Comfort Me With......

A day off. A much needed and earned day of rest and relaxation after a week of harried working the sales floor, alone for some of the day, crazy-ass and damn near incoherent phone calls, dudes like the afore mentioned Leroy and yet another busy weekend working with one staff member too few. Wrecked. Been physically wrecked for the better portion of the week and while I love being busy I was so ready to just puddle on the couch yesterday afternoon.

Still in my jammies at 2:00, unwashed beyond the late night bath I just had to take after too many martinis at my beloved Tracy’s, (um, note to self, remove razor from tub before buzzy bathing. Drunk girls and razors are or can be, in my case, a rather unfortunate combination…it will grow back but…dammit) chili dog sinking in my gut and plumping out my already inner tube like middle, hair pulled back in a wild mass of steam and bed gnarled curls, glass of pink wine sweaty at my side. Off to a good start right? One would think….

Just settling into my flow of uber annoying facebook statuses when I got a message. A message from my brother once again asking me, giving me shit as to why I have not friended him there. I read the message and felt the shift of the chili dog as I twisted and squirmed a bit trying to figure out how best to handle this, again. My brother and I share a sister and nothing else. We did not really grow up together and the few times he was submerged in my life it was absolutely awful. Drug addicted, drunk, thief, the only badges my brother has ever really earned in my life. He doesn’t see it that way of course, he thinks blood is thicker than water or whatever bullshit but to me the not brief enough time my brother was involved in our lives this is what I knew. He will never own what he has done to all of us and will forever feel a sense of entitlement as the “elder sibling”. Okay, fine. I will give him older but nothing else. Might sound terribly harsh to many of you, I know he would be pissed to hear that and would likely tell me that I owed him some level of respect because we are family….again, I don’t subscribe to that bloodline nonsense. My brother was very bright, shared my mother’s gift for drawing, was a soldier and became a father right around the same time I became a mother but, he chose or let drugs…and all that they entail, be the only real drive he ever had, over everything else and I consider our relationship one of the casualties of his personal war.

I learned early and the hard way, that helping him only resulted in hurt, both emotionally and often times, financially and the “help” never really did. One of the few times he was actually working he needed but could not get a bank account, I let him use my savings account to cash his checks. He swore he was clean and on the right path, I gave him a chance and he took every penny I had along with some of my pride. Had to ask my mother to buy milk for my son….even though I had been working to support him and was very proud of that. Never once, even when he was clean apologized for that, referenced it once and blamed the drugs and that was it. There are hundreds of stories and anyone that has dealt with addiction has been through it. After so many years of it, of having things stolen, being lied to, having the landlords from our old apartment call me, at work and tell me that if we didn’t get the furniture and garbage out of the apartment, (the job my mother paid my brother a healthy sum to do) that they were going to hire a cleaning company and send me a bill. Walking into the apartment that I had fled from, cases of empty booze bottles, bags of putrefied food and maggots….cleaning up my brother’s mess once again, well I didn’t have any more in my heart to give. No hatred and no rage, just an overwhelming sense of ambivalence. Sure I still have pangs of sympathy, just as I would with anyone that was leading such a sad life, but much like I have to just pass those people by, heart sinking and all, I have to just keep my brother at a distance. He doesn’t understand it and at times, he gives me some shit for it….price I have been willing to pay.

So the message was alerting me that he had requested my friendship and if I had rather not then just say so. The thing is, I had said so, four times before this message and while my brother is no longer on drugs, he still drinks….heavily and must have no recollection of the four previous times I had, very nicely explained that my friends on facebook are either connected to my job or this blog and I didn’t really want his snide, or what he calls, “funny” wine snob, and “taking his sister down a peg or two” comments all over my page. I don’t want him offending anyone and I sure as shit have no interest in listening to that crap either.  

