January 24th, 2005

(no subject)

Wine is something with a life of its own. It is born into the world at one certain point in time, in a place so picky that it can determine its entire personality. It lives for a period of time, and then there comes that one year, month, maybe even that one day where it thrives to its greatest potential. It waits its entire life for this one time when its quality is so precious that the remainder of its life is simply the falling action of its lifetime. Stored and savored until this very moment in time, wine is not watched, but not forgotten. Wine is like that special person that you call when you're back in town for some ridiculously special occasion; that first love of yours or your best friend from middle school that you haven't spoken to in years. Call it up and pull it out on this special night, and this special night only.

But nobody ever wonders about the needs and wants of the wine. Sure, amateurs usually prefer the classic chardonnay. Elegant gallery-goers prefer a nice Pinot, and the inexperienced prefer something cheap from the vineyards in Northern California. But does Spanish wine prefer soft lips or big lips, maybe even chapped lips? Does bitter wine prefer to be swished about your tongue before swallowed, or does it like to be shot right into the back of your throat and trademarked as soon as possible? Will this developed personality like the glass you pour it into, or the amount you serve at a time? Will it enjoy the way you wrap your fingers around the length of the glass designed specially for its fabulous entrance, and will it be offended if all you've got to pour it into is a glass that was once a jar of jelly? Will it accept beer drinkers or angry Vodkaholics, or will it voluntarily call up the fates for a spill all over the white blouse of a trashy girl that's currently showing too much cleavage? Does liquor outlet wine scoff at gas station wine, and is all wine intimidated by the popping sound of champagne entering the room?

Wine has a personality and a presence equal to that of a real person. Perhaps it may not breathe, think, or have arms and legs with which to flail about when unsatisfied. But every glass has individuality, which leads me to believe that there is a trace of real life, and real character in there. Such possibilities lead me to wonder if the next time I'm tasting wine, I should ponder if it is doing the same to me as all my life experience rolls itself up into an exquisite taste that the wine is also experiencing for the first time. One has to wonder when undergoing such a confrontation: What will the wine say of you?