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[mylifeinwine]

Dark horse. "A dark horse is a little-known person or thing that emerges to prominence, especially in a competition of some sort or a contestant that seems unlikely to succeed." I sit in a hotel room in the middle of Union Square, San Francisco for the 8th night in a row. Tonight I'm by myself. I opted out of the "guys dinner" at some old steak house. I declined the developer "group lunch". I arrived late due to an acupuncture treatment that never happened. Some call it anti-social. I call it "selective attendance". I claim I want to have tonight to myself. At 40 years old, and female, I'm considered a dark horse, at least in the security industry. But that isn't a huge deal because my company is a dark horse. We are tiny. We had a terrible quarter. We make stuff people fear and we sell it to the Feds. We probably won't last 18 months. But I give it everything I have because I want to emerge as the winner. Or rather, I want the company to be the winner because if the company is the winner, I'm the winner. And honestly, I like to win. I opened this bottle last Friday. I opened it because my husband was coming into town after a week of travel and a huge argument. I left the previous Monday to hurt feelings and tears. My last marriage failed. I want this one to succeed. Statistically speaking, it's the dark horse. Second marriages often fall apart. I'm trying. We both are. But we love our jobs sometimes more than we love our time together. There are cracks. We continue to seal them with the mortar of hope and apologies. We promise to get better, we promise to be successful. We promise to try harder. I sat in hours of meetings today. I was told I was good. But "good" is fleeting and we don't have forever. Time is passing, we have to make it. We can be even more successful if only we try harder. I promise to try harder.

[mylifeinwine]

The snow is softly, but steadily, falling. It’s been coming down all day. It’s just a Tuesday, just a day in January, just another day in the life of… whatever it is I am. Perhaps I’m a child at heart - I’ve seen it snow every year at this time, for all of my 39 years. Sure, some winters were milder than others but in the end, it’s really just another snow. But today, I am home from work and I have been trying to juggle my work-work, my side projects and my french lessons. So it seem fitting that after a long weekend off (which really just meant I had more time to do more work) I decided to take a break and relax. And open a bottle of wine that Thomas simply abhors. A Virginia cabernet.

To him, not only is this wine “swill”, it is from an area that should never have even gone into the wine business, much less continue to thrive and grow. No, he prefers his big, bold, screaming reds. Reds that could pull paint off walls and whip a thick steak into shape, preferably from an old world country (or at least Napa) But tonight, in the austere beauty that is a continually delicate snowfall, I reach for a simple, elegant and completely un-Virginia red that is more Burgundy than Bordeaux, more silk than satin. A bottle that I found because my friends and I just happened to be at Gray Ghost winery last fall on a day when they decided to sell some of their library finds. And what a find this was!

The other couple and I (and Thomas) has opted to spend a weekend together in Culpeper, a darling town about two hours outside of DC. Thomas, in his typical work fashion, didn’t arrive home from his business trip until the wee hours of Friday night, long after the three of us had spent an evening sipping wine, recounting stories of years past and even making it until midnight on the balcony of our shared B&B. That weekend, we had mended fences of a sort (having had a bit of a fallout two years prior) and we put those ghosts of days past behind us. The next day Thomas made the trip to the countryside and joined us for the evening. He was still bound up in “the cancer” and added to that, a wicked case of jet-lag. That night we shared a beautiful meal, with some european bottles, mainly because the meal (and the company) declared it the better match than something local. Besides, we said, we can go to the vineyards tomorrow and try some of the local offerings… it was all good enough.

Sunday came and understandably so, only three of us trekked to the local winery - Thomas isn’t a “day drinker” and he was still tired. Add to that his disdain for VA offerings and there was really no reason for him to go, at least not in his mind. So we went. And there we discovered that there was only one bottle the three of us agreed on - the 1995 Cabernet. And we each bought the max we could purchase - 2 bottles. What happened to those 4 they purchased with their two “slots”, I do not know. But I do know that one of mine is perfect for opening and recalling that day, on this evening. Sometimes ghosts of the past aren’t all that bad in the right context and sometimes, all of us can choose to let go of them, even if we don’t agree on why they were there in the first place. So tonight, as I enjoy the snow, without my sweetheart, I think back to those times when the snow falling was quite good enough and I sip my own “ghost”, vowing to let go of some of the old ghosts from my own past. 