  

My chill morning of chili dogs, ponytails, being rather cartoonish…dancing about, making cracks and in turn giving my husband fits of giggles, all of it was gone with the click of a cursor on facebook. Shoulders tight, breath now heavy as I pushed it from my lungs, my just seconds before grinning mug now wearing the years of history, his war, my sympathetic soul trying to see something, anything redeeming or honest in his request, my memories too vivid and the end of this particular rope, gone long ago. So for once, I thought not of his reaction, not about him calling me a “snobby bitch” yet again, not of hurting the feelings of someone that never thought about mine. I just wrote. From my heart…..

I hit send on the short note that condensed many of the things I have been wanting to say for years. Let my, somewhat softened words explain to this stranger that I would not be accepting his request, that we chose different paths and while I’m sorry it may never make sense to him, that I was unwilling to put within his reach all that I have worked so hard for…even in a place as silly as facebook. I reached for my sweaty glass of pink wine only to find that it had been drained as my fingers and our war, was playing out in the message box of a social media website. Took a deep breath and got up from my much adored couch perch, walked away from the laptop that had me feeling like it had betrayed me by allowing this little crack for him to slip in and wreck my much needed….and earned day of rest.  Looked for tasks to busy my mind and body so as to avoid the nasty and sophomoric response I knew was to come. 

Kitchen floor, found distraction on my hands and knees cleaning the kitchen floor. The sweat slipping beneath the waistband on my too-big-for-me jammie bottoms, the smell of Pine Sol swirling around my head as I scrubbed and over scrubbed the residue and buildup created by a woman that finds comfort in the chopping, the wiping of my just-dunked-in-sauce fingers along the side of my jeans. The butter, olive oil, fierce sear of meat, the overzealous stir of white bean and Kale soup, all of it there, on my kitchen floor. Food, flavors, textures, all things that speak to me, bring me pleasure and even in its…less than savory and pleasurable form, the byproducts of my comfort were once again…comforting me.

Hoisted the bucket of now grimy water, still scented with Pine Sol but now dark gray and floating with bits of coffee bean, somewhat alarmingly large dust bunnies, dehydrated nubbins of carrot, celery and onion and more cilantro, (what the hell with that stuff? Sticks to everything!) than I could have ever imagined. Watched it all go down the drain and felt a little relieved both in channeling my oft absent OCD cleaning woman and knowing that the next time I step to my stovetop that none of that shit would be sticking to my feet. Returned the bucket to its home under the sink and decided that I had earned another glass of whatever that pink stuff was that went down so easy.

Grabbed the handle on the fridge and my eyes were distracted by a new piece of paper, attached with a magnet, right beside the picture of me and Tyler making funny faces. “Adult male, 18-64 from Louisville Kentucky to Orange Country California. August 1^st” an itinerary, my son’s itinerary for his upcoming visit. My eyes quickly filled with tears and I scanned the freshly washed floor around the stove, smiled as I thought of all the splatters and spills I would be creating when my baby comes home for a visit. While I comfort him with the aromas, textures and flavors of home. Let myself laugh out loud as I thought of him biting into his beloved yeasty rolls stuffed with cream cheese, rolled in butter and cinnamon sugar and baked together in a syrup of more butter and sugar. My smile even broader as I thought about the fact that my son and I speak the same “nose, mouth, heart” language. Comforting…

Opened the fridge and saw the open bottle of Rose that I had been letting keep me company but after the message, the end of my rope, the cleaning and the itinerary, I wanted something more than company, I was craving that feeling of having arms wrapped around me, the soft kiss of someone I loved…I saw the bottle and grabbed my corkscrew. Clos Marie Rose. This fucking wine is now like a lover I cannot get enough of and while I’ve been trying to restrain myself, the day had shifted and I was ready to be made love to, touched and comforted….again. 

