No Substitute For Touch….

“Yes, you can help. Grab that step stool and crush the garlic in the bowl with the cheese” my tiny head looking for this mysterious stool thing as my heart raced at the very idea that my grandmother might let me not only help with something pertaining to dinner but would let me be alone with her in her kitchen. My big green eyes spotting an odd tiny ladder, two steps, just the right height to lift me high enough to reach the large off white bowl with the blue trim that held the smashed bits of Roquefort. I sucked my breath deep into my chest, wrapped my arms around the midget ladder, metal and rubber digging into the tender bits of flesh on my arms as I wrestled the lifting furniture that I’d hoped might bring me just a little closer to her level, making sure not to scrape the kitchen tiles or make too much noise…sure that any tiny bit of me being a kid, my mother’s kid, my mother’s daughter, might make her think twice about allowing me this access. 

“Okay grandma, what do I do now?” my whisper of a voice pushing through deep swallows of fear and demanded intimidation. Her perfectly quaffed head spun around and again my eyes were wide and breath dove deep in my chest. She rested her vegetable peeler on the towel beside the sink that was deep enough for me to bathe in, wiped her hands on the stark white apron that protected her breathtakingly beautiful and agelessly hip one of a kind pantsuit. Her long stride slow and deliberate, coming at me and making my entire body vibrate with anxiety as my neck stretched and craned looking through the dining room, trying to find my mother just in case I needed to run. Her knees pushing the stool closer to the counter, her perfume flavoring the air I was desperately sucking in, her thin frame pressing against my back causing me to jump and stand soldier like as I felt her arms fold around me. “You take one of these, drop it in here and squeeze. Just like that. See?” as she placed the press in my hands, flipped it open and dropped the firm cloves of garlic in the small cave, pulled the lever down and with her hands as my guide gave the press a firm squeeze, her chest and shoulders resting across my back, my teeth sinking into my bottom lip as I fought back tears. “That stuff smells strong” the words I was able to come up with to explain why my chest was heaving and eyes were watering as that cold woman laid warm against my little back, held my hands and taught me how to make blue cheese dressing. 

Not sure she ever looked my way again but I stood on that tower of a stool, mixing and mashing blue cheese with my pressed garlic, grin from ear to ear and to this day I can still remember that dressing. The cool and crunchy hunks of iceberg lettuce, shaved carrots, black olives, thinly sliced cucumber and my “tall as her” dressing. The only time I can remember my mother’s mother holding me, not out of want, but that sink hug and lesson, they are alive and thriving each time my teeth sink into greens bathed in blue cheese dressing, our blue cheese dressing that I have now made for years and shown my son how to make. 

Been reading some blog posts lately that at first twisted my crunders into a knot but eventually had me wishing I could stand the writer upon a stool, push them closer to the sink and show them the way it actually works. Images as a tool to sell wine…sigh. Nothing drives this wine slinger more batshit than reading and listening to some blogger or critic pontificate about what they think will sell wine. Here’s an idea, how about you try selling the stuff before you tell the rest of us, that are in the trenches and dealing with the honest to god consumers, with their impossible menus, needs for a gift for, “She’s an Asian heart surgeon that doesn’t eat meat…” and “I want something that tastes like Caymus Cabernet but is white and costs $9.00.”  what will and will not move the public. Now I know a picture is worth a thousand words and all, am well aware that we are quickly becoming a nation of skimmers, 140 character tweets that pretend we are actually friends with those 300 plus people on Facebook but…where are you going when your heart is broken, you need real advice and are truly looking for actual recommendations? If your answer is Twitter or Facebook, my guess is you aren’t drinking as richly and suited to your palate as you could or should  be and your depth perception might be a tad off…

