Powerless To Stop It

I have a confession to make. Not an easy one but one that I need to face, share and maybe try and explain. It started six years ago on a trip to Europe, a fun little flirtation at first, the heart pounding stuff of novels by the time I boarded my flight to return home. I was sure I could just leave it there. Let the memories of those warm nights, salty lips, shared plates of firm, succulent shrimp, feet stomping on a dance floor, my sweat…. thick and swollen with the sweet smell of Brandy, dripping from the tiny hairs at the base of my neck, wriggling between the blades of my shoulders. The dark rooms with those crisp, stiff hotel sheets, the evidence of the night before brought back to me as the steam and stinging darts of hot water bounced off my skin, pulling that scent…that indulgence from my flesh. My breath escaping my chest, my palms pressed against the slippery tiles, neck bent, head plunged beneath the shower head, not sure if I were trying to escape that intoxicating aroma or if I were trying to find the deep end, and jump. 

I thought I could just touch all of that with brief visits alone at night, flipping through my unprinted photo album and content to hide the pink that was crawling up my neck and the smirk that would give me away of it weren’t tucked under my outstretched fingers. Those candlelight-like flickers splashed against my screen, burning just enough to remind me what it felt like to be that…taken. Brief encounters from a distance where it was safe, where I was safe from crumbling beneath the weight of my unquenchable want and complete inability to stop myself. As I buckled myself into my seat for the ten hour flight home I imagined that each hour was a year, putting not only miles but time between us. 

The years ticked along and with each flip of the calendar those flickers, the hunting, came less frequently and while my passion never went away I was able to compartmentalize and compress it, almost as if it were another life….another person. It wasn’t until last year that I started hearing whispers. Not from some cavernous place in my mind that was trying to remind me but from others. I’d shift uncomfortably in my shoes, feel the heat once again creeping up my neck and my throat would tighten. My memories splashing down upon me…my mouth watering, aching to open up and take it all in again but knowing that should I allow myself even the tiniest bit of rope, I would be helpless to stop the woman inside me, the one who’s feet did that stomping and never forgot the painfully sexy taste of those salty lips. She, she would emerge and her tight throated urging would ooze over me like warm honey until did as she pleaded…”Just one more time”

In a moment of buzzy weakness I let that raspy voice dig into my flesh and push me right back into the “something” that started, and I tried desperately to leave behind six years ago. Here I am once again, a slave to the desire that has its teeth buried in my skin, without a plane and thousands of miles to keep us apart and no amount of hot water is going to wash the scent away this time. It’s time to own what I’ve done and to confess…I’m not willing to stop.

It was in the tiny town of Cadiz that my sultry lover first spoke to me and now that doughy and powerful voice is back in my life and, I’m afraid, I’m so deeply in love that I can’t even begin to imagine being apart.....

Well, That Was Pretty Cool

“We have how many?!” I asked, slight panic in my tone when I arrived to work the Friday of what was now a sold out White Burgundy seminar and tasting. Couldn’t believe it. Simply could not believe that we had filled every last possible seat for a Chardonnay class, a French Chardonnay class at that. Forty people, we had forty people signed up for our Understanding White Burgundy event and I found myself, as I almost always do, in the middle of a mini panic attack.

I always suffer a nervous tummy leading our classes here at The Wine Country. I’m not at all talented in the public speaking department. I get wobbly knees each time I step before a crowd and find that my already soft, albeit raspy voice does not carry above all those staring at me heads. My face goes hot and red the second I open my mouth and I find myself leaning against the tasting bar that rests upon the wall, not to look cool as I spout my bits of retained information, but so I can grip the bar and hold myself steady as I struggle with the internal conflict of wanting to share and teach and feeling like I might just hurl right then and there. The teaching always wins and I am happy to report there has been no, um, unfortunate incidents as of yet but that last Friday in January, well let’s just say it was touch and go.

