A First for a First

We seem to be celebrating a lot of firsts around our house these days. We've just had our first child, and with that come first smiles, first giggles, and first attempts at rolling over. (We've also had some not-so-fun firsts, like first mosquito bites and first blood, when I cut her fingernails JUST a little too short!).

On the wine front, we celebrated a fun first this week: for the first time, we cracked open a bottle of First Growth Bordeaux. Some friends of ours received some very good news after a very long wait, and we wanted to celebrate with them. So, as we sat in our overgrown backyard among the diseased apples that kept falling from the diseased tree, dressed in t-shirts and flip flops and dining on nothing fancier than a baguette, blackberries, and some bucherondin, we let the guests of honor ceremoniously uncork a 1976 Chateau Lafite Rothschild.

Most people drink Lafite while dressed to the nines in an haute French restaurant. There's probably much pomp and posturing in the selection and ordering of the bottle, and there's probably some kind of ceremony around the uncorking and decanting of such a prized and praised selection. I imagine the wine is also consumed with cuisine much finer than what we had on our patio tables, likely some kind of roasted game, seasoned perfectly with herbs specially selected to match the characteristics of the wine's particular vintage. We had salami that was probably too spicy for the wine. But at least the cheese was French...

In all honesty, 1976 wasn't the best vintage for Bordeaux, and the wine probably should have been opened ten years ago. But there's a part of me that believes that a great bottle of wine waits for, and then rises to, the occasion for which it was created. And there's no doubt that this was a great bottle of wine. The front of the palate was spectacular, with all the smoke and leather you'd expect from a Bordeaux. It thinned out quickly and the finish was much too short, but like an aging Broadway diva reprising a role from younger, better days, you could still see in this wine the superstar that it was in years past. A wine from lesser soil and from a lesser producer would have faded long ago, but the Lafite lingered on until its services were required.

I think some would say that this bottle was "wasted," but I disagree. Yes, wine is meant to be consumed, not simply collected, and this collected bottle would have been better consumed years ago. That said, why hang onto it any longer, for some grander, more "special" occasion? Today IS the occasion. Ryan and Julie, we're so glad we had occasion to celebrate with you!

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I wish I had a picture. This blog needs more pictures! I could take a picture of the empty bottle, but that just wouldn't be the same as a photo of the empty bottle, decanter, salami, flip flops, and diseased apples. Oh well.

Sara Writes Margarita

The cravings first started in, oh, early September, before I had told anyone that I was pregnant.

Ryan and I were at a Mexican restaurant with some friends, and man did I want a margarita! My virgin strawberry blend was little more than an Icee with an umbrella and a sugared rim, and it just wasn't going to get the job done. I wanted the tequila, I wanted the Cointreau, and I wanted it on the rocks. This was going to be a long nine months.

I had never been much of a straight-up margarita drinker. I had had a few watered-down, blended strawberry margaritas in the course of learning my way around a bar, but they just seemed to me like kid drinks that someone had slipped something into. You couldn't really enjoy the alcohol that was hiding in all that fruity sweetness. (I realize that this is why some people like blended strawberry margaritas, and I can't actually hold that against them.) My favorite memory involving a strawberry margarita involves my mom and me, one too many of the aforementioned beverages, and a Christmas tree. Decorating for Christmas has never been quite as fun as it was that year!

Anyway. Until I went to Mexico a few years ago and tried the straight up lime on the rocks with the salted rim thing, I wasn't really a fan. I'm still not a fan of the salted rim thing, and some purists will dock me for that, but so be it. I'm not really a tequila snob--yet--so pretty much any type will do, but I don't really care for Grand Marnier so I prefer the versions made with Cointreau, and sometimes, sour mix. A fresh wedge of lime is a must. I'll take it on the rocks or blended, but I'm starting to prefer the rocks version. It just seems purer.