The use of images along with content, a back story, well that does in fact move people but I can tell you, as someone that has shared both pictures and stories, it’s never the picture that those consumers remember, it’s the story. I’ve taught I don’t know how many classes in which I pour a wine from Didier Dagueneau, held up a picture of him…his wild mane of hair, bandana and overalls before telling one of the handful of precious memories I have of my time spent with him. His image unforgettable and maybe a bit shocking to people that think winemakers are like fancy and junk but not once have I had a customer return and ask, “Where is that wine from that guy in the overalls”. Not once. Always some tidbit of the story, “That guy from the Loire that loved margaritas” or more heart sinking, “The one that made those amazing wines from the Loire that died in a plane crash”…sketches and photos, shots of plump grapes and dusty boots…they can be, are parts of the story but without words, without connection to the people in those pictures, the wines made from those ancient presses or some sliver of human behind them, they’re worthless. Might not need a thousand of them but words, they matter and far more than some bloggers and marketers might have you believe. 

How many images do we see each day? A woman in high heels, stockings stretched against her amazingly perfect thighs…what was she selling again? Dunno. The guy in a ripped up pair of jeans, rippled and tight tummy with some kind of slogan scrawled across the bottom of the page, a family sitting around the table laughing, a can of some junk on the table…flip, flip and flip again. If you think skimmers are more inclined to remember a picture than a story, well you might be either retarded or so steeped in your marketing degree that you’ve forgotten how powerful actual touch is. If I weren't so irked I would feel sorry for you, but seeing as I am in fact dealing with those connection seekers, like first-hand, I'm going to ignore your shallow advice and keep....talking. On the eve of one of the most horrifically shaking moments in American history we will be seeing image after image of pain, sadness and destruction…just ask yourself, is it the picture or the story that brings those tears to your eyes? The remembering of where you were, who you knew, waiting for the call as those towers crumbled.

“When did we get these?!” my voice raised and nearly cracking as I grabbed the heavy metal tool and looked around the room. “I need one of these” as I pushed the garlic press across the counter with my weekend purchase of wine. Seen hundreds of pictures of them in my cooking and cookware magazines but to hold one in my hand, find one there in the store where I work, feel its weight and remember that stool and moment, smell her perfume and see the slight crack of a smile on a face that wore a lifetime of disappointment…worth a thousand words.

Not The Same. Period

"What is that?!"

"Oh that’s Prosciutto I think. Whenever I see that in a recipe I just use some Oscar Mayer ham, it’s the same thing”

A conversation from years ago but one that has stuck with me for well over a decade now. Same thing? Um, not even close. I mean aside from being made from pig they have nothing, absolutely nothing in common. Now before anyone goes and tries to label me a pig parts snob, notice that I didn’t say one was better, hell I can get my grub on with a simple ham sandwich as much as the next lover of the swine but the same? Nope, won’t concede to that foolishness. They can both be wonderful, some days one might even appeal more than the other, both have their place but they are not, I repeat, are not the same. Period.  

Saturday afternoon we hosted a sparkling wine event at The Wine Country. This is always kind of a fun event for me as I get to pour, talk about, re-taste and share with people some of the fun little sparklers we sell but don’t pour for our Champagne events…know why? Yeah, they aren’t Champagne. So like I said, these events can be a lot of fun for me and for the most part I have a blast, there is however one thing that always gives my crunders a bit of a crunch, and likely makes uncomfortable some of the others that come to just learn and have fun, the, “Oh stop with the not calling it Champagne, they’re the same” comments from a somewhat hardheaded set of folks that seem to find some weird little sense of fun in poking…almost mocking this wine slinger for my refusal to agree with or actually call those wines something they are not, Champagne. Grrrrrr

