James felt relieved when he spotted Wanda’s rusty green Dodge resting in its favorite spot at the back of the lot. He had heard about her husband’s death a couple of weeks ago and hadn’t seen her at the diner since. Wanda’s Place was as reliable as the sunrise, the eggs were always piping and the bacon always crisp. He pushed the squeaky screen door open, wiped his boots on the bleached welcome mat and headed for his favorite stool, the one by the wall under the Coca Cola clock at the end of the no smoking section. A relatively recent concession Wanda had made just for him.
The swinging doors that led into the kitchen opened without their usual burst. Wanda moved through them gingerly, as if avoiding contact with a bruise.
“Hey there, honey, Good to see ya.” She grabbed one of the creamy mugs that were stacked to the left of the coffee pot and set it in front of him. Normally, she’d hit the punch line before she finished pouring, but today was different.
“Wanda, I just want to tell you how sorry I am.”
“No, James, they’ll be none of that.” She shook her head. “I know ya are and if you say any more, you’ll just get me going again.” She sighed slowly and reached a plump hand into her faded blouse to snatch a hankie. She dabbed at the blotchy skin by her once lively blue eyes. “It’s just that I don’t know who to fuss over now.”
She moved off to take care of another customer, leaving James with his thoughts. He held the mug with both hands and blew the steam softly. Wanda had ministered to Ed for longer than James had been alive. She grumbled about it, sure, but everyone knew that’s what fueled her. Fussing over people.
Late for a meeting, he polished off his scrambled eggs, took one more sip of coffee and tipped his cap to Wanda on the way out. Gravel crunched under the tires of his muddy red pickup as he sped up to the warehouse. He strode around to the side door, jangling his keys. His boots clumped heavily on the plank steps, nearly drowning out the pitiful mewling. He stopped short, keys in mid air.
“Meew, meew.” A hoarse, high-pitched call crept up through the steps.
“What the hell?” James jumped off the side and peered underneath. Sunlight stole through the cracks in the wood, throwing splotches of light into the small space. Perched on a pile of twigs was the tiniest kitten, its huge triangle ears threatening to topple it head first.
“Meew.” It squeaked again, its small fuzzy body shaking with the exertion.
James dropped to his belly and reached in slowly, crooning “It’s okay, little one, I’m not going to hurt you.” He scooped the kitten up with one gentle swipe of his sturdy paw and drew her out into the welcoming sunshine. He stroked the orange stripes of her downy fur with his other hand and her trembling began to subside. His meeting temporarily forgotten, he leaned back against the steps and began to inspect his new friend. Her green eyes looked clear, and except for some leaves and a bit of dirt, she seemed pretty clean. Well, her motor works, that’s for sure. He smiled to himself as she cranked up her contentment to a rolling purr. She was so young, so needy; she’d have to have a home where loving attention flowed freely.
She battled with his bootlaces as he hurried through his meeting. He knew what to do. Less than an hour later, for the second time that day, James was relieved to see that rusty, green Dodge.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Monday, October 22, 2012
A Tuscan Torment (or more aptly,) The Smashing of my Rose Colored Glasses.
“Oh, you’re American.” He raised his eyebrows as he put my bags into his car.
“Yes.” I said slowly. “Don’t you have many Americans in the workshop?”
“We used to have over 70%,” he sighed, his words caramel thick with a creamy Itlaian accent. “But since 9/11, enrollment has dropped way down. Now, I’d say the reverse is true.”
I folded myself into Diego’s dirty blue Fiat outside the dusty little train station in Buonconvento, Italy. I was there to attend a photography workshop in the nearby town of San Quirico and had been looking forward to meeting people from different countries. So why was this information making me uneasy?
I started the day with a surplus of enthusiasm, but as I navigated my way though the bus and train system, lugging my carefully packed bags and equipment through the 93 degree haze, some of that positive energy began to melt. It wasn’t the foul breathed teenaged backpacker’s fault that he had to press himself up against my sweat soaked body on the bus. There was nowhere else for him to go. Nor could I blame the blank-eyed train station attendant for giving me the wrong information; how was she to know that the platform number for my train would be switched less than three minutes before departure? And it certainly was no one’s fault that the announcement was made in Italian. I was, after all, in Rome.
