Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Daybreak to Wine Love
Little did I know the tale about to be told: a recording of vintage interspersed with a love of old. 2002 Brunello di Montalcino, reportedly a sad year to behold, gives way to a startling account of poor quality inflated to stardom as context unfolds. The love of which I speak is none other than a relationship gone sour, yet continuously teetering as a love story never so bold.
Affairs of the heart are truly one of a kind, each to their own, exceptions all count, perceptions dilute, beginnings forgotten, ends eager and wanton. To speak plainly, my heart aches for a man I once had. A pain double-sided with desire on one side battling rational conscience on the other. Forgive and forget? Or move on with acceptance, constantly recalling hurtful deceipts, selfish acts, and lusty betrayals? Remembering my actions wanes deeply on my soul, giving in to temptation's threshold.
After a day spent lingering on romantic fantasies of how to rescind paths taken, the convoluted reality revealed itself during a simple tasting of organic Brunello. The night was late, the wine still young. Best friends convened having loads of fun. The mood was set, my spirits soared, freedom crashed my tranquil shore. Wine flowed, gossip flung, giggling girls poked fun, flirtatious rants with cute servers dared to be flung. Now with this in mind, I must reveal the hopeful vino poured by an owner wishful for my attentions still. In the moment, the 2002 San Polino Brunello di Montalcino exploded sweet swills. Nothing could make me more happy than the sexy aromas tip-toeing around the sensors within my nose. In the heat of the moment, excitement too palpable to quench the languid lackings of this wine and all its mid-drift packings.
2002 San Polino Brunello di Montalcino promises fresh fruits, torrents of plum, and a hint of sun-dried tomato, vine-ripened with soft, powdery tannins from an organic run. Production persists amongst the hills southeast of Montalcino, where the climate approaches warmer pockets delivering luscious, mouth-puckering wine bits. But, lo and behold, the mid-palate went slush, leaving no room for fuss, tragically ending in simple disgust.
The aromatics still soared, so everything else I chose to ignore, because nothing in this moment could give rise to scorn. I missed the man I once knew, the man I once had, everything else left unsaid, nothing to brag. Now I know a lesson to be told. A wine can pose as something breathtaking and carouse, depending upon the company and context the drinking aroused. This resolves a riddle confounding my soul. Merriment is a choice, perception is reality. What could be more morose?
Now you'll know, truth be told, when you return from Italy with memories of gold and no wine in the shops here in the States compare, nothing is remiss, you just had something you'll forever miss: a moment of bliss enveloped in vino...