A couple years ago I cured one such gentleman, (um, term used quite loosely) that was breaking my bawls left and right about not calling a domestic sparkling wine “Champagne”. We went round and round, I explained that Champagne was not a thing, nor was it a style of wine, it was a place where they make sparkling wine. This dude wasn’t having it, just kept laughing, (and just so you know, you ever want to see this normally mild mannered woman go buck wild, just try laughing at me when I’m being serious. I’ve got an ex-boyfriend that can attest to the hells furry when you pull that shit) and chiding me, telling me I was being silly and just then I remembered he had come in with his brother, who was steering clear of this whole spectacle by the way, when I first offered to help then he had introduced both he and his brother, by name….my tactic now, to call this gentleman by name before starting any sentence, except I kept calling him by his brother’s name. “Well Eric, I can see why you feel that way but the truth of the matter is” and “Eric, while you are correct in that they both have bubbles, they aren’t the same thing” and finally he spoke, “Oh, just so you know, Eric is my brother’s name” to which I responded, “Well…it’s the same thing right?” breakthrough. We laughed a little, my smirk a tad sharper as we discussed that even though he and his brother looked alike, grew up the same way, were basically made from the same “material” they were in fact different people and their names were actually kind of important in differentiating them, “So you see, Tom, it matters.”

Saturday afternoon I poured to a group of happy tasters while dodging the fiercely annoying, “Champagne is Champagne, no matter where it comes from” set, a phrase that makes my head implode by the way, trying my best to be light hearted and educate without being dogmatic. I don’t care who likes which and why, I’m honestly just thrilled you found something that moves you but try and get me to call a heart a spade, won’t happen. No matter how bitchy or stuffy it might make me seem. There is no such thing as Italian Champagne, no Anderson Valley Champagne and they sure as shit don’t have Champagne in Spain. Sparkling wines, hell yes, and some damn fine ones, but Champagne? No. Period. 

So the part that made it so freaking hard to keep the lid on this powder keg of fielding asshat “Oh C’mon it’s still Champagne” comments dome of mine, the fact that when each and every single one of those poking me with a stick folks hit number eight on the table, the one and only actual Champagne we were pouring, “This sparkling wine comes from Champagne”….getting a tiny charge out of watching the little hamster spin around on the wheel in those heads, is that they all stopped dead in their tracks, eyes wide, chins dropped and mouth agape before asking me, “Why is this one so much better?!”….argh, because it is freaking grower Champagne! Dammit…

There are times for Oscar Mayer ham, times for Prosciutto and each of us might love one above the other, for whatever reason but the fact of the matter is, they aren’t the same. Just as hot dogs and sausage aren’t the same, Tom and Eric aren’t the same, Brie and Maytag Blue Cheese, while both cow’s milk cheeses have their own flavors, texture, nuances and personality, all sparkling wines are not the same…calling all of them by one name, as if it were a style is not only wrong, it’s unfair. Those willing to see each wine as individual, unique and pleasurable in its own way, well they are less likely to drive me batshit and way more likely to find enjoyment in each glass….for what it is, not what you assume it’s trying to be. 

Ugh…that feels better.

Do Over

“Yes, we would like to start with the guacamole, BUT, we want it with no cheese and I won’t eat it if there’s onion in it”

A couple of nights ago while at dinner at one of my favorite little inexpensive joints down the street. A place I go when I am seeking comfort or longing to soothe my soul. I pull the heavy door open and my chest expands as the smell of freshly made chips fill my nose, the dimly lit entryway awash in colorful tiles and splashy woven fabrics in vibrant shades of red and green line the walls. Mariachi music just this side of too loud but as I make my way to the hostess there is but one sound I can make out, the “slap-slap-slap” of masa dough as it is flattened and stretched between the tiny palms of the Mexican woman that makes her living cranking out disk after disk of thick and chewy corn tortillas, the ones that will be brought to my table still warm and puffy from the griddle. Yeah, my happy place.