Sat on the couch letting the oh so sensual body of that wine wrap around my tongue, tingle the sides of my mouth and force itself down my throat no matter how much I longed to hold it, almost tortuously in my mouth. Each trickle past the back of my tongue, each fleshy drop seeping inside me, each tiny hair inspired to pull away from my skin and stand on end as this meaty, chewy, mineral rich wine filled me. My lips, my tongue, my mouth, my throat….comforted with the familiar touch, taste and texture of true love. Two glasses of seduction later and I found myself moving my cursor, clicking on the response I had been trying to avoid.

“Good point and very well put. Our relationship is what it is and it is probably my fault but it’s cool” now that might sound like much to many of you but, from my view of this particular “front-line”, more than I could have ever hoped for. Like ever. An inkling of accountability…comforting.

Clean kitchen ready for my son’s visit. The afterglow and giggles of a day spent making love to a wine as sexy as I have come across in a very long time. The pride in letting my voice protect…my voice. Fuck relaxing, I choose this….   

Domaine Tempier (Re-Post)

This post was written just over 2 years ago and I am re-posting in honor of drinking a bottle of the 2010 last night with a dear friend. We spent the night talking and laughing, (another reason for the re-post, we stayed up way into the wee morning hours...as we tend to do, so there was no time to dash off anything new) and I shared this story with her while we drained the bottle. As  I recounted the feelings I had the day that I stepped foot on the property of Domaine Tempier while letting the newest vintage from this estate slip past my chatting lips, the dense and full fruit, the stark minerality, the texture just that much more serious than the hundreds of Roses I've tasted so far this year....damn, there's just something about Tempier, I could feel myself being lit up from the inside out. Told my buddy the same thing I do anyone that questions me about the price of this wine, "Is it a $35.00 Rose isn't the question, is it a $35.00 bottle of wine? Yes. It brings me that much pleasure and simply having it on my table fills me with complete and utter happiness"

Haven't reread the post yet, again no time but I'm hoping that my 2 years ago me was able to capture this truly remarkable moment in my wine career.....if not maybe I can write a newer version. Won't that be fun for all of you?! 

“She goes down to the fish monger first thing in the morning to get the best and freshest catch. She goes to market and sees what looks the freshest before she plans her menus. People know who she is and she gets the best of whatever they have. She’s and inspiration to cooks the world over and here she is, just a tiny French woman in a tiny village…it’s amazing”

Cannot tell you how many times I had heard that story, how many times I watched Randy’s face light up when he spoke of her, how many times he told people they had to own her cookbook. I thought about her when he would retell this story to someone new, the way his words hung in the air, “she is an inspiration” the whole time thinking, “Here she is, a tiny French woman from a tiny town….inspiring him”.




When I finally got my copy of her cookbook, Lulu’s Provencal Table (by Richard Olney) I read the forward by Alice Waters, (a personal hero….of sorts) and there was this tiny woman again inspiring others…she was becoming a legend, hell she was a legend, long before I had heard of her….but for me, she was now this amazing woman, in a far off place, that I thought of every time I cooked something from her book. While standing in my kitchen pounding garlic into aioli, or making Soupe au Pistou, (Vegetable soup with garlic and basil) I would remember the pictures of her table on the terrace beyond the shutters, the black and white photos of her, young and sweet looking with two baskets of fish, one on each hip…but most of all I would picture the photos of her kitchen, bricked fireplace, tiny curtains hanging from the mantle and a leg of lamb hanging from a rope in the fireplace.

“Sam! Your itinerary is here!” Randy yelled after picking through the pile of mail deposited by our, less than friendly mail lady. I made my way upfront and tore into the thick package, I pulled out the binder sent by the importer and flipped through, looking at tech sheets and hotel phone numbers. “Well?!” Randy pressed, “Oh…oh yeah” I answered and pulled the sheet he was dying to see from the pouch. As my eyes scanned the sheet I felt a knot forming in the pit of my stomach. I had heard that the Kermit Lynch buying trip was brutal, but I was in no way prepared for what met my eyes, “19 appointments in one day?! In Burgundy?!” I blurted, “How is that even possible?”

