No Bonnet To Pick

“Samantha, I have three times come to see you here in Los Angeles and even though you come to Champagne every year, you’ve yet to come see me”

The taunting but earnest words from Champagne producer Cyril Bonnet of Bonnet-Ponson on his last visit to California a couple of years ago. The smirk on his, extremely handsome face assuring me that he forgave me but the little poke at my side, it let me know that my overlooking had not gone unnoticed.

He was right. I had been to Champagne probably four times since we first met, and not too far from the little village his family domaine is tucked into, Chamery, located in the Marne, district of Reims. There were zero excuses and it was easily, and enjoyably fixable on my part. It was on my last trip to France, that I carved out the time to make an appointment to visit my dear friend Cyril Bonnet. 

Last time I’d seen Cyril was here in Long Beach after he’d lead an amazing Champagne event here at The Wine Country. Well, truth be told, the very last time I’d seen him we had taken him, post Champagne event, to a Long Beach institution, The Interlude. A dive bar that is exactly what it sounds like it would be. Basically, where hope goes to die. We celebrated his graceful and elegant performance by buying him shots of Tequila Blanco and pouring him into an Uber that whisked him off to his hotel near LAX where he was to catch an early flight to the east coast the following morning. Hoping he had somehow found a way to forgive me, I made the call and we piled in the car.

I had to muscle past a whopping 413 people to make my way to Champagne Bonnet-Ponson where I found the final village total, Cyril and his Grandfather, numbers 414 and 415. Four Americans plopped out of the car and there he stood in front of his modern looking, still under some construction family winery, the stunningly handsome, talented and incredibly sweet Cyril Bonnet. I heard my fellow female traveler take in a hard, sharp breath when she saw him, big gorgeous grin, swatch of wavy brown hair, “See. Told you. Wait until you taste his wines!” I whispered in her direction. 

We spent a couple hours there with Cyril and a couple of other drop in visitors. We got the “tour” which is to say we plodded around the tiny winery tasting a few things from tank, a couple more from the bottle, before making our way to the tasting room where we tasted through a dizzying array of bubbles as well as his Coteaux Champenois, the still Pinot Noir and Chardonnay he makes, sadly just for the tasting room, for now anyway. Once again I was floored by the quality being offered, especially when you consider the fact that they are all from 1er, or Premier Cru vineyards, grown and made by the same family that is splashed across the label. Beautifully structured, classic Champagnes made by the most delightful people. Winning all around. 

N.V. Bonnet-Ponson 1er Cru Brut $52.99

Made from equal parts Pinot Noir, Pinot Meunier and Chardonnay this perfectly balanced Champagne offers charming roasted stone fruits, pears and cream dunked biscuits all over the palate. Nice and plump in the mouth with nice depth and long creamy finish. 

N.V. Bonnet-Ponson 1er Cru Brut Rose $62.99

Made mostly of both Pinot Noir and Pinot Meunier with Chardonnay making up the final 25%. A gorgeous deep pink Rose with powerfully extracted red fruit aromas. The palate offers a evocatively inviting weight with flecks of holiday spicing and warm buttered toast. Super long finish and achingly tiny bubbles. Delightful with cold cuts, dark meat fowl and rich gooey cheeses.   

No Words

Before I embark on sharing my words I thought I might prepare you for, my new look. 
Older
Tired
Been through it yet...

Still fighting

Still untamed....

Still splitting at the seams with love....

Still me.
I've not forgotten to be here
Just trying to figure out where to start, figured starting with the right now is as good a time as any.
Coming very soon
All this silly, old, uglier but still here
Me

Time For Me

To
Get
Back
At 
This....

My heart is finding ways to fill
My mind is spinning with things to say
My lip is sore from the biting of it

I 
Need
Me
Back

That means 
Here

Smells Like Summer Sweat

Thought of these things while driving to work this morning...Summer smells. All the sights, the textures and wafting aromatics behaving like a memorial slideshow that rattle me from the monotony of grownupedness. The ones that spread my nostrils, expand my rib cage and tug hard at the forgotten bits of absolute submissiveness

.   