I rarely pay much attention to anything when I’m at La Choza, those pillow-like tortillas my only focus as I smear their tender flesh with butter, a shake of salt, sometimes a thin puddle of green salsa, the almost sinful feeling as my teeth sink in and mouth fills with steam that is scented with sweet corn, animal fat and succulent salsa verde. One of my most savored moments, one that I crave and one that fills me with nostalgia unlike any other. So for me to be pulled away from that, yeah it had to be something truly noteworthy. Ordering guacamole, without cheese, (who the fuck puts cheese on guacamole?) and then tossing out a comment like, “I won’t eat it if it has”? With my folded over and dressed tortilla just inches from my aching soul and open mouth I found myself cocking my head and listening as the poor server explained that there was no cheese in their guacamole and that they made it to order so they could leave the onion out. Then began a series, a barrage actually, of questions that had me wishing I could hug that poor server as he patiently answered, “Do you guys use lean beef?” and, “What kind of salad comes free with my meal? I mean is it just lettuce or is there anything else on it like cheese or chilies or something, because I don’t like chilies” thickly accented server doing his best to work for the massive tip that comes from the $12 plates they serve. “Okay, so I guess we will start with the guacamole and I’ll have the chicken enchiladas with no cheese and no beans” the painfully annoying gentleman announced, in a tone that made very clear he felt he was doing the place a favor by being there and all I could think was, “Why the fuck are you here?!”

You don’t like cheese, won’t eat onion and shun chilies, want lean meat and hate beans, what about that combination of things made you think, “I want to go to that cheap Mexican spot”??! I swear, had he asked for something without cilantro I might have been forced to rip his big dumb head off. Dipshit. I was retelling the story to Jeremy later that evening, my eyes bugging out of my head as I ranted about the cheese-less, clueless, enchilada eater and my spinning head flashed on a moment in Europe seven years ago, one where I was face to face, across the table even, from an asshole just like that one.

“Sam, I think we need to send you on this trip” Randy standing in front of me, handing me an invitation for an all-expense paid 10 day trip to France and Spain, one being hosted by one of those big trade commission dealies that I tend to crinkle my nose at, but as my eyes skimmed the list of Rhone and Alsatian producers we would be visiting, most of which cranking out pretty boring and lackluster wines, my eyes hit one spot that made me look up at Randy and say, “Yeah, I think I can do that” with a grin spread from one side of my pudgy face to the other and my tummy doing cartwheels with excitement….we were being taken to Cadiz to taste, learn about and drink wines that had just started to blip on my radar, Sherry. 

Now another downside to those big sponsored trips, aside from the boring wines, (as the wineries in fact pay for all of this so the ones that can afford to sponsor are often ones that produce large amounts on meh stuff) are some of the morons that will be joining you. That particular trip, packed with them! Thankfully there was face I knew when I stepped off the plane in Madrid, and old sales rep of mine that was now running the wine department for a French store at the 3^rd Street Farmer’s Market. A wonderfully sweet and handsome Frenchman that I always got along well with so when we saw each other, well that was it, we were fused at the hip from that moment on…well after downing like eight Pastis in the Madrid airport while waiting for the flight to Cadiz that is. 

The fact that we were inseparable was the first issue I had with one particular idiot on the trip, one that brought five large suitcases for a ten day trip, changed her clothes four times a day and wanted nothing more than to hop in the sack with my little French buddy, therefore a raving bitch to me of course, all that crap was easy to blow off but it was while sitting at a beautifully set luncheon table, at the bodega of Lustau which is one of my all-time most adored producers, being served a six course lunch that started with paper thin slices of sweet ham that melted in your mouth when you took sips of cool Manzanilla, segued into fried bits of chorizo scented potatoes served with Palo Cortado, softball sized mounds of foie gras set before me and that is when I heard, “Um, do you have any Pepsi? I can’t drink this shit anymore!” as the twat from Florida pulls out a small pillow from one of her giant bags, pushes her plates and glasses aside and lays her hollow fucking head on the table! I was just sitting there, mouth still vibrating from the glorious complexity, diversity and regality of the food and wine, my limbs feeling slightly weak from seduction, mind reeling with the possibilities, the promises of more and I was yanked away by some vacuous and ungrateful fuckwit….lost it and found myself snarling through fiercely clinched teeth, “What the fuck are you doing here?!!”  while pounding my hand on the table, a move that not only scared the bitch right out of her but ended up getting me a round of applause later that night when the real wine people gathered in the lobby of our hotel o sip on way too much, but heavenly sumptuous Spanish Brandy. While it was nice to know that I was not alone in my yearning to pound her stupid head in, that visit to Lustau was ruined for me and this is something that pains me still, but….

