Finding My Proper Pairing

“What’s love got to do, got to do with it? What’s love but a second hand emotion? What’s love got to do, got to do with it? Who needs a heart when a heart can be broken?”

The raspy voice gurgled from the speakers, the warmed-by-the-sun driver’s side seat of my car curling perfectly around my sides causing me let out an audible groan as my spine melted into the seatback and my fingers flicked the turn signal. I pulled into the left hand lane….the beginning of my weekend starting just on the other side. Between glances at oncoming traffic and shifting of my tired rump around in my seat, looking for that perfect spot where the ass to seat cushion fuse together in a pillow like plushy-ness, I reached for the remote control to my satellite radio. Eyes still on the road my hands fumbled through the contents of my center console, “Gate clicker. Parking pass. Tissue….ewe!” before my fingertips fell upon the sleek little dial changer remote thingy. Edging out into the intersection I could see Tina’s fierce gams in black high heels, black leather skirt, faded denim jacket and wild mane of spiky, straightened hair as her lips curled into…..

“What’s love got to do, got to do with it?’ my instinct was to change the channel, never liked the song and goddamn MTV, (aka the church of the 13 year old in 1984) played the video to freaking death, not to mention my mother would sing, (never a good thing, got my horrible signing voice from her) it at the top of her lungs, complete with awkward dance moves, whenever it came on. Inching deeper into the intersection but still going nowhere my head was swirling with hugging seat backs, the still warmth from a car sitting all day in the sun, spiky hair, raspy voices, awkward dance moves and…sandwiches of boiled ham, plastic wrapped cheese food and cans of black cherry soda. What the fuck?! Somewhere in the two minutes from leaving The Wine Country’s parking lot and waiting to make a left on Sterns Street I was transported back to the corner house on Orange Ave in Bixby Knolls, 1984.

We had just moved out of the house where my mother, sister and I would cower in fear in the rooms just off the kitchen. The big beautiful house full of big dreams, (my mother’s mostly) sad souls and reigned upon by a miserable man that found great pleasure in tormenting a ten year old girl. Knowing she would be too afraid of breaking her mother’s heart to tell her about the nights where I would cry silently, hanging over the bathroom sink as I tried to wash the Taco Bell bean and cheese burrito, the one he smashed in my face and laughed as he told his cronies, “Watch this, a pig will eat anything” out of my hair before she got home. Too afraid to answer her, “What’s wrong baby?” questions…until the day I saw him, tight lipped and grabbing my baby sister by the arm, digging his dwarf like tiny fingers into her pudgy flesh, eyes narrow as he hissed at her through clinched teeth, her big blue, nearly two year old eyes shocked but already defiant as she tried to pull herself away. She and her bright light, intoxicating laugh and sweet heart were next on his list. Swallowed my fear, of all the repercussions and spilled on his emotional terrorism. Within weeks we were moving our few belongings into that corner house on Orange Ave.

The light turned yellow, I made my left and dropped the remote back into the console. I listened to Tina snarl and croon, her words acting like snapshots landing in my lap, the stark white interior of a new space, a television in the front room that I was allowed to watch, my mother’s bumbling hip thrusts and off pitch belting out of a song that spoke to her. The turning of the key in a deadbolt and walking into a kitchen after school, kicking off my shoes and dropping my shit wherever I wished, flipping on the television and dancing about  as I made a sandwich of boiled and pressed ham, slimy sheets of cheese, “What’s love got to do, got to do with it?” blaring above my, “C’mon MTV, isn’t there another video you can play?” mayonnaise and tangy yellow mustard, washing it down with a black cherry cola and for the first time in years, eating without the wrench of fear banging around in the pit of my stomach. To this day one of the sweetest pairings I have ever tasted; boiled ham and plastic wrapped cheese sandwich, black cherry cola and, freedom.

