Where Did All the Wine Go?

Killer, Killer; See Something, Say Something; Weight Matters; Stage Management Excitement

Brief break in the wine stuff. Not that I’ve gotten that far just yet. Hey! It’s a new project! While I’ve taken a break from wine writing, I have not taken a break from wine. In fact I tried a new Pinot Grigio at the cast party for the show I was working on.

That’s where the break comes from, by the way. I was stage managing for Orlando’s Playwrights’ Round Table’s Goring One-Act Festival. Which was fun. Met some great people, had a bunch of laughs. Good times. But it doesn’t leave a lot of time for writing. Mostly you have time to go work and keep doing laundry so you don’t run out of stage blacks to wear. I don’t think I’ve worn that much black since that brief goth phase of mine back in early high school. And there was Halloween Horror Nights to go play at. Halloween. I admit it. I was a wee bit distracted.

But the festival is bittersweetly over. Back to a normal routine and my projects. There will be wine writing to come, promise. I did have someone recently ask me what wine I’d have for the Hogwarts Express. For those not in the Central Florida area or who do not keep up with Harry Potter stuff, Universal Orlando will be opening Diagon Alley next year and the Hogwarts Express will run between Universal Studios and Islands of Adventure. Hence, the question of wine for the train.

All the walkers!

But I digress. Actually admitting to digression brings me back to my point. I figured out two things recently: Where my writing voice comes from and why I have no problem writing in second person. My grandmother.

I’ve always loved stories, but I loved hers best. And she always told them to me and my brother—never read them, but just told them from memory. She’d tell them very conversationally, directly to me and my brother. It made for a very casual, telling-how-you-speak voice and it made us feel included in the story.  She was also infamous for “rabbit trails” or going off topic and digressing a lot. Apparently I inherited that too.

About a week ago I was talking with a friend at work and somehow the topic of my writing points of view came up. My undergraduate thesis contains stories written in a four points of view: first, second, third limited and third omniscient.  According to my thesis director, writers usually only stick with one or two POVs. They don’t usually bounce around. But not only did I write in them all, I successfully wrote in second person.

Fast forward six years to that aforementioned conversation. I realized that’s where I get it from. Being able to write in second person. Actually I’m kind of doing it now—I’m writing to you as if I were talking you. Like you’re not on the other side of some screen. That’s how I write best—telling and talking to you as if you were sitting in room with me like how my grandmother told stories to me. I can honestly say I got my voice from her. Well, the basis of it. Writing how I speak, writing to you. It was a really fantastic revelation for me. She died ten years ago and I miss her a lot. Now I have a means that brings her closer to me than I ever thought.

Blackberry wine; Frozen S’mores; Eiffel Sour; Dessert Trio

And I’ll continue to share like I’m talking directly to you. …Because I am. Next time I promise wine writing. There was that new Pinot Grigio. And then that blackberry wine—which is divine by the way. Great after a bad day at work. And the holidays are coming and that means cranberry wine! There will also be closing thoughts on this year’s Food and Wine Festival.

Also? You’ll be meeting Sam soon. Sam is only just beginning his exploration of wine, beer and more. He’s funny. I promise. So be on the lookout for videos as we work to cultivate Sam’s tastes.

Writing About Wine or What Do You Pair with Peanut Butter?

I know. It’s a red, obviously not grigio. But I thought my lipstick looked awesome on the glass right then.

I hate reading about wine. I love wine. I love reading. You’d think I’d love reading about wine, right? Wrong!

Wine reviews are just so damn stuffy. The acridness of the soil of this region in that year for this type of grape. Who the hell knows what that means? To the layman, it likely doesn’t mean anything. They want to know what the wine tastes like–is it good, or is it bad? And will I like it?

And that’s what matters to most people–will I like it? Wine’s gotten quite popular. It’s nothing to walk into a chain grocery store and see an aisle devoted to wine. Okay, not entirely. They usually face off with their beer cousins–who are equally awesome in different ways. But because there are whole aisles for wine shows that people are enjoying their wine, they want it and they like it regardless of whose opinion is out there about wine.

Now wine didn’t always used to be this way. Go back a couple of decades–near as I can figure–and wine wasn’t what it is today. As a child I don’t remember an aisle devoted to wine. Cereal? Yes. Cans of stuff? Yes. Boxes and bags of frozen stuff? Yes. But near as I can remember wine and their beer cousins had to share shelf space. Or maybe that’s just how it was in Florida.

People were nervous about ordering wine. I mean who would want to take a pretty lady out on a date and risk incurring the scornful look of a sommelier when you ordered a bottle that didn’t pair with your meal correctly? No one. Trés embarrassing. People became intimidated by wine, I think. It was an intellectual sort of thing. Booze for the smart folk.