I sat down with Randy and we went over the trip itinerary, after a few minutes I could tell that this was going to be unlike the other trips I had been on. There would be no schmoozing with winemakers, no walking the vineyards…this was all business, hardcore business. Kermit Lynch has so many estates that there really is no way to see them all in the time allotted, so much of the “visits” would be made to us…in the hotels, that way they could get everyone, or just about everyone in. Not what I expected but it didn’t matter, I was to be meeting with the wineries that I had been hearing about for 12 years…since I started at The Wine Country, Randy used to sell Kermit Lynch wines and the stories of those estates were woven into my education, they were a part of me in a way…through him, and that coming January, (2008) I would see, and taste for myself. So as I flipped through the grueling schedule something met my eyes that I was in no way expecting:

1/20/08 1:45 pm Domaine Tempier, tasting with Daniel Ravier and lunch with Lulu

Lunch with Lulu

Lunch with Lulu Peyraud of Domaine Tempier…the woman with the fish, the terrace, the words by Alice Waters and the lamb in the fireplace…as someone that does not squeal, I just bit down hard on my bottom lip and held my breath to keep from crying.





I remember the first time I had the wines from Domaine Tempier, I was fairly new to the business, my palate was horribly green and my understanding of wines of place was non existent…but I had heard that Tempier was the best so I just had to have it….yeah, I was so not ready, they were far too rugged and earthy in a way I had never tasted, I remember thinking there was something savage about them, something wild…untamed, and at that time, for my palate, too hard. The white I found charming enough and the first time I tasted the Rose, (which was pricy at the time, like $18.99) I fell madly in love. Was it expensive, hell yeah, but even in my green palate state I could tell there was something about that wine…something amazingly different than any I had ever had….

The afternoon of January 20th 2008, when I felt the tiny stones crumble beneath each step as I made my way through the barren tree lined walkway, I again found myself…teeth firmly plunged into my bottom lip, eyes wide but getting moist and holding my breath. Once I was upon the shuttered doorway that led to the terrace and saw the long dining table, white tablecloth, shinning glassware, I thought for sure I was going to lose it….then I saw her, a tiny French woman, from a tiny town was walking towards me, arms extended, the smile of a woman that had known me for years and had been waiting all day for me to arrive, she placed her tiny hands on my cheeks and pulled me down to her eye level…I just looked at her, in her tiny, perfectly fitted suit, let my breath finally escape, her smile widened and she pulled my face to hers and planted sweet little kisses on both of my cheeks….inspiring.




We tasted through the wines in the barrel room, wines that by now had crept under my skin, wines that I now understood, they were still savage and wild, but in a way that I had learned to find horribly intoxicating, and wines that spoke of their place…herby, meaty and warm…I was beyond happy. We made our way back to the terrace area where Lulu was instructing her helper to get the mussels from the kitchen while she lit grape cuttings on fire and laid grates over them…I just stood there watching her place mussels on the makeshift grill and doused them with some kind of oil or butter and before I knew it I had a glass of Domaine Tempier Bandol Rose in my hand…there are no words.



As to not make a spectacle of myself I wandered around the estate a bit, I walked around to the side of the house and that was when I saw someone from my trip, that had been coming there for years, pouring a bit of Tempier Rose on a patch of land that had flowers on it, “That is Lucien’s grave, she brings him flowers” my Kermit Lynch rep whispered. I had heard about the passing of Lulu’s husband Lucien Peyraud years ago, I had also heard how much they loved….loved each other, loved entertaining, loved teaching and loved their home….Bandol. The moment felt so personal, an old friend coming to visit, to pay his respects…I felt I owed them a moment and snuck off around the corner.

I let my nose lead me, I was smelling wild herbs, dust, clay and….meat, and there I was standing in the kitchen…Lulu’s kitchen, the huge fireplace with the tiny curtains and a 3 legs of lamb spinning in the fire. I was standing in the picture, the picture I had looked at a hundred times, the picture that chefs like Alice Waters and Richard Olney had seen….inspiring.