1) Warm white bread, clear sun-cooked mayonnaise that looked more like Vaseline than food, thick planks of store brand Jack Cheese secreting waxy flavorless puddles that seemed to beckon, like a damn magnet, each grain of sand on the beach where I'd enjoy and devour my handmade, sand encrusted, sweaty sandwich with the smell of Coppertone 12  a preferred aromatic pairing to the scalding fruit punch, swollen and exploding from the plastic containers offered by the bus that brought us there, at discounted prices to help our hard working single parents save on child care.  

2) Bonnie Bell Roller Ball Lip Gloss in bubble gum or cherry. The gritty and lard-like feeling against my teeth from chewing at the top of the tube, teeth and tongue plunging and tugging to pry the roller ball apart from the thick plastic encasement. This action creating a river of fucked up, fake as hell, lustrous lip gloss to spill out over my then young and plump lips, tongue and teeth. An effort to exploit my awkward and slippery. Losing and enticing my fear of my own pulsating sexuality. Make them look at me....but don't let them see me scoop droplets of sickly sweet smelling lip oil from my bottom lip, and hope they don't notice me scratching the industrial, fuzzy barrier on my grill being created by this hellish lip junk. Pray they don't recognize how badly I want them to see it all and somehow crave touching, smelling and kissing me while at the same time wishing I could walk silent and unnoticed, alone and content to be that way...

3) The shivering, pinching, aching and undeniably captivating fascination as I  witnessed my taught white fingers roll and sweep, delve into the deep valley of dark brown skin that ran down his back. Our 12 year old fumbling. Our well beyond our years and left alone courage. Discovery. Recovery and the beginning of my figuring out where to strap on the hard armor and where to leave pockets of craveable exposure, The way his young frame would shiver...the way my teeth would nearly pierce my lip. His ache and want the kind of sweet pestilence that would eventually leave deep textural scars, both motivating and hauntingly regretful. 

4) Re-fried beans all smutty with lard and charred thick corn tortillas. 5 years old, alone on a pungently scented beach. Running from the rotting aromatics of two old people I didn't know drinking themselves to death in a country not of their origin. The blistering hot silver metal tube of utter surrender with the rickety door that never closed all the way. Me counting the blinks of their inebriation, "five-four-three" the burst of head spinning aromatics as I broke out in my cut off shorts and obnoxiously ruffled shirt my mom purchased at the border crossing. Hoping her toe headed gringo daughter would blend a little better in Mexico. Dropped off there to visit her dying father's numbing parents. 

5) The sweetly sweaty smell of my tiny son. His puffy, thick and tightly curly hair like a cap that held all his daily events down hard against his skull. The late nights when I would slither in behind him sleeping on the couch. His plump cheeks looking like the most luxurious material I could ever imagine. The stillness of his resting eyes, the kind of sleep that to this day I am not sure I have ever experienced. The way his tiny frame sensed me, bent into me, would wiggle deep into the perfectly made for him folds of my body. My illusion of authority and his collusion making me earn it. To this day I can still smell the sweet, feral, hard earned gravy of my skin mixed with my son's. It's why I crave those kisses he so readily gives me on my forehead. I smell Us when our heads are that close and that particular aromatic of summer, simply the most precious and powerful I know. (Happy 28th my gorgeously hearted son. I love you like...well like only you know)

6) The bubble gum, banana and eventual peachy, mineral rich, mouthwatering crunch and refreshment that is summer rose. Starting too damn early each year now but once I get past the weird and unfinished aromatics on far-too-young wine I start the check list in my head. From the lonely beaches of Mexico to the bustle of crowds clamoring for the newest vintage of Rose from France, Spain, Italy, Greece, California and Portugal, aromas have been my partner and drive for as long as I can remember. Ushering in each season, teeth stinging from weighing through the 400 samples of world rose to find just the right symphony of aromatic and palate pitch to keep our brilliantly savvy customers curious and coming back for that next pleasure promising sip. Digging through way too young pink wine with an eye, and nose for the months ahead feeling like warm perfumed hands upon my cheeks and pulling me deeper into each glass, coaxing and asking, "Do you know someone that needs this wine"....

Silly lonely girl that has forever lived and loved in the breathing in of every tiny bit of every situation. The soul, sting and coating of pleasure that some of us find living and reliving through deep breaths and palate lashings.

Grateful for you all....

And the way you get Us.