[mylifeinwine]

I love independence. I love being free to do whatever I want, whenever I want. I was an only child until my parents remarried. And even then, I was the only girl. So I’m used to being something of a free spirit. This attitude was further nurtured by my grandfather, or Grandaddy Carson as I used to call him. I could write volumes on the profound impact his love and care had on me as a child of divorced parents, but this is not the post for that. Instead, I will celebrate his wanderlust, which was handed to me as a child, that has only intensified as I have grown older.

So it is fitting that tonight, I am celebrating several days of independence from “the real world” in Montreal, sipping a gorgeous, velvety Burgundy that I selected from the SAQ Signature (which is code for the pricey Montreal wine shop)

About two months ago, Thomas let me know that he would be venturing out of town for a long-overdue “guys weekend” in Las Vegas. I can’t say I blame him. “The cancer” has exhausted him and at times, it’s like he is the one fighting it and not his mother. Even without “the cancer”, he needed a weekend away from the world. I’ve already had several girls weekends, myself. However, as one who will never turn down an opportunity to travel, to get out, to be away from regular life, I decided that I too, could use a weekend away. So we parted ways at Dulles this morning, both of us declaring our love for each other but excitedly looking forward to the time apart. I have always thought that all couples need time apart-it makes you appreciate the person once you get to see them again. And honestly, most people make me a little crazy after too much time spent in their company. Even my soulmate.

So I booked my favorite little loft apartment, hastily unpacked and scouted out the route that would allow me to run a few miles (because after all, I did bring my running shoes and I will be eating some high calorie things) and hit the high-priced wine shop where the walls were covered in dark wood and the staff spoke beautiful, perfect French.

90$ for a bottle of wine is silly, I know. But I justify it because is isn’t any bottle of wine, it’s THE bottle of wine. It’s my favorite style and it will taste divine with a prepared plate of roasted vegetables and couscous, a combination that is apparently very popular here because I buy the last one. I’m in Old Port. There are no “super merches”, no “bodegas”… Only high-priced “resto-bars” which are really just expensive mini-markets. So I don’t bat an eye when the cashier rings up a hefty 27$ because that would be tres tacky, tres Americane and for the next three days, I am une Madame or better, une mademoiselle. Yes, it’s fake and yes I’m an American who tears up at the national anthem and still feels the stab in my heart when I see photos from the Boston marathon bombing and 9-11 attacks. But for now, I am a lady of the city, who sips good wine, smiles at the young boy behind the counter and dreams of what life would be like if she lived here all the time.

My wine is divine. For now, it’s just perfect…. It lets me continue to marinate in that feeling of special, that feeling that I belong and when I’m out and about, everyone just assumes I too, am a french canadienne. Tomorrow the wine will be mostly gone and on Monday I’ll be back at my desk, doing my normal life thing. And I’ll look back and appreciate the separation from my fantasy life because not having it all the time means I appreciate it more when it’s gone. Even if it is the lifestyle equivalent of my soulmate.

[mylifeinwine]

I met Layla years ago. Or rather, I "e-met" her online, via DC web women. We were like-minded ladies, women who grew up as Gen Xers, who embraced the men’s world of web development and then ran with the occasional opportunities to propel ourselves forward as they presented themselves. She started a small web company and naturally, I went to work for her. We were the epitome of self-sufficient. And she’s the epitome of strong, beautiful and sweet.

That hearty, thick-skin attitude should come as no surprise when I say that we thrived when odds were not in our favor. Case in point, February 2010. It’s commonly referred to as “snowmageddon” in DC. In just one day, we received a shocking 30 plus inches of snow. It shutdown the region. Luckily for us, she lived less than a mile away so we could trek between each other's houses fairly easily. On this snowy weekend, she suggested getting together and having some "girl-time", provided I didn't mind schlepping to the wine shop (it was closer to me, mind you) and hosting her at my small condo.

And because of that, the most delicious, sweet, girlie wine was discovered and embraced by two friends, stuck in the snow, one trying to get a break from the kids and husband (her) while the other tried to pretend this snow storm was “fun” (me). After hiking to the wine shop in my boots and backpack, I managed to to find the perfect girlfriend wine, Antichi Giochi’s Piemontesi Casorza.

It’s thick, syrupy, sweet and when shared by two girlfriends who’ve had a lot of years laughing together, crying together and yelling together, albeit passively aggressively, at each other, it is perfect.