So here’s the thing. I don’t do or see Burgundy as vineyards and slopes. Can’t wrap my head around which villages have what kind of sun exposure, which vineyards have east or west facing slopes, how many hectoliters per hectar, and who is using what percentage of new and used oak. I know those factoids mean something to some people, not to mention they sound damn impressive when wine people, (unlike myself) rattle them off. I get that and have honestly always felt that my lack of interest and retention of those things has marred me as less than credible, or less serious in some way. When looking at that long list of people coming, to learn from me, well I was guessing that tasting bar and I were going to be spending a lot of time fused together.

Hopped online, pulled out all my resource materials and buried myself in pages while scribbling feverishly on my notepad. Was up to my elbows in notes when it came time to pop the corks and check my beloved wines for correctness and make sure I had them in an order that would best demonstrate their uniqueness. My was heart pounding away in my chest, panic attacking my shoulders and making me stand a little less tall, my wrist twisting away as I pulled expelled corks off my trusty wine opener. All thirty wines opened and ready and I grabbed my glass. Buried my nose in the first wine and as the sultry, doughy, damn near salty aromas clung to the side of the glass and slowly wiggled past the lip to my waiting nostrils, my eyes closed in that way they do when sheer pleasure grips you, “Ah, Azo Vau de Vey Chablis” the aroma so familiar to me that simply smelling that wine made my shoulders soften and feel like they were being massaged. 

The room began to fill with the evening’s attendees and by the time I had finished tasting the last wine I too was in attendance. Standing just a little taller, as confident as I have ever been standing before that many people. I began my wee lecture by reaching for one of my uber thick and packed-with-factoid books and spread its pages before the waiting crowd. The stark white pages full of tiny text and more information than any sane person could ever possibly retain, “This is one way to see Burgundy” I belted at my highest octave, fingers flipping the pages slowly, one white and tiny text page after the next. Then I reached for another book, one I have always felt retained just as much information but in a very different way. As I spread the gorgeous picture book of Burgundy before the crowd, the photos of vineyard workers, winemakers, families cooking and eating, drinking and celebrating, the faces behind the slopes and soil types, the people that create the wines we were about to taste looking back at the crowd, “This, this is another way. This is how I see Burgundy.” 

My point was made, the whole crowd went beyond “Understanding Burgundy” they understood that wine is so much more than something to acquire, read about, hoard or covet. Each bottle has a history, a family, a face and has been made for you to enjoy. My hands never touched that tasting bar again as I flitted about the room pouring, talking, sharing each wine and the people behind them. One of the best classes I’ve ever had the pleasure to teach. Sure, some of it was digging into my own confidence but the real star, the wines.

2009 Herve Azo 1er Cru Chablis Vau de Vey $27.99

Azo has had placement here at The Wine Country for as long as I can remember. The wines always offer traditional Chablis flavor and texture and at prices that make a weekly indulgence possible. Classic Chablis aromas; stony, doughy, citrus, cold wet stones and toasted nut skins. Plump in the mouth with a finish that goes on forever. Heart stopper and bring on the oysters.

2009 Les Heritiers de Comte Lafon Macon-Chardonnay Clos de la Crochette $33.99

Brought to you by famed Chardonnay producer Dominique Lafon this wine is a screaming deal when you think about the fact that his wines from the Cote d’Or start at around $100 and fetch upwards of $1,000.00, a bottle! We poured this wine alongside the Azo Chablis just to show that Burgundy isn’t a style of wine but a product of its environment, soil and weather. This sumptuous Chardonnay is positively popping with ripe pears, toast, minerals and a sexy cut of caramel. From one of, if not the, oldest sites to produce Chardonnay, this is a wine that might even woo the domestic wine lover. Nice richness and has enough body to hold up to anything from steaky white fish to heavily seasoned chicken dishes. I dig it on it’s own but if you need food, think fuller and richer. 