So to say that Domaine Tempier has a special place in my heart is a massive understatement, but in light of the drama surrounding writing up wines that you may have a connection to, I thought I had better tell the story…for me it is a rather amazing story about a girl in the wine business that learned as much as she could and was finally excepted into the fold, able to walk where the others she had only read about walked, sit at the same table, eat the same food and appreciate the wines as they were intended and deserve to be. If that makes me bias, then okay…to me, it just makes it all human, real and as personal as it should be.
Now I know not everyone can spend an afternoon lunching at Tempier, but we can all taste those wines and know through the stories from all that have been there….that these people and these wines are true, honest and pure…they are real wines of place, and to me…that is inspiring.



2008 Domaine Tempier Bandol Rose ($38.99)
I wrote the story above because the memory came to me while I was drinking this wine after a long day on Sunday. I wanted to write it up but thought with all the “disclosure” stuff that is floating around…I felt like maybe I shouldn’t…well, that’s bullshit. This is a remarkable bottle of, of wine…it is more than Rose, it is powerful yet graceful, reserved yet expressive and it seems to wrap around your palate and just dance there…the acidity and fruit in perfect harmony. It is worth every penny and is hands-down the best Rose I have ever had.


If it makes people more comfortable not to think about the people behind the wines, if they would rather picture some factory that churns out bottles…go for it, but for me wine is all about passion, hard work, dinners, flowers on a loved one’s grave and in some cases….a tiny French woman from a tiny town that smiles, cooks, kisses and inspires. I should only hope that someday I can touch, even a quarter of the people that Lulu and the wines from her estate have…how can you put a number on that?

(Me, Lulu and my friend Mairin)

To Family Indeed

I woke Sunday morning feeling like I had swallowed battery acid and a freight train had run smack dab through the center of my skull. We had spent the entire day before, starting at 9:30 AM mind you, in some form of celebratory buzzery; waking still hazy from the night before when the kids took us to their favorite local dive bar, (and should you ever find yourself in Louisville Kentucky, (yeah I didn’t think I would either) and want a cool place for cheap drinks and insane people watching you must check out The Back Door) having post graduation cocktails, (like a lot of them) with lunch and ending with a, “I Graduated Suckas” party at Jeremy’s….one celebrating two of the kids, (both named Jeremy oddly enough) that had gotten their degree that day…..ugh.

Now you know those parents that would “Pop on by” a raging house party their child was having, you know, make an appearance and then get the fuck out before the wheels came off the bus? Yeah, I’m not one of those. My in-laws were the smart ones, they came by right as the thing was getting started. When the kids were sipping their beers or mixing their first drink and still had clear eyes and coherent speech. They “popped by” met a couple people and then high tailed it back to their hotel but as it turns out, and I was told as much by several of the glossy eyed, speech slurring party goers, our family, (which includes my best friends Amy & Roger) have become something of a legend with this group of kids. Started two trips back but was magnified by the last trip when Amy and Roger joined us, the trip where we cooked for them and matched them shot for shot, drink for drink and knocked many of the young ones right on their ass. Party monsters, we were legendary party monsters round those parts, I’m so proud….

By my third gin & tonic, from a red plastic cup, (aka keg or beer pong cup) no less, I was feeling my age but knowing that Jeremy, our Jeremy happened to love the fact that his family was known for being able to hang with his homies, well I knew I was not leaving anytime soon. I spent the evening chatting with a few of the kids, a couple of them attached to my side and following me from room to room as they told me their life’s story. Sweet really, the way they opened up and seemed, in a way, to find comfort in my mom-ness….was like I had a couple little ducklings, drink mixing ducklings but ducklings none the less. As the night progressed my memory and sharpness took their leave; kept misplacing my drink….not to worry I had ducklings to make me another, I called my son’s ex-girlfriend by the name of his latest “hook-up” and had a minor MILFing moment….time to go. Sunday morning, “Oh Mother of Gawd! Who scotch taped my tongue to the roof of my fucking mouth?!” Ouch…..

