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Oct 14 2009
Zombies and Wine?
There have been some developments in my life lately. While they’ve occurred by my own choice, they take a bit of getting used to. The primary change is that I’m working a daily 8-5 job. I haven’t had one of those in two years, and even that one was pretty lax. Now sure, I’m getting paid to work these hours. But I’m a writer, and I know I’m a true writer because of one simple reason. Not from my love for writing or from the compliments I’ve recently gotten about my writing— although those are a nice surprise and always welcome, seriously, don’t stop now or might cry— and certainly not from the money available to writers this side of J. K. Rowling and Stephen King.
No, I know I’m a writer because I share the universal trait of any true writer: I hate the morning. Whatever anyone else says about the morning, no one but a writer would not hesitate to choose waking up mid-morning in a torture rack if the only alternative was waking up three hours earlier by the much more sadistic device called the alarm clock. This morning I guzzled enough Starbucks to fund another Howard Schultz demolition job of a Seattle sports team so that I could stay conscious, and now that it’s well past midnight I’m fully awake and ready to take on the day. If only the only people awake at this hour weren’t starting their days a few time zones to the east, I might have a normal social life. In a few hours, I will pretend that snooze button is a fly that won’t die, and eventually start another day as a zombie in a world that gets in and out of bed too early.
I say this all to say just how relieved I was to get to go taste wine with, as fellow mortal Wendy calls them, the PalateBomb gods and another fellow mortal last Wednesday after work. In addition to their great company and the entertaining discussions that ensued, I was able to drink a lot of wine and forget that I was spending my days selling out and working, something that no writer ever really wants to do.
I now recount some of what happened that night– emphasis on some. Some I will undoubtedly leave out because I forgot it after sipping from multiple bottles of wine, and some I will leave out to protect reputations. I refuse to bite the hands that feed.
Unless Those Hands Try to Feed Me Meat.
The other recent development I was referring to is that I have become a vegetarian, well “pescatarian” I guess. It’s the name for someone that eats fish, but no other meat. But I don’t like that name. Few people know what it means and it comes with red lines underneath when you type it on a computer. I’ve always been wary of words that aren’t words according to Word.
There’s no reason that I’m now a pesca-whatever, other than that I have always sought new ways to battle my annoyingly efficient metabolism, and from a strictly logical perspective I figure that if I’m trying to keep my body from developing excess tissue, I might as well not feed it some other animal’s already developed flesh slathered in barbecue sauce.
I spent a couple semesters as a vegetarian in college, but I’ve waited until now to go for it indefinitely. Even though it’s basically impossible to make an action without any influence from other people, I hate to look like I’m following the leader, and at my college, and in my circle of friends, it would have looked exactly that way if I had started then. I’m sorry– unlike all those trendsetting herbivores, I couldn’t say I’d been changed by reading Fast Food Nation and The Omnivore’s Dilemma while nibbling a tofutti bagel on the beach the previous summer. I was busy reading Harry Potter and eating a hot dog garnished with a cheeseburger.
But now I’m thousands of miles away from college and I can now make this decision with the illusion that it has been made independently. And I’m doing fine. I’ve only inconvenienced a few people by not eating their cooking. My body isn’t falling apart for lack of essential amino acids. I’m not craving burgers.
Well, I wasn’t until I mentioned my new diet Wednesday night, and was met promptly with a discussion about where in town to get the best burgers. Thanks guys.
I have been asked by several people how I expect to learn to enjoy red wine without eating red meat. Valid point. I guess. I never really thought of steak while drinking red wine until I was told I should. Now I do some of the time. One of those times was during this conversation while drinking Subplot No. 23 at Bookwalter Winery in Richland, Wash. Actually, “thought of steak” is a bit of an understatement. Luckily, no cows were wandering in the area on this night, because if one had come into my sights with Subplot on my palate, I would’ve turned all Edward Cullen on it and there’s no way it would have lived to see another day. Yes, I did just make a Twilight reference. Yes, I’m ashamed. No, it will never, ever happen again. I guess it’s just one of those wines. We changed conversation topics and soon changed wines. I was then and have since been content with my soybeans, almonds, and the occasional salmon fillet.
Enough About Me. Let’s Talk Legs.
I’m sorry. This isn’t supposed to be about me and my life decisions. Having a platform to write has made me more narcissistic than a reality TV star turned talk show host. I’m looking at you Elisabeth Hasselbeck.
I did actually learn something about wine on Wednesday. Early enough in the night that I remember it, Craig told me what it means for a wine to have “legs.” Apparently, Subplot, in addition to being the Cattlemen’s Association’s greatest spokesperson, Subplot also has great legs.
I’ve since researched wine legs, or as the French call them, “tears,” and I found out a bit more. My envy of wine that started on Google a few weeks ago only grew. People compliment wine for its legs, a phenomenon of physics involving the differing surface tensions and evaporation rates of water and alcohol causing droplets that slowly streak down in lines from the top of the glass. When I take my time leaving a place I don’t belong I am usually met with subtle hints— like doors closing in my face or phrases such as “go away” and “we don’t want you here.” A wine, on the other hand, is lavished with praise for its tendency to linger.
Everything I read kept pointing out that prominent legs did not, as sometimes thought, reflect the quality of the wine, but rather, high alcohol content. This statement confused me. I have always considered that a wine’s quality was directly and positively proportional to its alcohol content. For my entire alcohol buying history, I’ve been puzzled as to why some sherry could be so cheap. Thus, my logic involving legs: good legs, high alcohol content, great quality.
Even more, this concept of wine legs has given me an idea for a game that I’m excited to try after future nights of drinking wine. To test the alcohol content of my urine, all I have to do is aim for the upper part of the toilet bowl and observe the behavior of the legs. Who needs a portable breathalyzer when they have a full bladder and proper knowledge of wine legs?
Sometimes I wonder why I’m single, but then ideas like that one pop into my head and remind me.
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