2009 Jean Chartron Rully $21.99

What a freaking rock star of a wine! Was the most purchased wine of the night and one sniff, taste, you will get why. Deep, really deep for a wine of this price point, fiercely nutty and almost greedy in its demand for your attention. So rich and toasty but still retaining that snap, that zip and bite of citrus that makes White Burgundy what it is. Quite complex and I recommend you buy at least two, one won’t be nearly enough. Trust me.

2010 Evening Land Pouilly Fuisse $26.99

Okay, this poor wine might have gotten lost in the lustiness of the more heady tasting and earthy whites in its flight. Whatever. I dig the purity of fruit here. Stark and exuberant, busting at the seams with ripe, cooked pears, almost as if they were simmering in a thick syrupy sauce. You get a big aroma of green herby notes in the middle but the finish is everything you want in a Pouilly Fuisse, soft caramel and sweet cream. Luscious. 

2009 Chateau de Puligny-Montrachet Meursault $49.99

My wine of the night. The second I took a tiny indulgent sniff of this wine I knew what wine I would be revisiting once the chairs were all put away and the dishwasher was chugging away. Etienne De Montille has nailed it here, his generous but deft hand with oak adding just enough sexy seasoning to lift this alluring fruit to mind bending levels. Nearly thick in the mouth, staining, with a little nibble of acid that snaps you right back to reality and dares you to not take another sip. The finish is a river of sliced, dripping pears and toasted hazelnuts on a cup of citrus rind. We sold out of this wine but the second I got home I sent off and email begging for more. I need more and once you taste it, you will too. 

2009 Deux Montille Saint-Aubin 1er Cru Cru Sur Gamay $41.99

Made by the other face of Montille, Alix, Etienne’s sister, who I can tell you is one firecracker of a woman but is steeped in the tradition of her family and the importance of place. A wine that vibrates in the mouth, seems to bounce from tongue to gums and back again. Alive and while weighty has the fluidity to spread, grow and expand across the palate with buttered toast, marmalade and savory toasted, oily hazelnuts. Shows plenty now but I ache to taste this wine after 3-5 years in the cellar.   

Deadline Blues....

Writers Block
Deadline
Not enough time to do all that I need to get done
Touch and talk with the people that want and need me
Wanting to be touched and needing back
Tired
Burnt out
Guilty feeling deep in the pit of my stomach
Unable to keep an idea in my head long enough to flesh it out
Daydreaming about having my own flesh...outed
Bit of helplessness 
Bunch of frustration...
But,

This picture made me smile
And realize that sometimes, it really is that simple.
Just hoping you all send me your collective good ju-ju
Kisses
Until....
Me

My Sweat Pea Versus Your Meat

“Sam! Be careful. Steps were designed to be taken one at a time; you freak me out when you do that!”

My mother watching me as I my small hands gripped the handrails on both sides of the narrow staircase that aligned the coliseum-like cement stepped seating at the Marina Pacifica center. She’d brought me there for cookies, or under the pretense of getting me a cookie. She was there for a cookie…both an actual one along with the blast of sugar like rush she got from hob-nobbing with the people she wished she was. I’d get a lemonade, fresh squeezed and face-puckering, my young tongue and lips lapping away at the sour, savory juice that would forever be my favorite. I’d drink my pucker juice and cringe through half a head sized chocolate chip cookie, (thus giving her one and a half to devour) while I watched her try so desperately try to fit in. 

I never really cared for sweets, even then but I played along as she excitedly told me we were headed to the then beautiful marina setting with its swank shops full of things we couldn’t afford. My little hands wrapping around the rails, my tennis-shoed feet leaving the ground as I swung, and would leap three or four steps at a time. Each time I landed I would first put my hands out in front of me, just making sure I had my footing, before looking at Mom and giving her the grin that let her know I was fine. Her shake of the head and eyes retreating back to her bent and creased novel, fingers pushing past the butter soaked paper to snap off another piece of peace giving cookie releasing me to swing and leap again.

