Zombie in Wineland

Oct 14 2009

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.

The Tongue can Wait; Eyes and Nose First

Oct 2 2009

The Eyes

For her birthday on Sunday I took my beautiful mother out for some wine tasting.  After we had our share for the day, we were sitting on Kiona Vineyards and Winery’s patio overlooking the vineyards and the hills.  Those of you who went out for Catch the Crush festivities on Saturday or Sunday know just how unseasonably gorgeous the weekend was.

Thus was the setting when my mom said, “I could sit right here forever,” and I could hear in her voice that she meant it.  Naturally, I did not agree with her out loud at the time.  As a general rule, I don’t agree with my mother on matters of opinion.  If she were to tell me that raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens were a few of her favorite things, I’d hope there were enough of them in the world to make her happy, but I’d also instantly have to adopt them as my least favorite things.  As it is, I’m not too fond of whiskers on kittens anyways.   But on this rare occasion, I had to agree– at least silently.

I am amazed at how beautiful this area is.  I have to believe it is one the most hidden gems in the country.  This bewilderment is not coming from a visitor, but from someone who grew up here, who made the drive from Prosser to the Tri-Cities without ever looking around, for fear of death from boredom.  When I was a young kid, that place called Benton City was merely the place where if I had to travel for a soccer or football game, I was annoyed at it for wasting my valuable time I could have been using to practice my penmanship or at  least pick my nose in private.  Where was this view when I was watching Big and Kindergarten Cop on VHS for the millionth time each?  Where was this graceful falcon dancing in the otherwise empty sky for me when I was playing duck hunt until I looked like Ben Stein in a Clear Eyes commercial and when I was blowing the “dust” out of Nintendo cartridges until I needed supplemental oxygen?

I first noticed I had been taking this beauty for granted a couple years ago, when I came back from Europe of all places.  Even though I saw a lot of rural beauty in countries like Italy, Austria and Spain, I spent most of my time in London, suffocated by buildings.  When I came home, this stark transition made me see all I had been missing for 20 years.  But since then, I left again, then went abroad again, and when I came back I was still taking our area for granted.  This Sunday, from Kiona’s stunning vantage point, I realized again just how lucky I am to have the chance to live here.

So mom, I too could sit right there forever.  I don’t even need wine to enjoy it.  Well, I should be more careful with my words.  I wouldn’t mind sitting right there forever.  I probably can’t though.  If I told the proprietors of Kiona that I would be sitting on their patio for the rest of eternity, I would most likely soon be escorted from the premises by some of Benton County’s finest.  Even if I was allowed to sit there until the melting glaciers and ice caps flood the Earth, I would prefer some more company.  Rather than spend all that time with only my mother at my right side, maybe a female who didn’t give birth to me would also be nice.  I know– high standards.

The Nose

Another highlight of my Catch the Crush experience occurred a day earlier when I went to Goose Ridge with my friend Derek.  When Lola, my GPS device finally got over her issues and led us to Goose Ridge, I had to first make sure I hadn’t walked in on a cast party for Cougar Town.  Soon after, I found an activity to test my sensory adeptness.  Set up in the entrance was “Aroma Awareness,” with three different ingredients each from a Chardonnay and a Cabernet Sauvignon isolated in glasses for participants to smell and identify.  Perfect!  This can’t be too hard.  Right?

For the first ingredient in the Chardonnay– I smell Jagermeister.  I know there’s no Jager in the wine, so I guess what, in retrospect, is probably just as irrational to be in a white wine.  “Licorice,” I shout out before Derek has a chance to steal my perfect answer.  He looks at me like he’s embarrassed to be with me.  “Ummm…I was thinking vanilla.”  Derek is right and immediately emerges as the teacher’s pet.  Neither of us gets the next– citrus.  But then Derek identifies butterscotch as the third, while I’m still sniffing away like my life depended on sucking up wine through my nose.

So I’m 0-3 after the first wine.  Now, I’m a reformed perfectionist.  Ten years ago I would have had a seizure at such a score on any test, no exceptions– but I can handle this.  It leaves room for improvement.  Surely I will do better on the Cab.

The first ingredient smells to me like rubbing alcohol.  Apparently I associate oak/cedar with rubbing alcohol.  The second ingredient smells like vanilla.  Derek is smelling butterscotch again.  The guy running Aroma Awareness tells us that no one has gotten this one right all day.  Now, this is coming from the ex-perfectionist who in grade school blamed any imperfection on the teacher, but still, I think that’s a hint that you may want to check your glass again.  Turns out that the vanilla butterscotch is supposed to be chocolate.  0-5.  I’ve got one last chance to redeem myself.  I get some hints this time.  I’m told it’s a fruit.  I’m pretty sure that I had read earlier in the day that the Cab had blackberries in it, and that may be how I immediately and correctly smelled blackberries.  Whatever; I got one.  I may have cheated, but it’s a step up from smelling Jagermeister.

Hopefully I come much further in the coming weeks / months / maybe years.  I’m going to review my first wine soon.  Hopefully you’ll find something to trust from the judgment of someone who can (kind of) smell one out of six ingredients.

The Mission, a rookie wine drinkers plan to learn and share

Sep 18 2009

The mission

As the Apostle Paul wrote, and President Obama much more recently paraphrased, “When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.”

Today I undertake the ambitious footsteps in the shadows of those great men, and I put away my own childish things.

I am making a commitment to put down the beer. When given a choice, my beverage of choice will be wine. A note for any children in the audience– I am not suggesting that beer or liquor are childish things, in the legal definition of “child.” I do not condone children drinking beer. For these purposes, I am considering my first three years of legal drinking age as my childhood. This note is also extended to men much bigger than I, who have had a lot of beer to drink and would not appreciate being called children, and who might defend their beer drinking to the point of channeling their inner-Serena Williamses and shoving cans of Natty Light down my throat.

A little background

Here’s what I know about wine: it’s made from grapes. The end. I come from a household where the only familiarity I had with wine was the shot of it I took at church every Sunday and the sneaking of sips from the bottle of the cheap champagne left in the cold on the porch every New Year’s Day. Sure, I grew up in Prosser, where there were more blossoming wineries than there were seniors in my graduating class. But even with this proximity to vinification greatness, I absorbed nothing.

In college, I always chose beer. It was cheaper and more abundant. Easy sell; that’s all it took for beer to win my heart. Now, I want my heart back. I’m moving to a big city next year for more school. In a few years, I will probably be in a much different environment than those that I grew up in and went to college in. In preparation, I want to have a good idea as to what wine’s all about. I want to go much further than the only lesson I learned about it in college: a box of Franzia can get you really messed up.

I want to fully understand wine. I want to harness my palate, if I can ever find it. I want to be able to detect the difference between varietals and complexes. I want to be able describe the bouquet. These are all words I learned from the lovely Claire, but they still mean nothing more to me than whatever it is that comes out of Ozzy Osbourne’s mouth.

The purpose

In my quest, I will not only choose wine when given a choice, but I will actively seek out opportunities to advance my palatal training. Here on Palatebomb, I will regurgitate the events and stories that take place while I’m doing so. I know I’m not alone in knowing nothing about wine. For those who are with me, maybe I’ll inspire you with ideas for your own education. Hopefully you will learn from my successes and my failures. Hopefully those of you who already know about wine laugh with me at those failures and give me ideas for more successes. The bottom line is that I’m here not to teach you about wine— there are currently three ladies here more qualified than I’ll ever be to do so. I’m here instead to celebrate the process of enjoying it as I seek to enjoy it myself.
Wish me luck.

And cheers! Do you even say that while drinking wine? Or is it something in French? Italian? Or Californian?