My little band of broken soldiers did their best, we tried to eat….shudder, went to Indiana to hit the river casino, oh-my-gawd the flashing lights, dank mildew smell, thick air filled with decades of cigarette smoke and the screaming of the slot machines, but this was Jeremy’s weekend and we all sucked it up as best we could. I might just mention, Jeremy was looking a little green himself so I think he too was paying for this legendary status crap. I looked at my watch, shit 4:30 and we still had to put on a full dinner for Jeremy’s roommates and a few of his friends. Hanging on by a very fine thread to say the very least. Dropped Amy & Roger at their hotel for a nap while we made the trek to Whole Foods, (not down the street might I add) compiled a bunch of ingredients and headed to Jeremy’s where we would be met by the in-laws and begin cooking. 

“You know, you’ve had one hell of a year already” my husband had said to me as I shakily tried to apply my eyeliner that morning. “You were taken to Italy, you’re about to turn 40, you had a long lost Uncle contact you and teach you stuff about the dad you never knew, had a friend take her own life and now Jeremy is graduating” I think, no I know I made some kind of, “Dude no shit" face and said something along the lines of, “Duh” but it was those words that were in my head as I quickly grabbed one of the bottles of wine I had brought specifically for this dinner. I was needing a little hair of the dog and craving something civil, grabbed an icy bottle of Francois Chidaine 2010 Rose from the freezer, (because of course the kids fridge was broken) poured myself a deep glass and stood there, forearms resting along the still sticky with booze counter, avoiding taking my deep sniffs of the wine for fear of being queasy, eyes taking in the beautiful pale pink, my son’s voice coming from the living room, a few of his things strewn about the kitchen, “You’ve had one hell of a year already” floating around in my pounding head. I brought the glass to my lips, gave it a slight tilt and took a deep breath as the freezer chilled wine crawled up the side of the glass and made my dry lips feel icy cold. As the very familiar flavors of Chidaine spilled across my palate my shoulders went softer, my back seemed to settle into my hips and my eyelashes fell gently across the tops of my cheeks, “One hell of a year indeed”

Flitted around the kitchen, dodging my mother in-law as she whipped up a batch of her amazingly succulent chicken cutlets, weaved around the husband as he rolled out and stuffed his famous pork pies, stood in a corner chopping olives and roasted peppers before assembling the Muffaletta sandwiches that Jeremy requested that I make, juice glass of Chidaine Rose at my side the whole time, exhaling….

The kids coming in and out of the kitchen to see how close we were ringing the dinner bell, the food, thankfully, being done in shifts so we could fill trays and watch the offerings vanish before filling them with something else, I was coming back to life. The look on Jeremy’s face as he devoured the foods he grew up eating, the pride with which he nodded when his friends moaned and went back for more, the wine in my glass, the ringing of the doorbell and hearing Amy’s voice, my wrist once again twisting as I drove yet another corkscrew into the neck of a bottle of Dagueneau Silex. The faces, smells and flavors in that kitchen….the faces, flavors and smells in my glass, family.

We ended the evening by filling up those red plastic cups, big frothy patch of white as the bubbles rose in the “glass” a bottle of NV Pierre Peters drained and arms in the air, “To you kid. Congratulations and we are so very proud of you Jeremy” my son and I taking just an extra second to stare in each other’s eyes, exchanging our shared smirk, “Been one hell of a year kid” slipping from my lips, “To family” slipping from his….

Everything changes, life just works that way and when lucky each one of those changes becomes part of who we are. The growth, the pain, the accomplishments and the setbacks happen, you can rail against it or learn from them, incorporate all of that into the already complex strung together moments that got you to that particular moment, let the new things weave themselves into our structure making us that much stronger, ready to take on the next. I believe that with all that I am but sometimes….well sometimes I need that shared smirk, the smell of pork pies, a glass of Dagueneau or Chidaine to flash a mirror in my face, remind me where I was….where I came from, who I am now and push me to be the woman I want to become. 