“Quale traino per Buonconvento?” A kind hearted woman heard my desperate entreaties to several bystanders. I imagine she took in my sagging shoulders, wet brow, and frantic tone and took pity on me.
“Do you need help, dear?” I could have kissed her.
“Oh, yes. I’ve been given conflicting information and I’m trying to find out which platform to go to for Buonconvento.”
She put a warm, matronly hand on my shoulder. “Well, that is where I am traveling, it’s this one over here.” Dressed comfortably chic, with a casual cotton skirt and short sleeved print blouse, she reminded me so much of my Aunt Betty. Pulled together, brisk, yet nurturing.
We boarded shortly thereafter and although she asked about my trip and told me a bit about her hometown of Florence, she left me to my thoughts. The old train ambled slowly through the countryside, the stuffiness in the car gradually easing as pockets of air pushed in through the grimy top windows. Postcard scenes unfolded, teasing my expectations. Tidy lines of rolled hay marched over the gently sloping hillsides. Sun bleached stucco farmhouses with ruddy tile roofs looked haphazardly plunked down every few miles, like game pieces scattered across a board. Swaying rows of deep gold crisscrossed with rigid rows of verdant green.
At the next bend, we rumbled right past a lonely looking cypress, causing it to swoosh in our wake. Taking a deep pull on the precious bottle of now lukewarm water, I settled back , closed my eyes and could almost hear the whir of my mental projector as scenes unspooled from the story I had woven. I pictured myself sipping fruity local Chianti with my fellow classmates after a day spent capturing the wildly romantic Tuscan images that so nonchalantly rolled past my window. The work would be so consuming, I’d lose track of time. My photographs would be vibrant and fresh, something I created with my own hands, my own vision. After writing down every detail and impression in my journal, I would fall into bed each night with that delicious weariness that’s rooted in a satisfying sense of accomplishment.
I’d heard from two friends, whose work I greatly admired, that attending a workshop would be “a life changing experience.” God that sounded thrilling. There was a time when I wouldn’t have considered doing something this bold. But that was before my father died. That day knocked my life out of balance and a big piece of my foundation was kicked away. Finding a passion and a purpose mattered more now. I was convinced that the immersion into the unfamiliar, the sensual setting, and the adventure of traveling alone would all combine to arouse my creative individuality and point me in the right direction. I didn’t want to waste any more time.
After passing a half dozen nameless sleepy stations, the train finally slowed at my stop. My good-natured traveling companion was concerned that no one was on the platform to greet me, but I told her not to worry, I’d find them. Before rounding the corner I looked back to a warm smile and vigorous wave goodbye.
“Do you want a cigarette?” Diego’s question pulled me back to the moment at hand. I shook my head.
“No, thanks.”
We were winding our way over bumpy, dusty roads, passing fields of drooping sunflowers, weathered cottages blooming with overflowing window boxes and, to my delight, the occasional smattering of thirsty looking grape vines. The steady breeze filled the car with an earthy, silty smell.
Half an hour later, he nudged the Fiat up a steep hill, then down a bustling side street, parking alongside an ancient stone building that had once been part of the city walls.
“Okay, sorry to rush you, but you’ve got twenty minutes to shower and change for dinner. I need to get back to the school. I’ll wait across the courtyard at the café.”
He helped me haul my bags up the narrow, slippery stone steps. I dumped my equipment and peeled off my sticky clothes. Even in my hurry I was able to appreciate the charm of the wide windows with heavy red peeling shutters that were begging to be flung open. Ah, the healing power of a much needed shower! Vastly refreshed, I hurried out the door to meet Diego.
Il Poggiolo, the meetinghouse, stood like an arrogant warrior with arms crossed and feet spread. Aptly named, (the balcony), it was built on a hilltop and overlooked the tiny drowsy town of San Quirico. We walked up the stone steps to the sweeping patio where many students had already arrived. There were five classes being held that week, each with 6-10 students, one instructor and one assistant. My first choice class had been canceled due to lack of enrollment and I was attending the one the school suggested in its place. Most people were talking and laughing in small groups as if reacquainting themselves. There were more men than women, but many could have been an artist’s muse. I struggled not to stare. Sculpted jaws supported pillow soft lips, espresso eyes shined, sable hair flowed.