Back to the cravings. I'd always heard that women craved strange things when pregnant. I didn't really crave anything bizarre, like chalk or detergent, but I did crave things that, while normal foods, I had never really consumed much of before. Like pastrami, and corned beef sandwiches. I have no idea where that came from, but I sure became a connoisseur of Reuben sandwiches during those nine months. And margaritas. The problem with this craving was that I really couldn't indulge it, and as we all know, the cravings you cannot indulge become the cravings you cannot shake.

I think it was the worst on Stroller Shopping Day. My mother and I headed for a swanky baby-gear store to check out strollers and carseats. This was in January, I think, on a cold, blustery day--just the kind of Seattle day that makes you want to head south of the border for a while. We were in that store for hours, driving strollers around, taking them apart and putting them back together, measuring which ones would fit in the trunk of the hatchback, comparing weights, discussing braking mechanisms, wheel bases, adjustable handles, color schemes, and oh yeah, price. Then we had to figure out which strollers were compatible with which carseats. Did the carseat we like come with a base? How heavy was it? How long would the baby fit in it? Could it work with the jogging stroller we wanted? What kind of attachments and accessories did we need?

You can see where this is going. After a few hours, literally, of all this gear wrangling, I REALLY wanted a margarita. I just wanted to escape the consumerism, the "but it's for your baby" sales pitches, the exorbitant prices, the ridiculous designer patterns (it's a carseat!!) and the custom-ordered craziness. I wanted to relax, preferably on a sandy beach, and if not that, than somewhere close to it. It was close to Happy Hour by this time, maybe my mom and I could go somewhere, she could order a margarita, and I could have a few sips...I was obsessed!

Well, I didn't indulge the craving. We went on to another store, and later, went to a pub and had Reubens for dinner. But I have never forgotten how badly I wanted a margarita that day. For as much as I dearly love wine, it was not what I craved while pregnant. I had some wine, of course (read previous blog postings for proof of that!) but when it comes to craving, it was beer and margaritas.

Since Calla has been born, my taste (and preference) for wine has returned. I've enjoyed some wonderful wines (and not enjoyed a couple of bombs, but oh well) during the past three and a half months. It's BBQ season, too, so I've had a beer here and there. But I have not--until last night--finally sated the margarita beast within.

When some girlfriends asked to get together after work, I knew this was my chance. Happy Hour. We met at a Mexican restaurant and tequila bar not too far away from home, and slid into the booth just under the deadline for ordering at happy hour prices. I barely had a chance to scan the menu, but I spotted it just in time. The Top Shelf Margarita. Tequila (I neither remember nor care what particular kind), fresh lime juice, a float of Cointreau...sign me up (without the salt, please!)

It was perfect. Plenty sour, a definite lime-y zing. Cloudy from the Cointreau, and with more substance and complexity. Refreshing, yet not so sweet that you could sap it down too quickly. The perfect sipping margarita. The appetizers were good and cheap (although the nachos could have had more cheese, come to think of it) and the company and conversation were excellent. I caught up with some girlfriends, all of us going through major life changes. We talked about our new babies, our engagement, our new jobs, new homes. We laughed, we encouraged one another, and we gave advice--solicited and otherwise--while each enjoying a slightly different margarita. I'm pretty sure I would have had another Top Shelf if I didn't have to go home and feed Calla in a few hours. But one was enough. The beast has been slayed, the craving satisfied.

Ryan and I are thinking of going to Mexico in the winter.

Wine, Women, and....What?

Ryan and I are celebrating our first Mother's Day and Father's Day this year, and we've agreed to mark this special occasion with small but significant gifts. Ryan bought me a lovely locket into which I can tuck photos of him and Calla. I'm still searching for the perfect First Father's Day gift, and my efforts have brought to light some interesting and slightly annoying insights into the way that wine and wine-related goods are marketed. Forgive me for using this space as a place to vent, but hey, it's my blog!!