But something happened in the last couple of decades. Wine loosened up. And people became less intimidated by it. They were going to drink wine, damn it! They decided they deserved the finer things in life. People just tried different vintages, labels, types, and more just to see what they liked. They’d sample house wines, go to wine fests, tool around Epcot during their International Food & Wine Festival–all the while trying different wines. Curiosity won out. It became about the people and what they liked. It didn’t matter if it was “the” wine that was meant to be paired with “the” dish. It was about what tasted good. It became less serious. And it wasn’t all about fine dining anymore. You can go to chain restaurants like Olive Garden and order what you will, and no one will raise an eyebrow.

Unfortunately wine writing hasn’t apparently caught up. I have no doubt there are wine-lovers out there–oenophiles if you want to be technical–that have lost the stuffy jargon. But it’s still mainstream, so to speak, to write about wine with a monocle on.

There you have it. A peanut butter sandwich with what’s left of a glass of pinot grigio.

I thought about that tonight while I had half a peanut butter sandwich and a glass of wine. What wine would I pair with peanut butter?

Who in the hell asks that? In truth, I think you’re going to pair it with whatever wine you like, traditional pairing be damned…if one exists.

Which I’ll own up to–I have no idea if there’s a particular wine that should be paired with peanut butter. Somehow I doubt there’s a pairing designation out there that lists ‘PB on sourdough goes with X wine.’ Wine goes with what we want it to go with, what we like. Sure there are pairing menus out there and fine dining that’s based on pairings, and if I were travelling or having a high-end night out I’d very likely go with the pairing. But what I’m saying is that wine is no longer limited by traditional stuffy standards anymore. It’s okay to have fun with it, to go with what you like. And the writing and reading should be that way too.

…By the way, if you were curious, pinot grigio goes with a peanut butter sandwich quite nicely. The PB doesn’t conflict with the grigio and vice versa. And the crispness takes the edge off the peanut butter making me thirsty. Take a sip or two and it’s all good. I don’t feel the need to guzzle my wine to deal with the salty PB. Now a red–that would make me down my wine faster because reds tend to make me thirstier–thank you, tannins. Tannins are the texture in wines that make you thirsty, by the way–hence why it wouldn’t go well with a peanut butter sandwich. But that’s just me and my thoughts. You should try it for yourself. Go on, I dare you. Have fun with it.

The Funny Pig in Spain Story–or How I Got Drunk in Front of My Spanish Hosts

Once upon a time I was in Spain. Seven years ago. Seven years can be a long time, certainly feels like it sometimes. While I was ‘across the pond’ a rather funny event happened, one I still have not lived down and is still remembered seven years later. How do I know it’s still remembered? A friend of mine, F, in Spain snapped a picture of another pig and tagged me in it with the caption that said it was for me. And this particular friend wasn’t even present at the time. I’m a legend. With a pig. …Okay, that’s a stretch but it mildly amuses me.

Before I tell you of how I became oh so infamous, a bit of back story. I was in Spain for a three week vacation to stay with the family of M, who was at the time a very close friend and previous boyfriend. I had never been to Spain or Europe for that matter. F, who would tag me in a pig picture, was in the States visiting family and I was in Madrid with M and his father who I will refer to as Papa M for clarity because there are a lot of M’s in this.

The Alcazar

On August 7th, and I only know the exact date from looking at the data on my pictures, M and Papa M along with Tío S and Abuela M took a ride up to Segovia. Beautiful city! Absolutely love it! Most people will recognize Segovia as being home of the Alcazar. The city is also home to some Roman aqueducts as well. But for me and apparently for F and her family, Segovia is also home of The Pig Story.

On that day M and I toured the Alcazar, including going up to the Tower whose staircase will make you dizzy and make you unsure if you’re vertical or horizontal. After taking a look at the aqueducts we met up with Papa M, Tío S and Abuelo M for lunch at the El Bernardino. This is a restaurante that M and his family frequent when in Segovia. Despite the lamb on the sign, they always order a suckling pig. And this visit was no different. Now, I have had pig before–I’m from the Midwest; we do bar bq ribs and whatnot. But I have never had pig that still resembled a pig. I was excited for something new but at the same time on the wary side having never had suckling pig before.

El Bernardino

Here’s the thing with Spanish lunch for those who are unfamiliar with how it works: it’s the big meal of the day. The meal usually starts out with a salad or a soup or the like. Then comes the entree and then dessert. Wine is generally served in some from, either right from the bottle or mixed with, I believe, seltzer water to make Tinto de Verano. At least there seemed to be wine at most meals when I was there. To clue you in I was twenty years old then and one of those strange moderately well-behaved girls. Read: I had never really had alcohol.