 The song ended and I discovered, much like oysters, Beaujolais, lamb chops, spicy mustard, Chardonnay, Loire Cabernet Franc and stepping out from behind my armor, it simply needed to be heard…and felt, at the right time for me to fall madly in love with it. Tina’s words hovering, “What’s love got to do, got to do with it?”……my answer, “Has everything to do with it” at least for me and my pursuit of happiness, of pleasure.

Been steering clear of many wine blogs lately. Not sure if it’s just me but I'm beginning to feel as if I come from a different strain than many of my wine blogging brethren. I skim but get hung up on rants about who’s got it wrong, who’s being a douche, who’s qualified to make proclamations about wine and I am about 3 years over that bullshit. Over it and none of that cantankerous quibbling speaks to the side of wine that drives me wild, the parts that inspire the kind of lust and want that drives me come here and smear my desire all over you. Not sure if any of you have noticed but there had been a long ass lag in sensual posts from me and I think much of that came from spending far too much time trying to “get” or understand what everyone else is talking about. Be a part of a more "serious" conversation that has ended up leaving me voiceless and without an inkling or slightest bit of itch, to come here and share my particular....peculiar brand of wine speak.

 Feels like I had been pulling the covers over my shoulder and tossing out the old, “Um, not tonight” far more than I ever dreamed I would. I miss feeling slippery, feeling my skin pull tight and the words drip from my fingertips.  It was becoming very clear that the, “What’s love got to do with it?” crowd so huffed up on their own hot air that their emissions had been fucking with my desire, to not only write but to join in what was once an active and interactive community. Now that right there, that is some serious bullshit. Bullshit and it’s about to stop. Not getting into anymore one sided conversations with people that think they have the right to tell me how I should be doing wine, that their way is the only “factual” proper and honest way. Not going to put my bits to sleep reading the pseudo-spiritual yammerings and winery or PR firm fed fluff pieces. Too old in this business to get myself tangled in that. Plus, it doesn't move me. Have at it dude, you enjoy your factoids and leave me to savor, flick, touch, ooze and fondle. I shan't cross your path and it is now time for me to scoot those fuckers off of mine. 

My little nibbles of want are beginning to tingle again....

I am in love with wine and

Love has everything to do with it. 

Least for me.

 

  

Because.....

I desperately need.....

To be touched.


Update-

Standing in the terrace section at Verizon Amphitheater, rocking out, as one does, to Dave Matthews, tiny trickle of sweat slithering past my waistband, way-too-expensive "double" gin and tonic being sloshed about as my hips swung to the beat and feet pounded against the hard pavement...couldn't have been happier in that moment, or so I thought...

"You two, come with me" my friend, neighbor and wee boyfriend's mom whom we came to the concert with, giving me her wide-eyed baby blues and demanding that we leave our seats and follow her to....

The orchestra section, about 8 rows back from the stage. It was so close I could see the worn leather on Dave's shoes as he bounced about in time to his own music. Unreal. Our friends upon seeing that no one was sitting, (never do at Dave concerts) opted to stand one in front of the other so I could have that space to melt into my beloved Dave Matthews up close and more personal than he even knows. The moment and the gesture enough to bring tears of absolute gratitude and genuine joy to my eyes, even now. 

To Todd, Lisa and Dave, You have no idea what last night meant. Thank you, from the very bottom of my grateful heart. 

This

To

 

Touched 

My Turn To Drive.....

I’ve played it your way
Let you force yourself inside me
Opened up to take you
Felt your fingers in my mouth
Heat against my flesh
Your icy hands around my throat making my breath shoot deep within my chest searching for warmth and quivering in fear….

I’ve played it your way
Unsure what you’re telling me but following you, aching to know what you mean
My body weak from indulging you
Me, mouth open, crawling back for more
Your inimitable flavor racing through my head
The craving for just one more taste akin to fingers tugging desperately at my flesh….