Although travel weary, I was humming with that first day of school anticipation. But before I could plunge in, however, Carlo, the soft-spoken founder and director of the school, announced in English that we should gather for an orientation talk. He had an overgrown rumpled monk haircut, wide face and easily distracted eyes. Dressed in wrinkly kakis that had seen better days and a faded blue polo shirt, he looked like he had been dragged away from doing something else. Initially warm and welcoming, he quickly introduced the different instructors, those surely wise professionals who were standing at the ready to coax out our collective genius. They broke us into groups by class.
“You must be Carol.” A petite woman with smiling eyes reached out her hand. “I am Anna, Andrea’s assistant and I will be translating for you.” Before I could even register just what that was going to mean, my instructor Andrea looked up from the gaggle of students surrounding him and switched into English.
“Oh, Carol… yes. I am afraid you are the only American in my class – the only one who speaks English, actually.” He laughed. “This is very rare, as most students who come here can usually speak English as a second language. It’s odd, but no one does in this group. So, I’ve decided to teach it in Italian for the first time. Anna will translate for you where needed.”
Where needed? My language tapes had reviewed how to catch a bus, order a meal and chat with the locals. I wasn’t prepared to learn photography techniques in Italian. Oh, God. This workshop had sounded like such a good idea. My Mom so wanted to give me something special for my birthday. She was thrilled that she could do this for me. And the timing was perfect. My husband, David, was working with a client in Reno… it was the ideal week. But how was I going to learn anything this way?
Dismissing me with a quick nod, he turned back to the rest of the class.
“Excuse me, but won’t that be difficult?” He looked back at me with raised eyebrows. With a trace of annoyance, he responded, “Well, it is unfortunate, but Anna knows a decent amount of English, so she can explain things to you quietly as I teach.”
Yep, that was my only option. The other classes being held that week were either much more advanced or specialized. I didn’t want to just turn around and go home. I had come too far.
Little did I know that the struggle had just begun.
“Yes.” I said slowly. “Don’t you have many Americans in the workshop?”
“We used to have over 70%,” he sighed, his words caramel thick with a creamy Itlaian accent. “But since 9/11, enrollment has dropped way down. Now, I’d say the reverse is true.”
I folded myself into Diego’s dirty blue Fiat outside the dusty little train station in Buonconvento, Italy. I was there to attend a photography workshop in the nearby town of San Quirico and had been looking forward to meeting people from different countries. So why was this information making me uneasy?
I started the day with a surplus of enthusiasm, but as I navigated my way though the bus and train system, lugging my carefully packed bags and equipment through the 93 degree haze, some of that positive energy began to melt. It wasn’t the foul breathed teenaged backpacker’s fault that he had to press himself up against my sweat soaked body on the bus. There was nowhere else for him to go. Nor could I blame the blank-eyed train station attendant for giving me the wrong information; how was she to know that the platform number for my train would be switched less than three minutes before departure? And it certainly was no one’s fault that the announcement was made in Italian. I was, after all, in Rome.
“Quale traino per Buonconvento?” A kind hearted woman heard my desperate entreaties to several bystanders. I imagine she took in my sagging shoulders, wet brow, and frantic tone and took pity on me.
“Do you need help, dear?” I could have kissed her.
“Oh, yes. I’ve been given conflicting information and I’m trying to find out which platform to go to for Buonconvento.”
She put a warm, matronly hand on my shoulder. “Well, that is where I am traveling, it’s this one over here.” Dressed comfortably chic, with a casual cotton skirt and short sleeved print blouse, she reminded me so much of my Aunt Betty. Pulled together, brisk, yet nurturing.
We boarded shortly thereafter and although she asked about my trip and told me a bit about her hometown of Florence, she left me to my thoughts. The old train ambled slowly through the countryside, the stuffiness in the car gradually easing as pockets of air pushed in through the grimy top windows. Postcard scenes unfolded, teasing my expectations. Tidy lines of rolled hay marched over the gently sloping hillsides. Sun bleached stucco farmhouses with ruddy tile roofs looked haphazardly plunked down every few miles, like game pieces scattered across a board. Swaying rows of deep gold crisscrossed with rigid rows of verdant green.