I used to save the big steps, the ones that weren’t even really steps at all, but were the romantic and somewhat grandiose coliseum-like seats that I’m sure, were dreamed up by some local architect that must have smoked lots of pot and ached for a live music venue that didn’t involve driving. I saved those for when I knew she wasn’t looking. I could go up those treacherous seats; my knees chin-high and calves pulling as I braved my personal Everest. Climbing the seats like some wild monkey as the Long Beach well-to-do bustled by, bags in hand and trying fruitlessly to pretend that they were in Beverly Hills. My chest pulling, hair being lifted with the rush of air as I gained some speed. I would make it to the peak, better known as the parking level, and I would dash over to the “regular” staircase to begin my assent. Gripping hands, swinging feet.

I did stairs wrong. Been known to do lots of things wrong but for some reason those stairs always flash in my mind when I’m being told I’m doing something incorrectly. Wrong?! Maybe not traditional or the way others do, or have been doing it, but wrong?  Well I beg to differ, and once arena where I will most assuredly grab those rails or take those calve stretching steps is when it comes to food and wine pairing. Not content, or convinced for that matter, that the old ideas of pairing are all that relevant anymore. Sure the guidelines are great; white wine with white fish or chicken, but what if that delicate white flesh has been cooked in a deep tomato broth with smoked paprika, Spanish sausage and saffron? Red wine with “meat”, (this one has always bugged me. What kind of meat?! Veal, spare ribs, pork cutlet?!) okay that’s fine I guess but you still think that Zinfandel is going to go with barbeque if it is of the vinegar and mustard variety? Or Italian red wine with, “Pasta”, this one sets me aflame quite a bit. Pasta is a noodle jackass, and unless you’re fixing to eat a plate of dry noodles saying anything goes with pasta just makes you look and sound like a bleating sheep. Those kind of blanket, and let’s not forget, hollow, statements drive me absolutely batshit. Crusty. Crusty old ideas that don’t take into account the fact that food and cooking have changed in the last, I don’t know, hundred years. 

“I think Syrah would go. Maybe a Cal-Ital or Chateauneuf” suggestion from a coworker, the one I happen to butt heads with on the whole pairing issue, like a lot. I was making dinner from leftovers, roasted tri-tip and a sweet pea and cilantro puree, so I asked my fellow wine geeks what they would serve. The answers were all over but this one person was just set on a big, juicy red to accompany the dish and I simply could not wrap my head around it. I went on to explain that the puree was on the aggressive side and would likely be the dominate flavor on the plate seeing as my tri-tip is simply seasoned with salt and pepper before it takes a quick sear in my cast iron before being slowly roasted in the oven. It’s not smoked or grilled so the flavor is quite subtle, and much like the aforementioned fish, the protein was providing more texture than actual flavor. I finished my little explanation only to be met with him looking at me, while holding his hands in front of him as if he were holding a football and he said, “But tri-tip, that’s big meat, I think you need a big red” dude. It’s not the size of the meat but what you do with it. 

I ended up grabbing a Rose from Provence to go with the dish and nabbed a bottle of Manzanilla to sip on while I was cooking. Was doing my little kitchen dance while assembling; toast the tortillas on the open flame, take a sip of Sherry. Flip now charred tortilla into dry frying pan, sprinkle with Jack cheese, sip of Sherry, add thin slices of tri-tip and red onion, sip of Sherry, smear with pea puree, top with a bit more cheese and a second charred tortilla. Quesadilla built, might as well take a sip of Sherry. Once removed from the pan and given enough time of the cheese to cool just a little, I began cutting the quesadilla in quarters, slicing off a little sliver of one to see what I thought of this leftover creation. Wow. Kind of brilliant use of what we had on hand, I was feeling mighty proud of myself as I stacked the wedges on a plate and…took a sip of Sherry. What happened when that salty, nutty wine met with the cilantro and sweet pea flavors was down-right otherworldly. I took another sip, you know, just to make sure I wasn’t high…had sipped on a bit of wine while cooking but, nope, there it was again, this fucking mind bending combination of things happening in my mouth, the kind of perfect pairing that should be written about and could change the mind of those that aren’t inclined to think there’s much to this whole pairing wine with food business. It was in fact one of the most explosive and sublime pairings I’ve ever had the pleasure to put in my mouth and had I stuck with the conventional wisdom, red meat/red wine, I would not have ever experienced.

