Maybe it's this time of waiting; waiting for my editor to get back to me with his comments. Maybe it's working on that damned navel, oh I mean, novel, a futile exercise headed for sorrow, but to tell you the truth, I have been enjoying not blogging.
I don't mind talking to myself, but that is what blogging has become to me, talking to myself and I' not sure if it's the best use of my time. Or anyone's time.
Also, there's vanity involved. I'm not sure if I'd rather do it in public, or down Prince Street behind my wool hat and sunglasses.
True, people read me, from all over the place, and I see the click throughs, and I see the stats so I now I am not as isolated as it seems, but I must tell you, writing on this site feels like one hand clapping. A tree falling in the forest with no one around. A meal without a diner. I'll figure it out, tomorrow I'll have a different story to tell, a different feeling, but right now?
I've been in the ether. I have been standing in the river waiting to get me a speckled trout.
Sporting my diaper-like rubberized waders, I waited for the speckled trout to nibnle, leaf brown or pea green, swim on.
Waiting, I saw what Beckett fabricated: Vladimir and Estragon fishing. V&E waited with a bat to bang the beast between its little bead eyes, to stun it and live bleed it. This is what it was all about.
But there were no fish. False advertising.
Like a pink pelikan, I stood in the water, a redhead with one leg up, and still, so still. It was frigid; cold. Snow and ice. In the end nothing to show for it except some shrapnel from some idiot who wanted to do that exploding fish in the water thing, what to they call it? Torpedo fishing? Dynamite fishing? There were the frozen fillets in my freezer, someone else sent to me. And I waited for guests to come.
I eased the cork on a new vintage of an old favorite, the Clos Roche Blance Cot, vintage 2009. Favorite. What a word. That is a favorite of mine. Seems meaningless and shallow, sort of like name that tune. Favorite. Indeed. When people ask me if I have a 'favorite' color, I have to stop the pity from crossing my eyes. No, I don't have a favorite color. I don't have a 'color.'
Favorite, and i call myself a writer? Is that the best I could do? A writer that is knee deep in the Roscoe River waiting for speckled trout? No wonder I didn't catch anything if I was calling wines like Clos Roche Blanche favorites.
We get sloppy, or I at times get sloppy. Favorite is an inferior word. Who wants to hear a tune when what you really crave is music? Yet, sometimes there's no word for love but the simple love.
I love this wine, the cot, in any vintage but I didn't know what to expect here. That, sir and madam, was a good thing.
A hint of sparkle, and as M. Chauvet said, one shouldn't be afraid of a little carbon dioxide. In this case it blew off in a few minutes. I have never heard Didier Barrouillet admit he had a hard year. Even in 2008 he said, it was fine. No problem. Was there a problem? It is a year, and they are all different, it is Didier against the challenges and if he spends every minute in the vineyard making sure the vines usher in the best fruit possible, there are no complaints. There are no problems.
What about 2009? It was crazy, anything but typical. Hot, cold, hot, wet and hot. "No problem," he said. He never wants to talk vintage, and he never complained, at least to me. Except he doesn't want to work so hard, but he is a master vigneron. Sly, funny, sly, smart. He just..is.
This cot. I first met this cot in 1999. I first met the vines in 2001. They were 110 years old then and the old ladies had plenty of softball sized yellowed limestones lodged into their winter soil like rosy bones waiting for the soup. I loved them then, and I love them now. Sometimes you just fall for a vine when you least expect it.
The wine, the '09, is packed with unfruited jam, a cloudy day with the sun shining. Sweet walnut skin, neat, tannic, 12.5% or so.
I missed the violet, I missed it so damned much. That violet sucked up through a chalk straw? It failed me. Where was that purple flower scented through that limestone straw. I needed it. I wanted it. Gone.
I had soup. I had brussels sprout sprinkled with hot green sauce, ages old, bought in NOLA in 1996, three years before I sipped the first CRB cot. I changed the strings on my guitar for the first time in seven years. I went back to the wine, no longer a favorite but a friend who had a new pair of shoes. A lover who had grown a beard.
The chalk straw was there. The tannins, very different, as if the wine had a new haircut, sassy, maybe a pincurl or a two. And wouldn't you know, the wine was sprinkled with a citrusy, blood orange like freshness. Then it stared at me and laughed so hard, the bottle almost split its seams.
It's about $21 if you can find it.
How about that 6000 year old winery found in Armenia. I guess Genesis got it right, Noah was the first winemaker. What I would like the writer to explain, however, was his supposition that the wine was like nouveau. Thermovinified, malo-blocked wine, yeasted, confabulated plonk. I think he must have gotten that one wrong.