At the next bend, we rumbled right past a lonely looking cypress, causing it to swoosh in our wake. Taking a deep pull on the precious bottle of now lukewarm water, I settled back , closed my eyes and could almost hear the whir of my mental projector as scenes unspooled from the story I had woven. I pictured myself sipping fruity local Chianti with my fellow classmates after a day spent capturing the wildly romantic Tuscan images that so nonchalantly rolled past my window. The work would be so consuming, I’d lose track of time. My photographs would be vibrant and fresh, something I created with my own hands, my own vision. After writing down every detail and impression in my journal, I would fall into bed each night with that delicious weariness that’s rooted in a satisfying sense of accomplishment.
I’d heard from two friends, whose work I greatly admired, that attending a workshop would be “a life changing experience.” God that sounded thrilling. There was a time when I wouldn’t have considered doing something this bold. But that was before my father died. That day knocked my life out of balance and a big piece of my foundation was kicked away. Finding a passion and a purpose mattered more now. I was convinced that the immersion into the unfamiliar, the sensual setting, and the adventure of traveling alone would all combine to arouse my creative individuality and point me in the right direction. I didn’t want to waste any more time.
After passing a half dozen nameless sleepy stations, the train finally slowed at my stop. My good-natured traveling companion was concerned that no one was on the platform to greet me, but I told her not to worry, I’d find them. Before rounding the corner I looked back to a warm smile and vigorous wave goodbye.
“Do you want a cigarette?” Diego’s question pulled me back to the moment at hand. I shook my head.
“No, thanks.”
We were winding our way over bumpy, dusty roads, passing fields of drooping sunflowers, weathered cottages blooming with overflowing window boxes and, to my delight, the occasional smattering of thirsty looking grape vines. The steady breeze filled the car with an earthy, silty smell.
Half an hour later, he nudged the Fiat up a steep hill, then down a bustling side street, parking alongside an ancient stone building that had once been part of the city walls.
“Okay, sorry to rush you, but you’ve got twenty minutes to shower and change for dinner. I need to get back to the school. I’ll wait across the courtyard at the café.”
He helped me haul my bags up the narrow, slippery stone steps. I dumped my equipment and peeled off my sticky clothes. Even in my hurry I was able to appreciate the charm of the wide windows with heavy red peeling shutters that were begging to be flung open. Ah, the healing power of a much needed shower! Vastly refreshed, I hurried out the door to meet Diego.
Il Poggiolo, the meetinghouse, stood like an arrogant warrior with arms crossed and feet spread. Aptly named, (the balcony), it was built on a hilltop and overlooked the tiny drowsy town of San Quirico. We walked up the stone steps to the sweeping patio where many students had already arrived. There were five classes being held that week, each with 6-10 students, one instructor and one assistant. My first choice class had been canceled due to lack of enrollment and I was attending the one the school suggested in its place. Most people were talking and laughing in small groups as if reacquainting themselves. There were more men than women, but many could have been an artist’s muse. I struggled not to stare. Sculpted jaws supported pillow soft lips, espresso eyes shined, sable hair flowed.
Although travel weary, I was humming with that first day of school anticipation. But before I could plunge in, however, Carlo, the soft-spoken founder and director of the school, announced in English that we should gather for an orientation talk. He had an overgrown rumpled monk haircut, wide face and easily distracted eyes. Dressed in wrinkly kakis that had seen better days and a faded blue polo shirt, he looked like he had been dragged away from doing something else. Initially warm and welcoming, he quickly introduced the different instructors, those surely wise professionals who were standing at the ready to coax out our collective genius. They broke us into groups by class.
“You must be Carol.” A petite woman with smiling eyes reached out her hand. “I am Anna, Andrea’s assistant and I will be translating for you.” Before I could even register just what that was going to mean, my instructor Andrea looked up from the gaggle of students surrounding him and switched into English.
“Oh, Carol… yes. I am afraid you are the only American in my class – the only one who speaks English, actually.” He laughed. “This is very rare, as most students who come here can usually speak English as a second language. It’s odd, but no one does in this group. So, I’ve decided to teach it in Italian for the first time. Anna will translate for you where needed.”
Where needed? My language tapes had reviewed how to catch a bus, order a meal and chat with the locals. I wasn’t prepared to learn photography techniques in Italian. Oh, God. This workshop had sounded like such a good idea. My Mom so wanted to give me something special for my birthday. She was thrilled that she could do this for me. And the timing was perfect. My husband, David, was working with a client in Reno… it was the ideal week. But how was I going to learn anything this way?