Tonight, despite the fact that I worked two evening classes last week, had only one day off and have another Friday night class next week, I begged to be scheduled to work our evening class today. Sounds kinda crazy I know but tonight, tonight I will be feeling the pull of Serrano ham, the burst of saline and brine from anchovy stuffed olives, the shatter of Marcona almonds as they break against my teeth, the slight sting of salty sheep’s milk blue cheese, the fatty spice of charred sausages and will be washing it all down with glass after glass of  one of the least understood but most powerfully seductive wines, ever…

Got me a date with some Sherry this evening and I am counting the seconds.

The Small Stuff

A few weeks ago my boss Randy Kemner wrote a small piece for the newsletter about the things we can control. It was just after that horrible shooting in a Colorado movie theater and how he and his wife spent the evening with their closest friends and while the sadness and shock of the moment were still with everyone, just how much joy they found being close to people they care about, sharing something they love, food and wine. Resonated with me on a level that is still working its way through my armor and many fibrous layers. He intended to make a point but I know for a fact he didn’t intend to send my head and heart reeling the way he did. First of all he already has me so tightly wound around his effusive and exuberant voice he didn’t need to write anything to make me swoon, he was just talking from the heart and sharing his real life dealing and the discovering of the sweetness of the moment. It touched me and made me stop, for days now, and think about the things that are close enough to actually affect me….evaluate the things that are merely just hanging out there in the maybe and someday. 

Been a political monster the past week. So wrapped up in the rhetoric and arguing, the kind that pulls my lips back hard against my gums and shows my true fangs. Fuck with my right to do with my body as I see fit, tell me that there are types of rape that are less egregious, or that some fairy dust fed part of my womb, that doesn’t exist will protect me from a legitimate rape….well, I’m going to get fierce, pissed off and will verbally rip the nut sack off any fucktard telling me they know better and that I should just trust them. These arguments are in fact worth my time, venom and rage. They will affect me and all the women that come after me. Didn’t fight this hard, for this long, knife against my flesh, bat to my jaw, face smashed against a brick wall, forcefully exposed chest rubbed raw and bleeding as someone’s idea of legitimacy was imposed upon me, just to have some bloated, rich white man tell me what I have the right to do with my body….what my granddaughters and great granddaughters can do with theirs. This fight is worth the time I’ve spent sending letters, stupid Facebook posting and vowing of my time to march, vote and share my story. I used to feel shame for what happed to me, over and over again, but now…the only thing I’m ashamed of is that this glorious country of ours would employ or vote in even one sick fuck of a human that thinks we as the “gentler sex” aren’t capable of making choices, no matter how horrid, for ourselves. I’ve got your gentle right here asshole, come see me….and you can bring another halfwit with you, let’s make it a fair fight.   

So yeah, been seriously involved and wrapped up on that front, and with good reason but when I’m quiet, when the laptop is off, when there isn’t some new asshat comment in my grill making me wonder, “If your daughter were raped by a black man would you be half as vehement?!” Randy’s sweet words of appreciation and rather grounded observation of what really matters slip in and awake my subconscious. Reminding me of what does in fact matter in the right here and now of my life, the things I don’t have to rage against…the things that bring me joy in the face of the ugly, hate filled and self-serving. I can fight for my rights, try and fight for those of other women too afraid, but the truth is, I have my own silly fears, still, that pale in comparison but still plague me, the same kind of “I know better than you” kind of bullshit and head patting that are dripping with lies and omissions…taking a moment to reflect and simmer in the beauty that has come from all I, we, struggled for, the small things that make the fight worth it? Can’t help but find a much needed expulsion of warm, tight chest filled breath and the spreading shoulders that come with it. I find myself sipping slow, taking long drags, on those things, people, moments that make all the fighting, shock, confusion and struggle seem like tiny bits of penance and horrific blood stained battles, pleads of “please don’t” feel like they are a million miles away…so long as there is this to keep me fighting, hoping and believing….

