A Little Further Out

“Why did you go out so far?! How could you do that?! I was so afraid I was going to lose you Mouse, I just don’t understand why you went that far!” my mother screaming at me. I think I was about five, maybe four years old and had just been plucked from the ocean by a lifeguard, me, the water baby, needing a rescue and sending my mother into a terrified rage. I didn’t tell her of course. Didn’t mention it was my smaller-than-me visiting cousin that had gone too far, stepped off the cliff and pulled me back with her and that was why we were sent off into the near depths and needing help to return. This would be a pattern that has been shaved and reshaped but is still with me now…

I think it was called Balboa Bay but I could be totally wrong about that, much like I am so much about my foggy past, but it was where my mother would take me to float, splash and above everything else, swim while she wadded through the pages of her beloved and worshiped books. Days, whole days would be spent there, some of it playing in the sand, feeling the tiny grains rub rough against my flesh or tugging long strips of sea monster looking seaweed, the ones with the slippery leaves that would lick my ankles and scare the living shit out of me, from the ocean making the shore safe for everyone, punishing the beast for frightening me by pressing its bulbils tentacles, the thickly skinned bubbles that reminded me of warts, between my palms until they burst and released the most fragrant of sea potions. My mother all the while stretched out on a towel, arm draped across her brow as she lost herself in the pages, words, tales of people living for better…or just living more than she was. My skin stained brown from the relentless sun, my hair slicked back and white blonde from the punishing combination of sun and briny sea water, I would bob around in that water for days. I began to learn the cove, like truly learn it, just how far I could go, how many steps before my feet could no longer reach the bottom and my arms were powerless to pull me back. 

Three, there were three stages or rungs to the cove. There was the walking bit, where I could feel my feet stuck firmly in the murky and slippery wet sand, this was where I spent most of my time. I would turn handstands, dig for seashells, and run all Rocky Balboa like along the shore, my bare feet slapping the stinging bits of water pelting and then bouncing off of me. Then there was the “ledge” an area I would shimmy up to, my toes leading the way, where there was a dramatic and steep drop…one where I could feel my tummy plummet and heart begin to race the second I pinned my arms behind me and jumped. Falling, I could feel my hair float towards the surface as my body fell deeper into the cove, my insides tensing and twisting as I made my short decent into the deep end. Darker, colder, but exhilarating as my arms made big loopy swoops upwards, pushing me further under water. Lungs getting tighter, eyes growing wider I began to learn, this meant I was getting close, close to feeling my feet hit the bottom, close to bending my knees and pressing with all my might against the sea floor and catapulting myself back to the salty smelling surface. This place, this was my favorite place.  Not in complete control but not out beyond the cliff bobbing out of control. This place, this is where I find myself still, a million miles from that cove, my mother’s not so watchful eye, and slippery sea monsters masquerading as seaweed. Not bound by convention and not ruled by the desire to rail against it.  Fantastically out of control just long enough for my feet to settle into the muddy sand and push me back up. A place that sanctions my cravings and satiates my conformity, allows me to talk, bite, snarl, groan, lick, kiss, suck, taste, succumb and spring right back to the surface….and I never want to leave.

So it is without shock that I find myself here, late for work, writing about, thinking about my past and trying to figure out why it is I’m this way,  or like the things that I do, on the morning before a tasting that I had to do some tugging to get, and some backing off to make happen. Geek Wines, we are pouring some geeky wines this afternoon and I am fucking beside myself with anticipation. Randy allowed me to have this odd little tasting of wines that, much like me, don’t quite fit into the confines of tradition. Wild little wines that have their own quirky smile, sometimes salty taste and can make the heart pound away with confusion and wonder. Not weird, strange or bizarre…just somewhere in that unpolished and undefinable area between that and simple deliciousness….

I’m on my way…

Wrapped Up Tight...

Let myself sink into a bit of a funk lately. Some induced by others and some I think residual depression from my tossing aside my beloved disgusting 25 year smoking habit, (and yes, I still miss it painfully at times but I will say, those times are further and further apart) either way it has been weighing me down more than the extra poundage I’ve accumulated by trying to deal with my oral fixation. Adjusting to having my son back home, as a grown ass man, and trying to work that gentle balance of living together and being his boss at the shop….not always easy, for either of us, my husband resigning from his 12 year, pretty cushy position as employee number 12,507 to employee number 28 at a far tinier, maybe risker but significantly higher paying little company.  

 Too much to think about, worry about, get my tummy in knots about and some things I have my head so buried in the sand with regards to facing them that I may never even let it really ever touch me…just fade off and become something I should have handled, one of those regret things I vowed to never let myself get bogged down with. Top it off with spending a couple days hold up with a piece of my history, a piece of my heart, that has had the wind knocked out of him emotionally and is trying like hell to figure his own shit out, (poor dude came to me….not sure he could have picked a more tumultuous time to come face to face with me) and desperately trying to help him, hear him, be there for him when my own drama and distractions have had my head so far from being screwed on tight. I work as hard as I can when at the shop and then the second I am like alone and junk, free from the store demands that are gratefully actually demanding enough to have me step up, pull my head out of my ass, step up and deal with them….well that’s when the fucking avoiding and obsessing starts. Drove home tonight with one of my long-standing obsessions and I shit you not, didn’t think of one thing I should have, frankly I can’t even remember the drive! Annoying, as fuck, and I’m getting kinda tired of succumbing…obsessing in place of fighting or resolving, although the things I’ve been getting wrapped up tight in, lost in, well let’s just say they could be worse….