Dismissing me with a quick nod, he turned back to the rest of the class.
“Excuse me, but won’t that be difficult?” He looked back at me with raised eyebrows. With a trace of annoyance, he responded, “Well, it is unfortunate, but Anna knows a decent amount of English, so she can explain things to you quietly as I teach.”
Yep, that was my only option. The other classes being held that week were either much more advanced or specialized. I didn’t want to just turn around and go home. I had come too far.
Little did I know that the struggle had just begun.
Friday, March 25, 2011
All about Armagnac
This was my first wine/spirits column for http://www.rogerspark.com/
posted on February 8, 2009
Warm up your Valentine with Armagnac
It’s a safe bet to say that those of us nestled up along Chicago’s coastline are getting a bit weary of the sci-fi like temperatures encasing us here on Planet Rogers Park. Even regaling out-of-towners with the record breakers is getting old. There’s only so many times my mother-in-law in Phoenix is going to be impressed with my pluckiness at venturing out when it’s -10 degrees.
So, besides piling on another layer (you sexy thing) what do we do to thaw out for Valentine’s Day? How about indulging the senses in a soul warming Armagnac?
France’s oldest spirit has a history nearly as colorful as Rogers Park’s, and much like the success of our community has been based on a rich blending of cultures and traditions, so it is with Armagnac. The Romans were responsible for bringing the vine culture to the Armagnac region in southwest France. Arabs arrived with the still and the Celts showed up with the barrels. But it was the Dutch that distilled the area’s wines in order to bypass a wine embargo. Thus began the brandy making process.
Armagnac can be distilled from folle blanche, ugni blanc and colombard, all white wine grapes. After distillation, it is aged in black oak casks. Unlike its better known cousin, Cognac, it’s only distilled once, allowing more flavoring elements to be retained in the alcohol. This also gives it more time in oak, which, many believe, infuses this brandy with more richness and aromatics. Unlike wine, Armagnac stops aging once it’s bottled so it will neither improve with time or go bad when exposed to oxygen, but it’s wise to store a bottle straight up, since prolonged cork contact will spoil brandy.
Okay, okay, it has a cool history and now we know how it’s made, but let’s get to the good part, how does it taste? Here, dear neighbors, is where I want you to slow down. We can’t soak up the glow of Armagnac if we’re rushing. (We all do enough of that anyway!) The first thing you’ll want to do is forgo the traditional brandy snifter. This was a bit disappointing for me to learn because I like the feel of those glasses, but it’s better to enjoy this spirit in a tulip shaped glass. I recently used a port glass, but a champagne flute is an even better way to concentrate the aromas.
Your senses will heat up the minute you start pouring. The liquid is a warm amber color which can range from honey gold to nearly mahogany, depending on how long it’s been aged. (Older Armagnac is darker.) Now it’s time to involve your nose, but, unlike wine, you don’t want to stick it into the glass and take a big sniff or the alcohol esters will burn your nasal passages. Hold the glass at chest height for a minute or two before you bring it to chin level. You’ll immediately be wrapped up in an array of cozy scents. You might detect toffee, pepper, rose, vanilla, nougat, chocolate, dried fruit, butterscotch, or roasted nuts.
Ready for a taste? Make the most of it by rolling the sip around in your mouth, coating your tongue and cheeks and holding it there a moment. Breathe in and savor. Now that shook the chill off, didn’t it? But that’s just the beginning of your exploration. As the brandy warms and opens in your glass, you’ll be treated to a changing palette of tastes as the evening progresses. If you’re lucky enough to have a fireplace, you should be sitting by it with your Valentine, nibbling dark chocolate. If not, light a bunch of candles, punch up some blood stirring music and you should forget all about the crunchy snowdrifts and menacing icicles that strive to remind us that it’s cold outside. It may be, but it’s toasty in here.Most Armagnac is a blend of vintages and the label will indicate the age of the youngest wine. Here are some label notes: VS means that it’s aged at least two years in cask, VSOP or Reserve, at least 5 years, XO or Napoleon, 6 years, Hors d’Age, 10 years or more.
posted on February 8, 2009
Warm up your Valentine with Armagnac
It’s a safe bet to say that those of us nestled up along Chicago’s coastline are getting a bit weary of the sci-fi like temperatures encasing us here on Planet Rogers Park. Even regaling out-of-towners with the record breakers is getting old. There’s only so many times my mother-in-law in Phoenix is going to be impressed with my pluckiness at venturing out when it’s -10 degrees.