I played it your way but now it’s my turn
My turn to grind my pace upon you
My turn to take your flesh between my teeth
My turn to say when I want to feel your milky sweetness melt in my mouth
My turn to fearlessly swallow big, deep mouthfuls of you
My back straight
My heart open
My want, little fingers against my spine pushing me closer, further in, to you

I’ve got tonight
A lifetime to crave more
It’s our game now
I'm yours as long as you want me
You are mine as long as I have dreams to remind me.....

Game Changer

Guess who's coming?

My first trip to France was in March of 2003. It was a twenty five day trip that I was dreading, terrified of taking and was in no way emotionally prepared for. So how better to ready yourself the night before such a trip? Pack maybe? No, too practical. Spend quality time with the family you will be away from for the longest time you have ever been apart? Nope, too touchy feely. Organize your carry on, fill it with things to keep you occupied for a eleven hour flight? Yeah, not that wise. No this ever stable chick got stinking drunk, drank a bottle and a half of Champagne by myself….on a too-nervous-to-eat stomach. So imagine my puffy, head thumping dismay the next morning when I found that the clothes that I was packing…for the twenty five day trip to chilly France, would not fit in the two bags I had. Hubby made a quick dash to Target and got me two slightly larger bags that I was able to stuff my fat girl winter clothes in…yay.

 To try and quiet the spinning and pounding, both anxiety and booze induced I opted for the only sane cure…more booze on the plane of course. Sipping, nodding, slurping, squeezing my chunky ass in and out of my seat, more sipping and I managed to finally drift off to sleep….about twenty minutes before we landed at Charles De Gaulle, awesome. Stumbled off the plane and immediately lit a cigarette in the airport, this was France they all smoke here….um, yeah not so much. I stood there with my fearless leader Michael Sullivan looking at me like I must be “challenged” as I puffed away while leaning on a No Smoking sign. Found the nearest trashcan and after a final, “Oh my Gawd I needed that” puff I extinguished my cigarette and made my way to the baggage claim with the rest of my group.

As the plane booze and sleep deprivation retardation set in I began my first bout of insecurity based paranoia that would visit me often during that trip. I tried to steady myself, stand straight and act as if I had not been saturated for the past twenty four hours, these fancy pants wine folks were eyeballing me…wondering what I was doing on such a trip, (ya know because I was their biggest concern…fuck insecurity is kind of arrogant no?) wondering if I was drunk or just goofy. I watched as they hoisted their sizable bags from the revolving belt and felt my heart race when I didn’t see my bags comin’ round the bend. I felt the first trickle of sweat slip down my lower back after ten minutes and was in a full on flop sweat after the next ten…where the hell were MY bags?! “You sure those aren’t yours Sam?” Michael asked after watching like four bags roll around on the belt for the umpteenth time. “Um no. I know what my bags look like and those aren’t them” I snapped in a “shit my buzz is gone and I feel like ass” tone and began looking around for the little office where you go when your shit is missing. I was near tears when Michael stepped up to the orphan bags and checked the tags, that was the first time of many I would see the head cocked “Are you serious?” face from Michael. He pulled my bags off the belt and gave me a long stare before saying, “This should be fun”….fantastic start.

After one night in Paris we were off to our one stop in Champagne, Agrapart. I was still hazy as hell, not from booze but from pure physical and emotional exhaustion when we stepped into the cellar at Agrapart. My eyes glazed over as Michael and Pascal chatted away in French, my heart just wasn’t in it and my bits were beginning to freeze. My nose felt like it was stuffed and I watched as big plumes of white air came huffing warm from my lips and into the icy air, I was mesmerized as I watched them drift away from me and seemingly disappear into the frosty air that surrounded me. After tasting through the base wines used to make their lovely Champagnes we were escorted to the much warmer tasting room to taste some finished wines. I shuffled behind my group and found a small area of the tasting bar to rest my notebook upon so I could take proper notes. I brought that first glass of much wanted, long awaited Champagne to my nose and took a deep, powerful sniff….so here’s the thing, not as cold there in the tasting room and the force with which I took that first sniff…the kind of sniff that was required in the icy cellar….with the base wine, tad too aggressive. I literally sucked bubbles and wine right up my nose which induced a couching, and gagging fit that had me hunched over and fearing I was going to bring up my breakfast baguette or wiz myself, not sure which would have been worse. Day two and Michael face number two…rad.