I think it’s time for more of us wine and food people to grip those handrails, let our feet swing out from under us and take a few more leaps….   

Dessert I Can Get Behind. Weekly Cheese & Wine Feature

Featured Wine:

Domaine La Tour Vieille 2009 Banyuls Roussillon, France

This French dessert classic has been our go-to wine when asked for something to serve with chocolate. This gorgeous semi-sweet red comes from Banyuls, a region in France’s Mediterranean just north of the Spanish border where the old vines, (in this case over forty-five years old) cling to terraced slopes so steep that all harvesting must be done by hand. Very much like port in that it is a fortified wine, but here you find a bit more restraint on the sweetness scale. Full and round in the mouth, lots of dark cooked berry fruit with a gentle hint of cocoa and plenty of refreshing acidity which keeps it from coming off too sweet.

Featured Cheese:

Clawson Huntsman

This is a layered cheese from England that most assuredly offers two great tastes that are great together. The base is a Double Gloucester, a cow’s milk cheese that most closely resembles Cheddar, with a thick slab of Stilton, England’s most renowned blue cheese, in the middle. Not only very cool looking, this cheese is powerful and full from the blue veining, but softened out by the creaminess of the much milder Gloucester. Tremendously flavorful cheese to just nibble on and absolutely brilliant on cheeseburgers or thinly sliced and left to melt on a freshly grilled steak.

Pairing:

Not being much of a sweet eater I’m always looking for an interesting, delicious and satisfying way to end a meal and have found that a nice chunk of cheese, served with a slightly sweet wine ends up being just enough without pushing anyone over into over-indulgence. Some might raise an eyebrow at the idea of calling Banyuls slightly sweet but when I was putting this pairing together I was also handed a glass of Paso Robles Zinfandel to evaluate and I shit you not, that Zin was far sweeter and Port-like than this "dessert" wine is. Not to mention the Banyuls had way more acidity which made it more balanced and hell, the alcohols were almost the same! So yeah, if people have the nerve to call that a table wine then I'm going to be okay with calling this semi-sweet.

This pairing is as much about texture as it is about flavor harmony. The coming together of rather big flavors; the dried berries in the wine and the sharpness of the blue cheese all seem to get cradled, softened and mellowed into the most sublime rich, almost sauce-like texture in the mouth. Achingly addictive, this pairing and after sampling a few staff members on the two, watching the wedge of cheese get hacked away at as they went back for, "just one more to make sure we love it" tastes and glasses were not only drained but refilled...I can safely say this is a crowd pleaser too. 

Once Is Never Enough

Do that to me one more time….

Been in the worst rut as of late. A rut in part because that’s just what happens when we get older; long work days, less stamina, less drive, a little less prickle at the nape of your spine to see what’s happening outside. In part as a recovery from the holiday season; the crazy hours, the anxiety, the stress, the running of numbers and receipts in your head and hoping against hope that the season will be all that you expected, planned for, needed. In part getting ready for my baby to be home; the planning visits, meals, gathering of stuff for him to take home with him. Customers, family, tastings, reps, shopping carts, razor cuts, sore back…the “oufff” as I landed on the couch at the end of each day….the, “Oh goddam it” upon waking at 4:00 AM in the same spot. 