Sleep- Now this one needs to be first on my list of “Oh you need to move the fuck right along”. I’m not talking sleep, like the regular sleep that all you normal people have been doing you whole lives and that tends to elude me. NO, I’m talking about getting out of bed in the morning, quick cup of coffee and then with the time I used to spend writing or reading emails, blogs and facebook stat-i, I’m now crawling back in bed, arms wrapped around as many pillows as will fit in them, covers literally being tugged over my head. Pretty obvious this is a sign of not wanting to deal and one that may have just had its last way with me this very morning. Felt my jaw get a little rigid when I gave that thick brown cover a pull, my time needs to be worth more than napping….at least until I’m like 50 or some junk. 

Bual Madeira & St Agur Blue Cheese- Now this is one I can keep but I need to think about it less and try not to drool whenever I tell customers about it. Getting pretty fucking embarrassing that, and I am going through too many work shirts.

Redbreast 12 Year Irish Whiskey- Okay, I might let this one visit me from time to time. I recently grabbed this as a treat for the husband who inexplicably bounced from Gin & Tonics to Bushmills on the Rocks. Who the hell makes that kind of switch one morning?! Same dude that leaves a cushy boring job for an uncertain but more fun and better paying one that’s who. After watching him take one sip and look at me like I had just injected him with heroin, or an intravenous bag of chocolate frosting, well I knew I needed to get me a sip. One lead to two, three, four…yeah you get the gist. Been my “up later than everyone” lonely tipple of choice, my 2:00 AM sipper if you will and while I will crave the slightly salty, warmed butter, toffee like aromas…the vanilla cream, candied orange rind, caramel covered cashew flavors and tongue-biting spike of heat I will just restrict myself to special evenings, or cold ones, or if I feel a chest cold coming on, or…sigh. 

My Roasted Salsa- This winter treat is becoming a bit of a crutch for me, a way to garner all kinds of affection and praise by plying people with free jars of the stuff, even shipping it across the United States in order to get people to notice and stroke me. Fucking lame. That and like I need another reason to snarf tortilla chips?! I’ll make one more open call for anyone that would like a jar and then, it belongs to winter, (only really make it then when fresh tomatoes blow and stuff)  which is nearly over, as an occasional condiment for dinner, holiday gifts…and to bribe my neighbors that are completely hooked on it. Gotta keep that "in" with the wee boyfriend and his crew. 

Dave Matthew’s Some Devil CD- (Oh and Google Alert, you suck) I am a Dave Matthew’s Band freak, devotee or worshiper if you will and nothing, NOTHING, (Dave that is all caps there love, this is serious) is going to change that. This solo album from Dave never spoke to me the way it does now…just him, his voice and guitar, the way his tone and pitch seem to dig into my flesh, been listening to these three tracks, (two from the cd and one admittedly from stalker-ish lurking on You Tube  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=28gGWpx-xyM  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FhbzoltxZms and http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lMiyN3Gxwts so often that I am now hearing them when things get too quiet and my fingers have a whole choreographed steering wheel routine now. Yeah…starting to make me feel like a total magazine picture clipping, letter writing, (shut up, blogs don’t count!) pee myself while seeing, collage making weirdo. Going to have to filter in some Patsy Cline, Sam Cooke, Marvin Gaye, Fleetwood Mac, The Impressions, Mary J. Blige and Sara Bareilles in for balance…with a smattering of Dave Matthew’s Band of course. Yup, that’s gonna help.

Brussels Sprouts- Not sure what the hell is going on here but in my not-screwed-on-straight-head this has become the only vegetable I care to eat, like honestly. I cook other things but within two days I have my tiny peeling knife out, my secret pot of “bacon juice” a big pile of stripped off leaves, the ones I will toss about in that juice before roasting them in a nearly 500 degree oven until they are all crisp, black and redolent with bacon….the bity little cabbage heads I leave intact crunchy on the outside and like custard on the inside. Addicted and I need new veggies, new flavors and a way out of my baby cabbage infatuation…help.

Pascal Marchand Red Burgundies- Fucking Pinot Noirs are haunting me. First came across this, “Micro-Negociant” label last year, negociant because he is buying fruit and or juice but micro because he is only buying tiny lots from people Pascal has come to trust over his years in Burgundy, people that farm with practices he prefers and can provide him with healthy fruit he is proud to work with…and the wines are precisely the kind that creep under my skin and nibble away at me from the inside out. I walk past them at the shop and I can’t stop myself from touching them, aching for them, digging my grubby hands into my pockets to figure out how many fewer Brussels sprouts I have to get in order to afford them. Practically taking mouthfuls of me these wines and I am powerless, inadequate to stop them….fuck.