I love her so much that at times, it upsets me, causes heartache and heartburn and at this time, when we have deeper issues with each other, we are both willing to put them aside and simply enjoy the moment. We have always shared a laugh, a drink, a sense of fashion. We are the sisters who only had brothers but who adopted each other. At times we agree, at other times, we battle. Her husband’s mom died of the same cancer that my mother-in-law has, so these days our connection is even more profound. But back then, I sipped this wine, wishing I was married and spending this snowy week playing house with my dream guy. She sips it mourning the day that she got married, had kids and gave up a life of single freedom. I want companionship, she wants solitude. Two friends brought together, held by a different bond, attempting to empathize with the other but not really able to bypass our own desires. Together, as women do, we drink and lay aside our irritations and cherish this moment as friends spending a day together. Women do that. And it’s what we cherish.

It’s syrup, and sweet and sugary and fattening. It’s like a rich bottle of purple, semi-carbonated peach and blackberry pie that we would never buy except that we know our closest girlfriend loves plummy, rich, raisin-like bliss and we pretend for a moment that glass is like a gracious, pretty host, imploring us to drink and toast, even when we don’t like sweet wine. Tomorrow we will forget about it, we will continue moving in our own direction but for now, we don't care. Because its what girls do. And even though she’s over 40 and I’m close to it, we are still girls. And girlfriends are the wine of life.

[mylifeinwine]

Til' death do us part

March 23, 2012

I treasure celebrating my grandmother because she is normal to me. I moved so many times as a child, tossed between two divorced parents, that she represents staid, solid, buttoned-up comfort. She is a graceful, earthy, large, no-nonsense and opinionated woman. Raised on a tiny rural farm in Bedford County, VA, she worked hard and spent the seventh day of the week praising our lord and savior, Jesus Christ. She married my grandfather young, had a family, and settled in the housewife of the mid-1900s, perfectly. Being Southern Baptist, she eschewed alcoholic beverages and all things heathen, including dancing, partying and, especially, lying. As such, she taught me honesty, integrity and patience. Which makes it interesting that on this day, when I was due in Harrisonburg, to celebrate her birthday, my betrothed and I decided to run off that morning and get married. and not tell anyone.

Lying and deceiving aside, our early morning courthouse nuptials were not complete without a toast with a pinot from Argygle winery, provided by a small, yet celebration-worthy Alexandria restaurant. We knew it wasn’t truly honest, but while driving to mom’s house in Harrisonburg, we agreed that what we did was acceptable, explainable, later… maybe in a few years. In true wedded bliss, we kept our rings on, until we pulled into the driveway, our nerves suddenly calmed. I think we assumed that the three weeks would give us time to breathe, to reflect and develop into something substantial so that come “real wedding night”, we would be able to stand up to the occasion, with its pressures and not disappoint our families.

So it seem only fitting that we had the Argyle 2008 Nuthouse Pinot Noir. We have never had it since. It’s beautifully structured and intentional, fashioned by luck and exactly what a new world pinot should be, PROVIDED THE YEAR AND WINE ARE JUST RIGHT. If we needed breathing time, the wine did not. It was the most perfect glass of Pinot, at the most imperfect moment, matched with odd food choices, which sounds odd but if you’ve had a bad year from Oregon (which is not uncommon) at a restaurant eating off-handle food, you’ll know what I mean. Pinot Noir is a very fussy grape and is often picked when part of the bunch is unripe and unready. If luck and winemaking techniques are on the side of the vintner, he can still make something passable, essentially pressing the rest of the grapes into a subdued submission. It’s a fussy, pretentious and demanding varietal, not bold enough to be a big red, not light enough to be a rosè. In short, its eclectic and it has baggage, like me. Commonly paired with the wrong dish, it becomes a beautiful mess. Also, like me. So the waiter stands, waiting… silently imploring. He’s thinking we can’t afford this, we are too young, why are we even here? But he smiles and recommends the Jannisen-Thiebalt, a Virginia sparkling. My new husband defers to me to make the call. I see an expensive pinot noir and I pretend to know what I’m doing. So we order it. “Ah, it’s such a beautiful wine. I really like it”, I say. And I do. I don’t know how perfect it will be but I have faith that it will hold up, mismatched to our meal of steak salad and shrimp and grits. I want to believe, to celebrate, to start life with this new guy, even if its not the perfect “book” match. So we do.