Couple of days in and we are in a tiny little bistro in Beaune for lunch. I was feeling more rested and a bit more comfortable in my skin. I was sporting my “No one told me not to” white sneakers and they were wearing the splatters from me spitting some of the world’s most amazing wines on the cellar floors from whence they came…Clos Vougeot, I had Clos Vougeot stains on my kicks. So this afternoon I thought it was time to try and take my lunch ordering into my own hands, I didn’t read a word of French but figured that everything I had so far, (blood sausage that was forced on me that first night in Paris not withstanding) was pretty damn good, how hard could this be? Thankfully there was plenty of Raveneau Chablis to wash down my sliced pig snout with a side of lentils….dude.

Had two shining moments while visiting Eric Bordelet who arguably makes the world’s finest Ciders. “Eric is running late so feel free to take some time to decompress and just relax” Michael told us as we mulled around outside the car at the Bordelet estate. As we all wandered off to find a place to chill Michael called out, “Be sure to watch out of you should choose to sprawl out on the grass, the stinging nettles around here are pretty fierce”. Not sure what it was I heard, maybe it was just, “Grass” that sent me to a nice sunny spot of lush green where I set about stretching out, lacing my fingers behind my head and resting my travel weary body beneath the sun. After about four minutes the burning started and from there…it just got worse. “Um, Michael…if someone were to stumble upon some of that nettle junk what would it look like?” I asked trying desperately to conceal my flaming hands, “The skin would be all red, bumpy and burn like hell” he answered. I flipped my hands out in front of him to hear, “Yup, just like that. Nicely done”…Michael look number fifteen.

Later in the evening that same day, my hands somewhat healed we met Eric Bordelet for dinner at the restaurant that was located in our rather swanky hotel. I was in full on party mode at dinner seeing as we didn’t need to travel to far to make it back to our rooms and still recovering from the sting of my idiocy I figured what the hell. That was until I felt that brick wall of “Holy shit, I’m hammered” fall upon me and I decided it was time to say goodnight. Now I’m not sure if I have ever mentioned my direction deficiency before but I was born without a sense of direction….seriously cannot find my way out of a paper bag, add a bunch of wine and Calvados and I’m basically fucked. But I was a world traveler now, been weaving my way, (led that means I had been led) throughout France surely I could find my way to my damn room…..sigh. After slinking around in the belly of the hotel, winding up back in the restaurant for the third time my fellow female road buddy took pity on me and helped me find my room. Got the call in the morning, “Shall we send a Sherpa or will you be able to find the car?”….sigh.

I left for that trip ten years ago, begging, kicking and screaming because I didn't want to go...spent my last night in Paris, 25 days after I arrived, tears once again carving rivers into my made up cheeks, nose stuffed and heart racing as I dressed for my final night in the country, with the people that would change my life forever. Michael's cocked head, snarky smirk and willingness to press his palm into the small of my back and lead me down the path that I still find myself skipping along today. Finding a sweetly supportive stare and a slightly snarled nostril right above the lips that uttered "You are a peer Sam" and, "You wanna drive past the Eiffel Tower? It's midnight..." words and reflective moments that are with me each and every day, still. Michael helped me step into my skin, used his acceptance to pry this trap of mine open....made me feel, distinctive and most importantly, talented. If it weren't for Michael Sullivan I can't imagine there would be a me, least not this me, and for that I am never sure if I should give him a thump on his head or one of those whole soul hugs. He and Randy Kemner are the reason I get to live and love in this life of mine, they taught me wine but also conspired to push me, stretch me, pull me, inspire and love me in ways that this shy girl had....has never really known. The things I've seen, felt, touched and tasted because of those two men, humbling is far too tiny a word.