I've been looking at a few online sites, some of which I've purchased gifts from before, and some of which I have not. Most retailers have conveniently grouped gifts into categories--"for the sporty dad," "gifts under $100," "gifts with monograms," "gifts for grillers," etc. Some sites just have general "for him" and "for her" categories. It's these categories that offer some incredible insight into the way retailers look at gender. Guess in which category you can find all of the wine and wine-related gifts?

Do people actually believe that only dads and men want decanters, corkscrews, wine travel bags, wine-of-the-month club memberships, wine-themed books, wine journals, and--not to be overlooked--actual bottles of wine? Browse the same sites under the "gifts for her" category and you get gardening tools, plush bathrobes, lingerie, and jewelry. (And yes, men garden, too....) In our house, wine gifts know no gender. In our house, the wine expert is the woman. In our house, the person who decides how and where to spend money on wine and wine-related goods is, yes, the woman. Sure, Ryan enjoys wine, knows a thing or two about it, and has a discerning palate, too. But just as I would defer to his judgment on economics, (he's a banker), red meat, and camping equipment, he lets me have the final say on wine.

I'm not the only wine professional who doesn't fit into the old-school image of wine connoisseurs as bearded men wearing smoking jackets in deep leather chairs. Many of the best wine reps--those who work for importers and distributors--are women. Their knowledge of wine regions, grapes, producers, and vintages is impressive. I was taught by a woman, Amy Mumma, the Wine Woman of the Year for 2005. She's a world-class wine consultant who teaches, speaks, and writes for some of the most prestigious organizations in the industry. The finest restaurant in Seattle boasts a female wine director. When I speak to reps, to importers, and to others in the local trade, they all tell me that women have some of the best palates and are some of the best salespeople they know.

The wine trade is a ripe industry for women because women are consuming more wine on a daily basis. The wine industry's efforts at marketing wine to women are working. This is a good thing. It would be a great thing for retailers to realize if they want to capture a greater share of the money that is spent on wine, on glassware, on wine-themed books and magazines, and on other wine-related goods and gifts.

Wine isn't the only product or leisure activity to fall victim to gender-biased marketing, I know. My challenge is to explore websites, ads, and stores and to examine how their wine and wine goods are or are not marketed to women. I hope the gender bias I see right now becomes obsolete soon. If you've seen evidence of the other side of the story, please, feel free to help prove me wrong. I would gladly drink to that.

Dago Red, or, Six Degrees of Robert Mondavi

No wine blogger worth their cork should let the recent news of Robert Mondavi’s death go without a mention, nor without proper respect for the man without whom, many argue, there would be no American wine industry, no cult of California Cabernet (certainly no Opus One), and no Napa Valley empire (at least, not to the extent that it exists today). The grandfather of American wine and a member of this country’s wine royalty (money, empire, scandals, and all) passed away last week at the age of 94.

There is a lot to say about Robert Mondavi, and I’ll let you look elsewhere for the facts of his life and work. My curiousity was piqued by a particular, probably overlooked detail of his early life, and it’s that detail that I’m choosing to muse over.

According to the official obituary, Robert Mondavi was born in Hibbing, Minnesota. His father, Cesare, was an immigrant from Italy who ran a grocery store/saloon in Virgnia, Minnesota until his connections to grape farmers in California led to the family’s move to Lodi. This little tidbit, totally uninteresting to most people and seemingly unrelated to Robert Mondavi’s life work, almost made me jump out of my seat when I read it (the fact that I was holding the baby kept me firmly planted). My great-grandfather, Michael Michelizzi, was an immigrant from Italy who ran a grocery/gas station/tavern/rooming house called the Merry Inn in Duluth, Minnesota. Hibbing (also famous as the birthplace of Bob Dylan…who knew that so many famous people could come from a place like Hibbing?), Virginia, and Duluth are all just a few miles away from each other in the same frozen corner of northwest Minnesota, and I can’t imagine that the brotherhood of Italian immigrant tavern owners was that large. I wonder if my great-grandfather knew Cesare Mondavi? Were they competitors? Colleagues? Collaborators? Friends?