Getting through. The season is all about just getting through, and while I have always been down with that, I also suffer this post season hangover. The pressing need of others no longer propping up my tired frame and I’m left feeling like a bag of skin, all the air let out. Jeremy’s leaving just one more whistling hole of absolute deflation. I find myself flipping through books, magazines, scanning blogs, websites and importer pamphlets seeking that spark, that little scrape of teeth that will make me dig my own into my bottom lip and seek more. My ache to rediscover the me that lives, slithers and thrives without my strings, direction, emotion, being pulled by the puppet like yanking of obligatory and maternal need. I find myself digging deep beneath the tattered and season ravaged uniforms, frayed jeans, sweat soaked bras, tears of goodbye stained pillows. I know there is a woman under all of that. A woman that has way more lusting, wonder, elation, gasping, groaning, learning, puddling and purring to do. 

Do that to me one more time…

Now

I’m done splashing around in those post crazy day gin and tonics. I’m done finding comfort and peace in their simplicity and not needing of my attention. Sure that relationship worked when I was merely seeking a way to quiet the hush and melt into my couch cushions but now, now that my wee brain is settled from the dizzying swirl of ribbons, tissue paper and UPS overnight rates, now I need more. Need to feel that nibble, wet mouth, garbled accent tiptoe up my neck and crash like waves across my shoulders….fingers scratch my scalp as you grab my head and demand that I notice…pay attention to You. 

Once is never enough…

Bottle after bottle, your footprint across my skin

My lips parted

Heart pounding

Eyes watching each achingly too slow pour

I can’t get enough

Stripping off last year

Layer by layer

I’m ready for you….

Now   

From The Department Of Douche

“Yes sir, how can I help you?” me welcoming a somewhat grumpy faced customer holding a brown paper sack at the counter. “I would like to return some items” the snippy reply. This is rarely and issue but when it is, it is. We tend to look at wine as if it were a food item so once it leaves our shop we cannot determine how it’s been stored or cared for, therefore we cannot, in good conscience resell that item. Not to mention it is not really our fault that you bought too much wine or didn’t like something you picked. If the wine is flawed we have no problems whatsoever giving you an exchange, those things happen and we don’t even think twice about making it right, (plus we go right back to where we got it and have it made right for us too) but over purchases, well that’s not really our problem so we don’t accept returns for that.

As the scrunched face gentleman, whom I can’t say I’ve ever seen before, begins pulling tissue paper wrapped bottles from his bag I explain our store policy to which I get the, “Oh no you di-int’!” face and a very exaggerated flipping about of the receipts in his hand. This goes on for a few seconds before I hear, “Oh don’t mind me. I’m just trying to see where on your receipt it says that” to which I respond, “You know, that’s a very good point, we should have that on the receipt and I will talk to the owners about that” now the “gentleman” is really looking pissy at me and says, “Yes, why don’t you run off and talk to them about that now. It doesn’t say that anywhere on here does it?” receipt being waved in my getting-redder-and-pissy-my-own-self face. I’m doing my best to smooth things over, not piss this cat off any further, take his rather shitty condescension but still tow the company line, that’s when I look down at the 7 items he brought in for return just as this slips past his sneered lips…

“I’m a regular customer here! I come in once a year and buy 6 bottles of Moscato for gifts!”

On the counter:

Two bottles of Capetta Moscato di’Asti ($8.89 each)

Five Christmas wine bottle bags…in fucking January….

Gave the guy is thirty-eight dollars back, with a big grin and another explanation of our store policy. Just wasn’t worth it and last thing we ever want is to piss off a “regular” customer but….fuck, how about coming in not looking for a fight and not treating people like they are trying to screw you over?! You bought too many bottles and are now returning holiday themed items long past when we have any chance to sell them at anything but 50% off, if anyone is getting hosed here it’s us. Had the guy come in, explained that he over bought, the gift recipients didn’t drink, or even simply said that he could really use that $38.00 in a civil tone instead of walking in with a chip on his shoulder things would have been far more pleasant…for both of us and I wouldn’t be sitting here on my lunch break feeling the need to get that jackass’s garbage off MY chest.

You catch more flies with honey…

Wanker.