So, besides piling on another layer (you sexy thing) what do we do to thaw out for Valentine’s Day? How about indulging the senses in a soul warming Armagnac?
France’s oldest spirit has a history nearly as colorful as Rogers Park’s, and much like the success of our community has been based on a rich blending of cultures and traditions, so it is with Armagnac. The Romans were responsible for bringing the vine culture to the Armagnac region in southwest France. Arabs arrived with the still and the Celts showed up with the barrels. But it was the Dutch that distilled the area’s wines in order to bypass a wine embargo. Thus began the brandy making process.
Armagnac can be distilled from folle blanche, ugni blanc and colombard, all white wine grapes. After distillation, it is aged in black oak casks. Unlike its better known cousin, Cognac, it’s only distilled once, allowing more flavoring elements to be retained in the alcohol. This also gives it more time in oak, which, many believe, infuses this brandy with more richness and aromatics. Unlike wine, Armagnac stops aging once it’s bottled so it will neither improve with time or go bad when exposed to oxygen, but it’s wise to store a bottle straight up, since prolonged cork contact will spoil brandy.
Okay, okay, it has a cool history and now we know how it’s made, but let’s get to the good part, how does it taste? Here, dear neighbors, is where I want you to slow down. We can’t soak up the glow of Armagnac if we’re rushing. (We all do enough of that anyway!) The first thing you’ll want to do is forgo the traditional brandy snifter. This was a bit disappointing for me to learn because I like the feel of those glasses, but it’s better to enjoy this spirit in a tulip shaped glass. I recently used a port glass, but a champagne flute is an even better way to concentrate the aromas.
Your senses will heat up the minute you start pouring. The liquid is a warm amber color which can range from honey gold to nearly mahogany, depending on how long it’s been aged. (Older Armagnac is darker.) Now it’s time to involve your nose, but, unlike wine, you don’t want to stick it into the glass and take a big sniff or the alcohol esters will burn your nasal passages. Hold the glass at chest height for a minute or two before you bring it to chin level. You’ll immediately be wrapped up in an array of cozy scents. You might detect toffee, pepper, rose, vanilla, nougat, chocolate, dried fruit, butterscotch, or roasted nuts.
Ready for a taste? Make the most of it by rolling the sip around in your mouth, coating your tongue and cheeks and holding it there a moment. Breathe in and savor. Now that shook the chill off, didn’t it? But that’s just the beginning of your exploration. As the brandy warms and opens in your glass, you’ll be treated to a changing palette of tastes as the evening progresses. If you’re lucky enough to have a fireplace, you should be sitting by it with your Valentine, nibbling dark chocolate. If not, light a bunch of candles, punch up some blood stirring music and you should forget all about the crunchy snowdrifts and menacing icicles that strive to remind us that it’s cold outside. It may be, but it’s toasty in here.Most Armagnac is a blend of vintages and the label will indicate the age of the youngest wine. Here are some label notes: VS means that it’s aged at least two years in cask, VSOP or Reserve, at least 5 years, XO or Napoleon, 6 years, Hors d’Age, 10 years or more.
Monday, February 21, 2011
An old flame warms me up
You can’t quite remember why you broke up in the first place. There was never any drama, nothing gossip worthy happened, no neighbors were disturbed when you parted ways. The relationship ran its course and you needed a change. So it was with me and big oaky chardonnays. Sure, it was rich, creamy and comforting, but my taste buds began to crave the cleaner, more fruit driven chardonnays with little or no oak. Bright zesty Burgundians turned my head. But lately, I must confess, I’ve missed the comfort of those big shouldered, richer wines. The cooler temperatures certainly play a role in that. If I’m in the mood for a white, I want to be warmed, nurtured - coddled even. Last night was one of those nights.
I found myself in the mood for a rich, creamy chardonnay with just a bit of butter. Stop cringing. I’m not referring to that movie popcorn, processed butter that too many California chardonnays seem to be soaked in, but just a cozy touch, enough to warm me and take off the chill.