So guess who's coming for a visit? Coming to do two tasting events at The Wine Country which for me translates to two days with my heart full. Full of Michael's particular brand of relaxed education, the kind the washes over you and sticks without pretension or dogma. Me in the store that broke my life wide open, with the two men that conspired to rip the three inch armor off me. Helped, encouraged, demanded I find this voice of mine and have been behind me each and every step of the way. Their love for me a burst of life in the balls of my feet, their voices in my ear, their trust and belief in me the finger on my chin I've waited and hoped for my whole life. The one holding my chin high.....

Michael, My Michael Sullivan is coming and I hope with my entire big dumb heart that some folks will come, see him, support him and the amazing wines he shares with us. October 18th and 19th....save the date, come visit us and one of our most adored importers. Loire on Friday night, (Dagueneau, Rougeard and Chidaine...that's gonna suck) and Burgundy, (Montille, Lafon, Camus-Brouchon, Chandon de Briailles, also going to blow) on Saturday afternoon. If you dig me, loathe me, find me adorable or profoundly annoying this is your chance to blame one of the two cats that made me.....well, me.    

Can't wait....  

Dump That...(Speakers Required)

Zero, (or as I affectionately call her, Dumb Shit)

And get with this

Hero, Fred. 

http://twentytwowords.com/2013/08/26/widower-submits-a-song-about-his-wife-of-73-years-to-a-songwriting-contest/ 

Music from the heart and watching this, it done my heart lots and lots of good. 

Vertigo is better and I am in full newsletter mode so time in the only thing spinning outta control right now. Just wanted to to share this beautiful story, let it touch you in my stead.  Now off to buy Fred's song on itunes! 

You Spin My Head

Right round, right round, like a record baby, round, round, round, round.

Only wish it were a wine. No, this time I am being spun by a pretty severe case of vertigo. Sucks far more than I can tell you....mostly because sitting here looking at this screen, all bright with letters darting across it, well it just adds to shit that is already whizzing by my head. 

So please forgive me if I am silent for a bit.....and wish me luck, got not one but two nights of sold out fried chicken and Champagne tasting to not only speak in front of, but pour for....whimper. Send all the good vibes you can folks, I'm gonna need it.

Spinny McBlonde Girl.

Gruner Schmooner

Once again my lack of appointment book, and desire to actually get one, found me cringing when a supplier stood in all his tall, and quite handsome, glory in front of me, big, not too shinny grin on his olive colored face, young man at his side with his arm extended in my direction, tight fitting clothing and firm confidence assuring me he wasn’t from around these parts. I heard my coworker Andy ask, “You here to see me?” while scrolling through the appointment book he has on his iphone, (now there’s an idea….one that I shan’t use) slightly panicked and embarrassed look on his face. “Nope, we’re here to see Sam” Oh goddamn it.

“It’s nice to meet you and yes, I am just 21 years old” the first words I heard from the slightly freckle-faced and virile young man that was shaking my hand fairly aggressively. His name Alexander Sattler, his age as he pointed out, (and yes, I would have asked as he looked like a baby) merely 21 years but he had been involved with winemaking at his family’s estate since he was 14. I made my way to the tasting room, shuffling behind my sales rep and the eager young winemaker, my note book tucked in my recently shook palm, the whole time trying to remember if I even had an appointment with this rep and noting to myself that the young man didn’t sound or look terribly French. I flipped open my notebook, grabbed us three wine glasses and settled in.

“As I said, I am 21 so no need to worry” Alexander began as bottles were being pulled from chilled wine bags full of ice packs, his thin fingers grasping a cork and pouring me a glass “my family has been in Styria since the late 1800s but it was my father that really took charge, way before I was born” he said with a beautifully toothy and sheepish grin, “and with determination and listening to the land became a pioneer in our region. He knew Sauvignon Blanc was what we could grow best in the southern region where our vines are planted on very steep slopes” the words rolling off his tongue in perfect English and while there was an accent it was becoming quite clear to me, this young man was not French. “We are the furthest south wine growing region in Austria and that is where Sauvignon Blanc grows far better than Gruner Veltliner” the words still falling off his lips and I began getting my bearings. Okay, not a French tasting appointment, this was an Austrian appointment and…wait, Austrian? And we’re tasting Sauvignon Blanc?! What the Veltliner?!