At this particular meal we were having wine direct from the bottle, which is one of my favorite things seven years later. To get the full humor you must understand the seating that day: Papa M was at the head of the table; I was on his left with M on my left; Abuelo M was across from me and on Papa M’s right with Tío S on her right. Need a picture? Check the one provided courtesy of my not so stellar drawing skills. Now that you know the seating we can continue. Once I understood that a pig was being brought to the table as a pig, I asked M if they were bringing the whole pig to the table. He then pointed out a side table and said it would likely be cut up over there. He was almost right. A whole pig wasn’t brought to the table. It was half a pig. Cut down the middle. And it was facing me. …I could count its eyelashes if I had been so inclined.

Dig the smiley face!

This was a very new food experience to me. The closest I had ever been to this was eating chicken off the bone and seeing a cooked turkey carved at a Thanksgiving table. But those inadequately prepare one for a half a suckling pig ‘staring’ at you, daring you to eat it. Upon seeing The Pig I just stared at it. Completely new. Didn’t know what to make of it. How was I supposed to eat it? How does one eat from a pig that’s not already cut up? Oh dear Lord, it’s a half a pig! It would be at this point that Abuela M, who could only communicate with me through gestures and facial expressions owing to my dismal Spanish, gestured that I should dig in. The moment had come. It was time to eat The Pig. Somehow a portion of the ribs appeared on my plate. Ribs are good. I know what ribs are. This is familiar. At the same time this was nothing like ribs at a family cookout in the Midwest.

The Pig…well F’s picture of Another Pig she tagged me in.

To sum it up I ate my portion of The Pig very carefully, cutting around the rib bones and trying hard not to eat the skin–an unusual eating practice for one who normally is quite pleased with the carnivore side of her diet. Don’t get me wrong, The Pig was delicious–on the tender side and with flavor. But it was just seeing The Pig staring at me! Oh what a silly American I was!

Needless to say much of the aforementioned wine was consumed by me. Today a bottle of wine would hardly phase me, maybe only bring on a bit of a buzz with happy, loose feelings. Seven years ago a bottle of wine could pretty much put me at the point of ‘drunk.’  This is where the story gets fuzzy to me. I’d love to hear what anyone present could tell me about the rest of that meal as I’m sure it’s funny when you consider that seven years later it warrants a picture taken and tagged by a woman I haven’t seen in seven years; sadly F was not present for The Pig story but it was relayed to her.

What I do remember after I started oh so carefully eating my portion of The Pig and consuming wine was that I had one of the best desserts of my entire trip at the end of the meal, although I can’t remember what it were called–this was way before I took up the slightly odd habit of photographing my food. I do remember that it was chocolate of some kind and it was thoroughly delicious.

I also remember I got lost in the bathroom, something only I got to see thankfully. At the end of the meal I needed to use the restroom. It was a lot of wine after all. The restrooms were under the restaurant. In Spain, like in most big cities in the States, things are built up. However, this was somewhat novel to me because the part of Florida that I grew up in was not a big city and everything was built out instead of up. Anyway, I managed to make it across the restaurant and down the stairs with its turns and landings to the restrooms. These restrooms were not like the ones in the States. These were nicer. I remember lots of wood with stall walls that went floor to ceiling, again unlike in the States. Considering my rather mildly drunken state this meant that I couldn’t really determine where the door out of the stall into the bathroom proper was. It took spinning around a few times before I finally found my way out to the sink. Again, wooden walls; so there was more spinning until I found the door to the stairs. I successfully made it back upstairs and to my seat only to be told we were leaving. Marvelous. Fantastic.

On our way back to the car M had to generally keep an arm around me to keep me from walking sideways and into other people. Okay, and probably to keep me from tripping and falling over my own feet. And while he was doing this I was blissfully taking pictures of things and most likely talking up a storm. At least I’m not a sad drinker. We took the car down below the Alcazar for more pictures–actually my best pictures of the Alcazar I took when drunk–and for pictures of the Iglesia de la Vera Cruz. And on the car ride back to Madrid I do recall falling asleep head back, mouth open wide.

Yes, I’m a stellar American. At least I’m entertaining in some fashion. The Pig story is apparently memorable. Or so I gather from F for the picture. They remember me for The Pig episode, except for the getting lost in the bathroom portion which I don’t think they knew. I swear, come the day I make it back to Spain, I will confront another Pig with more grace. Much more grace. For now I suppose I’m just that crazy American girl who got drank too much when staring down half a suckling pig.