Part of my own family lore is that folks from a different sort of southern-Italian “family” took shelter at the Merry Inn when times got tough and the heat was on. After finding a business card of my great-grandfather’s that described his role as an “importer of fine Italian products,” we couldn’t help but wonder what, exactly, during Prohibition, he took to importing. I like to imagine that wine was among the cheeses, meats, olive oils, and other Italian sundries that made his little tavern one of the more interesting places to eat in Duluth. He may even have made his own “dago red” for his family and customers. It’s a beautiful irony, although perhaps no surprise, that generations later, his great-granddaughter ended up managing a wine, cheese, and meat store that specialized in Italian imports. Perhaps that’s proof that taste is wired into our genetic code, or that we really don’t have as much say over our destiny as we think we do—I guess I know whom to thank for my belief that life without Italian wine and cured meats is a life hardly worth living.

Robert Mondavi learned this from his ancestors, too, and was dedicated to sharing the everyday pleasures of the vine with his fellow Americans. I like to imagine that because of my Italian-Minnesotan roots, perhaps I’m not that far removed from the grandfather of the American wine industry. I may never know whether the dago red my grandfather made had any connection to the grapes Cesar Mondavi grew, but I do know that every meal enjoyed with a glass of wine deserves a toast in honor of two men I never met.

Easing My Way Back

Guess what, folks--I'm drinking again!

I am celebrating my daughter's birth every day in many ways, but one (slightly selfish, I admit) moment to rejoice in is the first glass of wine I've had in MONTHS. And it hasn't actually happened yet...but I'm halfway there, having had 1/2 a glass!

We have been so blessed with help from friends, especially when it comes to food and meals. So when some close friends brought us a lasagna and a bottle of red wine, I seized the moment and had a few sips. From my own glass, even--not just a few surreptitiously stolen sips from someone else's. At that point, Calla was sleeping pretty much all the time, and I was cautious about consuming anything that would make her even sleepier. So I didn't have much, but boy did it feel good.

Earlier this week, we were treated to another excellent pasta dish. So I promptly summoned Ryan to the store with a mission--buy a good, but cheap, bottle of red. We were going to uncork something with dinner for the first time in a long time. However--given the fact that neither Calla nor I can tolerate much at the moment (she eats pretty frequently, so there isn't a ton of time for my body to dilute it before she gets it, and frankly, my tolerance is pretty low after not having a drink in 8 months!)--I knew I wasn't going to drink a lot so I didn't want to open anything that we had on hand, which is all pricier, tastier stuff. Ryan came home with a perfectly palatable Washington red, a wine that I always recommend to people who want something good for $8. (Please don't drink the Australian stuff--the one with the critter on the label. You know the one I'm talking about. Do everyone, especially yourself, a favor, and drink something, anything, else. If you want some specific recommendations, I'd be happy to oblige.)

I had half (okay, let's be honest, three-quarters!) of a glass, and it was fantastic. The wine itself is fine. Nothing to spend too many words on. And besides, I'm out of practice; my technical skills need bolstering as much as my tolerance does! But the fact that I was drinking wine with dinner was so mind-blowingly mood lifting, I have to be careful not to do too much too fast.

I still struggle with what the truth really is about alcohol and breastfeeding. Nobody will give you a straight answer, because nobody wants to tell you that it's okay to drink. But as we've all noted a hundred times, the thousands of French, Spanish, and Italian women who drink--in moderation--while pregnant and breastfeeding demonstrate that it can be done. I'm out to prove it to myself, too.

The next day was one of the best days that Calla and I have had in a while. She slept well, ate well, and had happy, calm awake time. It's hard to know how much credit to give to the small glass of wine, but I'm sure it had something to do with it--if for no other reason than by having put me in a better mood, it put us all in a better mood.

