Giving Thanks: Booty Call Dolcetto: Mood Lifter Vouvray

Erev Thanksgiving: Thanksgiving phobia set in shortly after puberty when the parents were in their High Ball days. Wine was the provenance of Friday nights and Saturday afternoons. Turkey belonged to watered down bourbon. The convergence of Fear of Thanksgiving and puberty was circumstantial, yet sometimes in a moment of mental weakness I wonder if a twisted astrological plot was afoot. There were deaths, including the dog Becky, a gorgeous creature who insisted on kicking me out of my bed and claiming my pillow. Then there was a stroke. Everything broke at once. Some palm reader at a cocktail party folded up my mother's hand, returning it to her as if it were a crumpled handkerchief. I have a feeling the seer saw the front page ad my dad took out to advertise his neighborly affair and voila. After the final split and the mother and father tried to split me in two, I checked out. Years later I boycotted the whole holiday, barricading myself in Boston, "I'm working," I would explain. Then there were the fine, fine years in the country listening to the locals shoot at beer cans at sunset, tripping in the fields and coming home to boys roasting turkeys, making applesauce from withered and frozen fruit. Life was good. But there is no doubt, the other part of this holiday is that it marks the beginning of Alice's Scrooge season. Each year it's a little different. The droning of the Christmas music is the worst of it. But this week it weighed on my soul that I was be only US wine writer not covering Thanksgiving wine. The accusation on Twitter? UnAmerican! Very possibly so. I still belong to the shtettle. But the true reason for my silence was that I never understood the neurotic pressure to choose the right bottle as if the world would come apart and the sea lions would crawl down Fifth Avenue and the polar bears would go on life support if the wrong wine pairing was decided upon. And for tomorrow? It will be a kosher Chinese restaurant on 3rd avenue followed by A Serious Man, with an elderly mother next to me howling with laughter, and then asking me 'but I'm not so sure it was good for the Jews." (by they way, it's brilliant.) I understand the urgency of choosing wine for company, I never understood the wine urgency on this day as any more serious than other gatherings. Isn't the meal a dinner party? Drink what you like. Truly. What's more when you give thanks, give thanks for GAMAY! My one and only tip for those who must do family affairs; pack a secret stash for yourself. Treat yourself and those who care. Sneak off to the bathroom as if you're doing coke, but take the Riedel with you. This year if I was an active participant, I'd be doing St. Joseph. Dard & Ribo. That is what I hanker for. Now. But tonight, I am celebrating a Vouvray. I find it uplifting, charming. Sebastien Brunet's 2007 Arpent Vouvray is well, just mindlessly delightful. Lemon and honey. Not too complex but it knocks back so easily. About $20 And tonight there was something totally different. This wine is like the man who dials me up for a booty call yet shows up demanding, empty handed and doesn't even feign interest in my day or thoughts, yet he is compelling. Damn. You'll be shocked when I tell you who is this wine is. Sit down. Brace yourself. Casina Degli Ulivi 2006 Nibio Terre Rosse. Stefano Bellotti is the Italian vigneron. He is also the nicest biodynamist you ever met. And I love this wine. I do. But it also has me disoriented. The 14.5 alcohol? The wild tannin is wild. I sip and I can just feel and taste the grapes are channeling some terribly dense clay. Oh, the cherry mass of it all, and wondering Dolcetto? The wine confuses me, yet compells me to pick up the phone when it rings. Booty call? Sometimes it's just the thing. About $14