Phrases Like I’d rather be hated for who I am than loved for what I’m not…

Barber’s 1833 Cheddar- I think we have stumbled upon the perfect Cheddar. Fruity, crumbly, mildly nutty with softer acid and tons a flavor without giving you those needles on the sides of your neck when you eat it. I buy a piece at least once a week along with a box of olive oil crackers and Ronnie and I share it for lunch. If I run out at the store I freak so I’ve begun ordering two hunks at a time…and hoarding. 

Beatles Here Comes The Sun- So this isn’t a full blown “issue” as it were, but it’s getting there. I fumble with my ipod, scroll past this lilting and hopeful song http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U6tV11acSRk but within three songs I am hovering over the title and wondering if it’s time for a lift. Now that I think about it, this might should move to a not that bad pile…

Poof Bunny and Nugget- I shan’t tell you how many times I’ve looked at these two pictures, the bunny in particular makes me screw up my face and is so fucking cute it almost pisses me off. And yet, still looking…must be the vagina. 

Vincent Careme Vouvray Tendre- Round and voluptuous, spicy, tart, saturated with baked pears and Asian spices…the kind of wine that has its fingers so tightly dug into my throat that I can’t ignore or forget it…can’t stop hungering for just one more sip. As sensual and haunting a Chenin as I’ve had in years. I’d like to pretend I’m going to stop my fixation with this wine but I can feel it now, not going to happen. 

Finding Shit Like This Here- Really people?! I find an immense sense of satisfaction when I see crap like this, anally impaled animals for wine or booze bottles…,assures me that as fucked up as I am, someone else is way worse.  

Moon Dancing- Long time readers know about my late night escapes from the confines of my home. The slipping past my screen, glass in hand, feet pattering against the cold and sometimes wet concrete as I make my way out to my silly little perch beside the stream that babbles though my apartment complex. My visits with the love of my life, the man on the moon. Most don’t know why and while this place and sharing of myself is also an obsession/addiction, my reasons for that are mine and mine alone. Kills me to say it but I think it might be time for me to grow up, and much like I long ago gave up on making wishes into soapy bubbles, maybe it’s time for me to stop dancing with the man on the moon, pretty sure he turned off the radio and can’t hear the band anymore. Might just be time to close things up and be inside where I belong. That said, it’s gorgeous out tonight, I’ve got this half bottle of Redbreast and just enough energy for one more moon dance…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rmC3kpM3C_k 

Bullseye!

Least they're hitting their target audience...
One of the greatest things I've ever seen.

http://www.nbc.com/saturday-night-live/video/moet-and-chandon/n33637/ 

Thanks to Terry Theise without whom I would have never seen this, or without his grower Champagnes I might never have understood just how truly funny it is.  

Dammit Walter

I first wrote about Walter here, (http://sansdosage.blogspot.com/2012/12/not-dome-with-me-yet.html) in early December after hearing that the cantankerous old bastard that snarled into his glass, had a tendency to let chunks of half chewed cheese bits fly from his mouth while exclaiming that the wine in his glass was, "fucking disgusting!” and he meant it in the best possible way, the thin as a rail, bearded and lovably grumpy fixture at our events, that he was going to be up for one hell of a fight. Our Walter even though he had quit smoking years earlier he had been diagnosed with lung Cancer. Dammit. 

Walter…

Walter’s name was Jack, Jack Bryans and today was the first Saturday that I knew, for sure, that he wouldn’t be walking his scrawny ass through our front door to attend our tasting. Crushing.

“Oh look, a Jack update” my coworker Andy checking his smart phone to find he had an email waiting. “Oh….the ultimate update I’m afraid” that’s how I heard, heard that our irascible old fart didn’t have quite enough fight left in his 76 year old frame. None of us were terribly shocked, I mean he was so frail and had already taken a spill, one that broke bones even, do to the aggressive Cancer treatment. Not shocking at all but there we were yesterday afternoon, all quiet and avoiding eye contact with one another for fear that we would either be caught with tears in our eyes or see them in someone else’s and not be able to keep it together.  Dammit Jack.

Much like in that first post I was struggling with if I should go visit Jack while he was in the hospital and much like the last time I just felt it would have been too weird, for us anyway. The last time I saw him he had come in for one of our Thursday afternoon tastings, one featuring white wines from Spain, the crisp little whites with tons of racy acid that Jack and I both adore drinking and chattering with each other about. We did, chatter and taste he and I that Thursday afternoon and I am absolutely fine with that being my last memory of him, of us. Dang it Walter.

I do regret not being able to say goodbye but more than that, I wish I had let him know just how much his gentle ribbing, nitpicking and eventual adoration of me and my palate meant to me….that and I will be inconsolable, on the inside of course, come our annual Rose and Aioli Fest in June. I’ll miss his schmeg covered glass, stinky garlic breath, constant updates of which Rose was best with carrots, potatoes, the lamb, so exuberant and expressive that the other attendees would be a little frightened. He loved that event and I know with everything I am, he would have lost his shit over the 2012 vintage of his beloved Roses. Gonna miss you Jack.

(Walter) Jack Bryans December 1937 – March 2013