The Austrian department at The Wine Country has seen several faces. We once had a very eager buyer, well I should say, a very eager sales person, in charge of buying for the tiny region, she was also our German buyer, (which just seemed to make sense as many importers deal with both as well) and one hell of an ass buster. She grew the department, stuffed it full of interesting and geeky wines, wacky reds and rich sexy Gruners that sported price tags often well over $50 a bottle. It was quite the conversion I have to say and there was not a store within 30 miles that could come close to offering the number or scope of wines from Austria that we could. We saw a bump in sales, obviously but…well even that driven woman couldn’t move a bunch of $75 Gruner Veltliner in Long Beach so the second she alerted us she was leaving to work for a German wine importer Randy got out the red price gun and got to slashing. Since then He took over buying for Austria but seeing as he finds very little time in his busy schedule to meet with suppliers, (although I know he must miss it a little, not that Chamber and Rotary meetings aren’t a blast and all…..) he asked me to step in. That meant one thing to the woman that works the front and is privy to all the, “Yes, where can I find__________’s?” cut it some more. I reduced the department to one red, a Zweigelt, in liter bottles that is grapey, fresh and delicious, a Pinot Blanc and a couple affordable Gruners, at least one of those is liters too. Not saying there aren’t great Gruner Veltliners out there, (although I confess to never having my mind blown by one) but I will say that the prices for some won’t be supported by our market so it’s best to just keep it simple. But…..

The Sattler family have become known for their craftsmanship of nature, for letting their land determine what to grow in order to offer the very best and where they are located and for the Sattler’s of the deep south, it’s Sauvignon Blanc that thrives, flourishes and as a store that has a real passion for beautifully constructed white wines, especially those made from the racy and nervy Sauvignon Blanc variety, well I could not possibly be more thrilled that forgetfully ran into young Alexander and the heart-racing wines from his family’s estate.  

2010 Sattlerhof Welshriesling ($19.99)

An ancient variety of white grape, unrelated to the Rhine Riesling so many of us know, this crisp white is loaded with fresh green notes and has none of those peachy, floral notes we tend to think of when we think Riesling. Fierce acidity and bright saline flavors are all over this exciting refresher of a white wine. Bring on the shellfish people!

2010 Sattlerhof Sauvignon Blanc Classic ($26.99)

There is this sexy intermingle of tropical and austere that some of the greatest producers in the Loire Valley can coax from Sauvignon Blanc, folks like Crochet and Dagueneau and it was those wines that I flashed upon when I stuck my nose in this glass of wine. Ripe guava, cold white rocks, flecks of lemon rind and the fleshiness of grapefruit all in one lip-smacking glass? Yeah, sign me up for another long, deep pour. Something here reminds me of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc way back when, serious, firm, ripe but tongue gripping….perfect. Look out Sancerre.

2009 Sattlerhof Kranachberg Sauvignon Blanc ($46.99)

The Kranachberg vineyard is the last picked, or latest harvested by Sattlerhof. They like to let the fruit get as ripe as possible, draw from the limestone rich soils and feed on the royalty of this particular slice of land that imparts upon the finish wine a mind-bending texture, enormous length, and layer upon layer of dumbfounding complexity. Anyone that thinks Sauvignon Blanc is not a noble variety has never tasted this Kranachberg Sauvignon Blanc from Sattlerhof, period. Herbs, citrus, minerals, salted pineapple, oyster shells, pink salt, basil oil and with a round, curvy texture that slowly splashes around the mouth, taking over just before finishing all fresh and vibrant, leaving the palate both worked over and wanting more. Too pricy for Sauvignon Blanc, that’s okay there were only like 10 6 packs brought to the west coast and I was only able to nab one so…