Teaching my son about wine. Figuring out what moves him, flips on those switches and gets that palate vibrating for more. Knowing that I have within my feeble knowledge, the tools to help him become a force to be reckoned with in our field. Empowerment..

My much adored summer tomato sandwich. White bread, Best Foods mayonnaise, sliced sweet summer tomatoes with a pinch of salt. There is not one other thing, not even the sound or smell of the ocean that can evoke as powerful an emotion. I shun tomatoes nearly all year because I need to preserve this glorious and head spinning bit of perfectness. 

The relief filled roar of laughter when I let an “F Bomb” drop in one of my classes. Wine people deemed stuffy and all, I let a passion filled “fuck” fly and the whole crowd laughs and feels more welcome. An early lesson that has served me well….

Finding a new issue of Saveur magazine in my mailbox. I rip off the plastic like it was goddamn Christmas morning, spending hours lost in words strung so beautifully together that they make me crave each and every single bit of food or place they are writing about. Letting my toes twist and head swim as I dream of writing for them someday…

Always feeling like the least attractive woman in any room but…having a suspicion that if I did my thing, let the true me out, I could captivate and seduce anyone I wanted. Probably total bullshit but it serves me well in bar situations and fuels my Dave Matthews fantasies.

Being able to make my beloved Ronnie, the coworker I adore, laugh his ass off on a daily basis. Don’t care if I have to make poop schedule comments, I crave his laughter and am willing to make an ass out of myself to get it. 

Reading the email I get here on this blog. Some of the things you people have shared with me take my breath away. I know why I do this but am rarely convinced that anyone cares…until you write me. Been humbled here more than I can tell you and just so you know….those moments are with me each and every single moment of every day. They make me stronger and encourage me to keep going forward….so this is entirely your fault. See what I did there?!

Reading the face of an ancient native American woman as she fed me Navajo fry bread when I was too young to truly understand. Each wrinkle in her tired and hard life upon me as my young teeth took bites of the most ethereally light and airy bit of dough I had ever known. A start…

How aroused I am when I feel the not used enough muscles in my forearms force an opener into a cork. Watching the bulge and twist of the strength beneath my skin, the way it gets all my other parts ready…drives me wild.

Writing a sentence that makes me think, “Damn”

Knowing I have been in the cellars of, tasted, more great wine than most of the wannabes that wax on and on and on about wine. Until you’ve had a revered Burgundian producer ask your birth year and run off to retrieve a bottle…shut up. I’m getting tired of trying to down play my experience and what I’ve tasted, been a part of…..time for me to embrace the good fortune that has been shed upon me thanks to the likes of Randy Kemner, Kermit Lynch and Michael Sullivan. I used to feel embarrassed but now, in the light of all these other “specialist” I think it is time to let those lips pull tight against my gums and call out the BS when I see it. 

Having one of the wees from next door run over, in his Paul Frank jammies, to bring me cash for the gift basket that we made for his grandma. Sweet big and wide open face full of a new day’s promise, big smile as he finds me in my jammies too. Not to mention coming home to find….

Feeling the strain of opening five cases of Champagne because 70 people just had to be at our Champagne and Fried Chicken event, in my wrists. I’ll twist away over and over again for those events…they “feed” me just as much as they fed those 70.

Making “that” face at my husband at least once a day for the reward of hearing, “Fuck, you are the sexiest woman, like ever”

My mother teaching me to really cook. How even something as simple as Egg in the Hole can be masterful when prepared with the right ingredients. 

Working retail which has taught me patience and appreciation on a level I couldn’t have expected.

Gratitude, for still being here considering some of the horribly misguided decisions that fueled my youth, stuck a snarl in my jaw, had me facing that brick wall questioning what got me there….

Knowing that there is a breath of fresh air and empowerment beneath the next cork and being ready to jump in.  

Voting

Writing 

Tasting

Drinking and feeling....truly lucky.