So, we opened an old favorite that my husband picked up recently at Binney’s, J. Lohr Arroyo Seco Chardonnay, (2010.) I really liked it a few years ago when we visited the vineyard, but hadn’t enjoyed it in a while. It was precisely what I needed. The subtle grapefruit top note was refreshing, but then her creaminess eased in, emboldened by just the right amount of oak. A little lemon poked its way into the mix as well.
The grapes are grown in the cool Arroyo Seco region of Monterey County, CA. This wine suits me just fine as a cocktail, but it pairs beautifully with a variety of dishes, the following, from Real Simple magazine, is one of my favorites, Chicken Sautéed with Apples. Made with dijion mustard, onions, garlic, thyme and apple juice, it cooks up into a gently satisfying meal. The wine will celebrate the baked apple in the dish and the meal will deepen the chardonnay’s flavor profile.
Do I still rendezvous with crispier, more subtle chardonnays? To be sure. But since fickleness is encouraged in the wine loving world, I can still curl up with my big bold pals when the mood strikes.
I found myself in the mood for a rich, creamy chardonnay with just a bit of butter. Stop cringing. I’m not referring to that movie popcorn, processed butter that too many California chardonnays seem to be soaked in, but just a cozy touch, enough to warm me and take off the chill.
So, we opened an old favorite that my husband picked up recently at Binney’s, J. Lohr Arroyo Seco Chardonnay, (2010.) I really liked it a few years ago when we visited the vineyard, but hadn’t enjoyed it in a while. It was precisely what I needed. The subtle grapefruit top note was refreshing, but then her creaminess eased in, emboldened by just the right amount of oak. A little lemon poked its way into the mix as well.
The grapes are grown in the cool Arroyo Seco region of Monterey County, CA. This wine suits me just fine as a cocktail, but it pairs beautifully with a variety of dishes, the following, from Real Simple magazine, is one of my favorites, Chicken Sautéed with Apples. Made with dijion mustard, onions, garlic, thyme and apple juice, it cooks up into a gently satisfying meal. The wine will celebrate the baked apple in the dish and the meal will deepen the chardonnay’s flavor profile.
Do I still rendezvous with crispier, more subtle chardonnays? To be sure. But since fickleness is encouraged in the wine loving world, I can still curl up with my big bold pals when the mood strikes.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Goldilocks was on to something…
Originially published on 2/5/10 at Rogerspark.com, A Good Pour
Okay, maybe serving time/ temperature is not the sexiest topic, but hang in here with me, dear neighbors, because boy can it make a difference in your wine tasting experience.
I was in the mood for a wine comparison the other night so David and I opened a Rioja and a Chianti Classico. Perhaps because we were getting a bit hungry for dinner, we began our note taking shortly after I opened the bottles. Now I know that ideally, wine should be given the chance to breathe, but like other habits you know are good for you, ( flossing, anyone?) I don’t do it every time.
Here’s what happened. Both wines were true to their varietal in style. The Rioja had mild aromas of cherry, raspberry and oak, the Chianti Classico shared the cherry and added rose petal, but nothing leapt out of the glass. The latter, not surprisingly, was more acidic, but with less body, highlighting the gentler, smoother mouth feel of the Rioja. Okay, that’s nice, two pleasant wines, true to type. Ho hum. We went through the tasting protocol, again. Were we missing something? Let’s sip some more water, cleanse our palates, we’re not getting what we should be from these wines. I wasn’t expecting to be blown away, but I thought they’d be more nuanced, more cohesive. Heck, I just thought they’d be better.
So, we left the wine in the glasses and went to start dinner. A half hour later we returned to pick one to have with the meal and tried them both again. Wow. The difference was startling. Both wines had clearly enjoyed their time basking languidly in the glass, just waiting for us to return and find them in their glory. I swear they were smirking. All the individual, formerly clunky notes we’d been carefully describing were now all harmonizing beautifully together, creating a singular expression of the varietals. They didn’t need to be formally decanted, they just needed to be poured into a glass, swirled a bit and left to do their magic.
Though theoretically, decanting is really only needed for red wines with bigger tannins, I was reminded once again that a bit of time out of the bottle does wonders for whatever is inside. It’s like those of here on the Third Coast in February, getting out of our confines helps us to blossom, too.