So, in addition to easing back into drinking, I'm easing back into writing. I can't wait to make this a more robust blog. I won't be working full time (for pay, that is!) but I'll be pretty busy with our little one. I'm cautious about expecting too much from myself, but writing about wine again feels almost as good as drinking it again, so I hope to gradually work my way up to more regular indulgences (of writing AND drinking, that is!).

So for now, I urge you to check out Eric Asimov's latest column. He's the wine critic for the NY Times, and I generally like what he has to say. Yesterday's column is definitely worth reading. I wish I could have written it half as eloquently and convincingly as he did:

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/07/dining/07pour.html?_r=2&scp=2&sq=asimov&st=nyt&oref=slogin&oref=slogin

That's it for now. Until next time (and the next glass, or half...)

Temperance, or, The Pleasure of Not Consuming Wine

Okay, this is a tough entry to write, but one that must be written. I am REALLY missing wine. And while I am sipping, tasting, spitting, and even swallowing here and there, it’s just not the same as an entire glass (or two…) of wine, enjoyed leisurely over the course of a meal. When I do take a sip, whether I spit or swallow, it’s almost entirely for purposes of evaluation. I’m still attending trade tastings, which are all about learning as much about a wine as possible from a 1-2 oz. pour. By the time I’ve evaluated it, there’s nothing left to simply drink for enjoyment, even if I had that luxury right now. If I manage to sneak a sip of Ryan’s wine at dinner, I’m still “tasting” it—is it a good Chianti? Does it go well with the meal? I’m jealous of anyone who has a whole glass of wine to drink, mindlessly savoring the pleasure of a good 4 to 6 ounces of wine.

I’m entering my third trimester and can be slightly more liberal with what I consume (the definition of “liberal” being subject to interpretation!), but in reality, I have a long way to go before I can indulge with abandon. (Also terms open to interpretation…) So it is out of desperation that I am looking for the bright side of not drinking wine.

The half-glass of vintage Champagne I enjoyed at New Year’s was fantastic. (Thanks, Tim!) While it really made me want at least another two or three half-glasses, the knowledge that I should really stop at one (half) helped me increase the pleasure I gleaned from each sip. Sure, I took a few tiny appraisal sips, but then, since I had a good third of a glass left and since the general company and environment (the glow of candles, clinking of glasses, sharing of resolutions) was sufficiently celebratory and distracting, I let myself sink into the bubbles, the warm doughy flavors exhibited by the best Champagne, and frankly, the moment. And while I distinctly remember what that Champagne tasted like, I also strongly remember just being in a good mood, happy, content with sharing a good meal with good friends.

Too much sentiment? Maybe. But it’s what I have to work with right now, and I think it can be valuable for everyone, wine professionals and consumers alike. As a professional, I have been non-so-gently reminded that this product that I sell, sample, write about and teach about is more than a commodity. It’s not all about ratings and reviews, ageing potential, vintage variation, type of closure, yada yada yada. It’s something to be consumed, and sometimes mindlessly, without regard to much other than the way it makes me feel. While I generally wince at the notion that wine is simply a “luxury” good (a topic for another post), I’ve been forced to really think about why I choose to drink wine with my meals. As a consumer, I’d gotten pretty complacent. Wine became just another part of the meal, and choosing what to drink with dinner became as routine as choosing a salad dressing. Now I don’t know about you, but I enjoy wine a whole lot more than I enjoy salad dressing, and this hopefully brief period of temperance has made me quite aware of that.

It almost seems like a paradox, doesn’t it? I think wine is to be savored, enjoyed, noticed, and appreciated, both for what it is and for how it makes you feel. But I also think that we can savor it to death, really, by noticing it too much, caring more about the peripherals of price, producer, and points than about its purpose—pleasure.

My hope for this period of not drinking wine is that it will increase the pleasure of being able to drink again. Not simply by the return of something long-awaited, but by a renewed sense of what wine is really about. You have the luxury of not waiting—may your next glass of wine be even more enjoyable for it.