Which is why on this day, after I have pleaded, whined and flat out threatened my now husband, that I must get married RIGHT NOW RIGHT THIS VERY GODDAMN MOMENT OR I’LL JUST LOSE IT, he agrees to appease me, like most love-struck men, provided we do not tell his mother. We had just exchanged a short “I do”, paid a judge 50$ and slipped off to lunch at 11 am where we drank a glass of perfectly mismatched and moody Pinot noir and vowed to keep this day as sacred as our “real” wedding day.

We show up at mom’s that night for grandma’s birthday, the only glow emanating from the dining room candles and our faces. Grandma takes my hand, admiring the beautiful engagement ring (thankfully, no longer flanked by the slender platinum band which is now in the coin cup of my car) smiles so beautifully at me, and in the low glow says “such a beautiful ring. I really like him” and I know that she approves. And I know that she probably knows. And I think that it’s ok. Because it is such a beautiful day, a beautiful love, a beautiful pairing and ah, yes, I really like it.

[mylifeinwine]

My life in wine: 24 months

I bought and opened two expensive Burgundies tonight. Same vintner, same blend, same process and same winemaker from 2003 and 2005. I was hoping that there would be some miraculous revelation in the subtle differences that I, as a FWS candidate and Somm student, would immediately discern and document. No such luck.

Am I really surprised? No. Because if you actually step back and ask what has changed in your own life in 24 months, the answer might surprise you. Might.

24 months ago, I had just had the second of my stomach surgeries. I was close to normal again, even with the unnecessary loss of a few pounds, limited eating ability and weird gut issues. I spent my evenings reading and resting and my weekends with the guy I was in love with. I drank wine with reckless abandonment, convinced that Pinot Noir from Willamette was the best in the world so long as it was 2008 (ok, so that was right) But tonight, as I hunched over the toilet, dry heaving from eating sushi loaded with gluten, because we were too depressed to go out, I thought back. It’s still the same. I had even brought my burgundy from 2005 into the bathroom (because its Pinot!) in the hopes that once I was done, I could drink this 99$ bottle of wine I foolishly opened.

But I knew the compliment, the other bottle I purchased to compare it to, from 2003, from the same vintner, of the same blend, was downstairs, a product of an aborted attempt to entice my husband into playing a new game of blind wine tasting. Because his mom is dying. We don’t talk about it until we talk about it. But only on their terms. You see, I am “one of those”. That is, someone who wants to compare one very similar entity to another. My brother died at 19 from the disease. My office spouse’s mom beat the disease. My cubemate lost his little baby girl to the disease. My old college buddy overcame the disease. Lift, sniff, swirl. Compare, compare, compare. So like two expensive Burgundies, from the same vines, separated by only 24 months, I too, as a natural sommelier, want to compare one with the other. I shouldn't.

However, I try. Because I’m still hunched over a toilet, throwing up from a weird stomach fix, from a little over 24 months ago that didn’t quite go right. I obviously have had some time to reflect, to open up, to analyze, to breathe… Back then, we were two people, newly in love, ironically deciding on this exact weekend, 24 months ago, to get engaged. We had dinner with two bottles of wine I will never forget (2006 Chateau Gloria and 2008 Chateauneuf du Pape) They were good and ok, respectively, and oddly they too, were separated by 24 months. 

I threw up several times that night, my teensy newly rebuilt esophagus declaring war on the Beef Bourgogne. However, he was not deterred from asking if I would marry him. We were in love, and at 38 and 36, we were no longer young. In fact, we were (and still are!) 24 months apart in age.  But I still realize, I should have bought the two white burgundies. Because red can be feisty and romantic, melancholy and pensive, sultry and seductive or stoic and guarded… simply put, it can be a lot of things but it's rarely light-hearted. White burgundy is easy, simple and happy. Red is complicated, sad and moody. Tonight, the newer vintage (2005) Leroy is only slightly better than the older 2003 one, but it doesn't matter. I still attempt to embrace it, my inner scholar grasping with any new idea, any new taste, any new anything… Just give me something. Something brave and bold. Something I can call perfection, even when perfection is just a scale that is moved by subjective rationale. Please, be just right, be just happy, be just perfect. Be just like his mom who is perfect. If only she wasn’t dying.

So I look back 24 months. And I relive my memories and my yearning for such a simpler, easier, more consumable experience from a much better year. Was it really better? Or just different? More importantly, does the year even matter if the rest is all the same?