Saying that wine needs to breathe may sound pretentious, but it’s true. It’s all about getting the wine aerated so that it can unlock its full spectrum of aromas and flavors. But please note, simply opening the bottle won’t do the trick, the wine should at least be poured into a glass. The surface area of an opened bottle isn’t wide enough to get the party started.
So what about serving temperature? Tradition says that red wines are best served at room temperature, but that idea was born before room temperatures averaged around 70 degrees. A decent medium is 50 degrees, so if the bottle isn’t in a cellar, just let it chill in your refrigerator for 15-20 minutes before serving. White wines need some special handling here as well. They are frequently served way too cold. Many restaurants are guilty of this and it’s a shame because patrons can go away thinking that a wine was so-so or just plain bad when really, it was simply hunched up against the deep chill, its personality in lock down. 45°F is a good baseline temperature for white wines. So, practically speaking, if your wine is in the frig, take it out about a half hour before you want to drink it or if it’s at room temperature, pop it in the freezer for 30 minutes.
No matter what your level of investment, you want your wine to be enjoyed at its best. So this Valentine’s Day, as you try to stay warm and look cool, take a lesson from Goldilocks and shine that same attention to detail on your vino as well. Your sweetheart will thank you.
Okay, maybe serving time/ temperature is not the sexiest topic, but hang in here with me, dear neighbors, because boy can it make a difference in your wine tasting experience.
I was in the mood for a wine comparison the other night so David and I opened a Rioja and a Chianti Classico. Perhaps because we were getting a bit hungry for dinner, we began our note taking shortly after I opened the bottles. Now I know that ideally, wine should be given the chance to breathe, but like other habits you know are good for you, ( flossing, anyone?) I don’t do it every time.
Here’s what happened. Both wines were true to their varietal in style. The Rioja had mild aromas of cherry, raspberry and oak, the Chianti Classico shared the cherry and added rose petal, but nothing leapt out of the glass. The latter, not surprisingly, was more acidic, but with less body, highlighting the gentler, smoother mouth feel of the Rioja. Okay, that’s nice, two pleasant wines, true to type. Ho hum. We went through the tasting protocol, again. Were we missing something? Let’s sip some more water, cleanse our palates, we’re not getting what we should be from these wines. I wasn’t expecting to be blown away, but I thought they’d be more nuanced, more cohesive. Heck, I just thought they’d be better.
So, we left the wine in the glasses and went to start dinner. A half hour later we returned to pick one to have with the meal and tried them both again. Wow. The difference was startling. Both wines had clearly enjoyed their time basking languidly in the glass, just waiting for us to return and find them in their glory. I swear they were smirking. All the individual, formerly clunky notes we’d been carefully describing were now all harmonizing beautifully together, creating a singular expression of the varietals. They didn’t need to be formally decanted, they just needed to be poured into a glass, swirled a bit and left to do their magic.
Though theoretically, decanting is really only needed for red wines with bigger tannins, I was reminded once again that a bit of time out of the bottle does wonders for whatever is inside. It’s like those of here on the Third Coast in February, getting out of our confines helps us to blossom, too.
Saying that wine needs to breathe may sound pretentious, but it’s true. It’s all about getting the wine aerated so that it can unlock its full spectrum of aromas and flavors. But please note, simply opening the bottle won’t do the trick, the wine should at least be poured into a glass. The surface area of an opened bottle isn’t wide enough to get the party started.
So what about serving temperature? Tradition says that red wines are best served at room temperature, but that idea was born before room temperatures averaged around 70 degrees. A decent medium is 50 degrees, so if the bottle isn’t in a cellar, just let it chill in your refrigerator for 15-20 minutes before serving. White wines need some special handling here as well. They are frequently served way too cold. Many restaurants are guilty of this and it’s a shame because patrons can go away thinking that a wine was so-so or just plain bad when really, it was simply hunched up against the deep chill, its personality in lock down. 45°F is a good baseline temperature for white wines. So, practically speaking, if your wine is in the frig, take it out about a half hour before you want to drink it or if it’s at room temperature, pop it in the freezer for 30 minutes.
No matter what your level of investment, you want your wine to be enjoyed at its best. So this Valentine’s Day, as you try to stay warm and look cool, take a lesson from Goldilocks and shine that same attention to detail on your vino as well. Your sweetheart will thank you.
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