feral, erotically filthy smell and flavor that makes me scratch at myself like a junkie just thinking about it. Have no fewer than 3 different bottles open at my house right now and I find myself dreaming up menus just so we can meet again. Whore. I am a whore for the stuff and when paired with brown sugar and lime juice and tossed over grilled veggies and tender bits of white flesh, well I’m reduced to an animal with nails dug deeply into raw, ready flesh…lapping away and taking seconds. 

Chablis

Yeah, I know, not a new set of teeth but ones that are locked on me and not letting go. Recently ran through the lineup from Brocard and the 2013 Vieilles Vignes, (less than $30 by the way) ripped away at me so fantastically that I couldn’t wriggle out of my comfy pants fast enough. From sixty year old organic, (and biodynamic if it matters. Sometimes does, sometimes does not for me) vines this Chablis is wearing all the appellation has to offer, but concentrated in the most crave inducing way. Broken white stones, salty seashells, un-cooked bread dough and flirty snips of grilled citrus. Broad, expansive and still regal with a finish that is unremitting. Thank gawd.

Jasper Hill Farms Harbison

Took little more than one crusty breaded swipe at this oozy and decadent domestic cheese for me to groan and swear at it. Firm, brie-like rind wrapped in a thick band of herbal sage bark, interior that spills out upon the plate like gloriously savory pudding. Fork in me, I’m done. Been saying that domestic cheeses are rivaling those of the old world and this ridiculously perfect cheese is far better than many, like lots and lots, I’ve had from “the old country”. Oily, redolent with green olive, craving to spread itself on you. Not terribly easy to get but when you see it, grab it. Chill down something sexy and white, make brown the surface of some yeasty bread and just give in. 

2011 Enrico Morando Ruche de Castagnole Monterrato

When you taste as much wine as I do, like all day nearly every day, when a wine can lift my eyebrow, tilt my head and have my diving back for a second and third sniff, well that is a wine worth getting all flirty with. I admittedly taste mostly French wines all day, behind that domestic as our buyer likes to call me over to taste things with him…I suspect to watch my face more often than not, but every once in a while Brian, (our Italian and Spanish wine buyer) will call something to my attention. My current fantasies are studded with this sexy, light, fruity and like no other wine. One sniff of the bright red, crunchy red fruit and rose petals and my mouth began watering, searching for a thick slab of salty, fatty salami to let the snap of fresh fruit land upon. Hard roll of splintery dough, smear of mayonnaise or herbal rich pesto, ribbons of cured salami and a slightly chilled glass, (bottle) of this here playful red from Italy, (did I mention it is less than $20?!) and this seasoned wine vet is primed to dance barefoot in the cool wet grass….I mean, I think I would be, should it ever (ahem) come up.

2014 Roses

Dude. I have been on a royal bitch fest of a rant about the fact that importers are rushing roses to market sooner and sooner with each vintage, not taking that back but holy hell, are the 2014s fucking eye-blinkingly gorgeous! I did my yearly piss-and-moan session on Facebook, in January mind you, about the fact that I was inundated with suppliers begging for appointments to taste me on their roses. I appreciate that we are “The Store” when it comes to rose and every rep/importer wants to have their wines showcased in our Wall of Rose but dammit people, I can’t taste them all and why the fury to get here first?! Anyone with any sense will tell you that us tasting unfinished wines isn’t going to inspire more sales. Well that is unless we are talking about a vintage like 2014, dang it. Talk about your wasted vitriolic stomping. 2014 has me seeing the most thrilling pink wines from domestic producers I’ve ever seen, and a vintage from the France showing me wines, even this young, that have me more fired up than I have been since the 2008s. Starting to seem like you would have to be twice left handed to fuck up your 2014s in France and seeing as the dollar is strong, these nearly perfect roses are not taking price increases and in some cases, they are even less than in previous vintages. I’ve tasted over 100 roses so far this year and for the first time, maybe ever, I’m finding it way harder to pick which wines not to stock. Oh hells yes, bring it summer, our pinks are rolling in and we are ready for you. 

The Wines of Marcel Deiss

Alsace. My first love in all of wine. A region that has let me down more than pleased me in the past, oh I don’t know, fifteen years? Wines once geared for food, expansive but level headed, cherished for their sensibility opted to paint their faces and get their slut on for a handful of wine critics. I was fine with letting them go. I harbor no anger for lovers that leave me, mostly because I know they will either find a better match elsewhere, or one day see that they fucked up, hugely, and try and make amends.  Not sure Deiss fits into either of those categories but somehow we found each other and I could not be more excited to meet up and retouch those aromatics, textures and flavors that first spun my head and made wine the thing I knew I wanted to savor, discover, peel apart and share with anyone willing to listen. The wines from Marcel Deiss speak to me exactly like people do, wear their personality on the air you are reeling in after they leave. Terroir driven wines that don’t have to read you their insides to let you see, smell, taste and feel them. Unashamed wines of place….I not only crave them, I aspire to be like them. 

My Baby Sister Becoming a Mommy

Coming in October…..just typing that makes my heart leap and face fold into a smile that will probably permanently wear itself on my mug. Thinking of that sweet woman, the man that cherishes and loves her above all others, their sharing all that with a wee person they made together? Well it fills this craving heart and I cannot wait to meet the him or her that I’ve already cleared a path for in my heart. In love already and looking so forward to the first touch of those tiny hands and being able to whisper in that petite ear, “Do you have any idea just how special you are?”

Hands

Heart

Palate

Legs

Arms

Palms

Ready to reach for that next rung and swing forward.