“To family” indeed…..    

Lost & Found

“Sam”

“Sam”

“Sam!!”

I woke with my heart pounding as the panicky, almost terrified voice tried to stir me from my deep slumber. I spun on my hip, eyes thick with sleep as I sat up in bed with the thumping in my chest the only sound in the room. 5:07 AM the alarm clock showed me as it rested silently, still in its own state of slumber, hours from when it would be droning out its “Time to get your ass up woman” god awful buzzing. The husband still folded into the comforter….that he stole from me thank you very much, wrapped up tight, the steady sound of deep breathing combined with a slight nasal whistle assuring me that he was, like the alarm clock, still hours from being awake. With my body vibrating from the shock of being awoken, by the sound of someone yelling my name in an increasingly sharp and fearful sounding tone, I knew I was never going to be able to drift back to sleep. I silently slipped from the bed, the one I had just fallen into only four hours before and came here. My hands still shaky, my eyes still thick and chest still pulling as I try and catch my breath….my mind racing, who was calling me? Lost……

Never being a big sleeper I’ve learned to love the sound of a city coming to life. The way it seems almost as if a giant switch as been flipped that sets in motion a soundtrack and series of events that all build to the sun coming up. That little chunk of time when the air smells cold, damp, settled, almost heavy….the way it shifts and becomes lighter with each little sign; birds chattering, nocturnals settling in, the hum of delivery trucks hitting the highways. Each tiny thing bringing a warmth and richness to that cold, damp smelling air, the gentle early morning stirrings, the shades from black to gray to steely blue, the spinning of shower knobs, flipping of light switches, the apartments around mine one by one emitting signs of life that I can now see through the glow behind their once dark windows. This, this is my favorite time of day, this watching, smelling and listening as the world comes to life time. So hopeful, I always feel so grateful and hopeful here. Maybe it was me that was calling….me. Maybe I needed to feel this, see the world outside my tiny apartment go from black to blue, hear the birds calling to the sun, smell the air go from cold and heavy to fresh and vibrant. A new day. My hands no longer shaking, my eyes bright and clear, my heart still thumping away but now with hope and energy as this new day is still coming to life. Had to have been me, my inner alarm clock yelling my own name, shaking me from a foggy slumber to get up, see and feel this. Best fucking alarm clock, like ever. Found….

My rebellious nature, that I now know I got from my father, has seen fit to knock me off track more than once in my life. I have lost my way before, lost sight of the things that truly matter, lost friends and lovers, lost family and time…lost my drive and passion from time to time but as luck would have it, something always comes along, finds me, twists my little head on straight and acts as fingers against my back. Hoisting me right back on track where I will hobble for a bit but start chugging along once again, this time with yet another thing behind me….pushing me, making me feel stronger, holding me up when I feel like I might fall again. Lost is easier in a way, easier to get spun up in, fall back on, wallow in but found…well that takes some work and adjustments but it feels so much fucking better. Now before you all, (or should I say y’all seeing as I will be in Louisville….Louisville Kentucky, who would have thunk, tomorrow) go thinking I’m turning into a Jesus freak or granola munching, sunrise watching hippie, think again. I am writing this while downing much needed coffee, still in my jammies and smoking, hell my front door is still locked and I won’t be heading outside for another three hours. As for Jesus, well while I’m sure he is a nice fellow we have yet to meet. 

My found has always come to me in the form of things more textured or maybe tangible is a better word. Moments, voices, kisses, tastes, smells, long passion soaked evenings of light headed, laughter, teeth brushing against my flesh….the possibility of more. There are few things in my life that I can point to, that make many of those “found” moments possible than wine. I’m sitting here my coffee cup to my left and just beyond that is a wine glass, the one that I finally abandoned just a few hours ago, a tiny pool of golden hued, nutty and aromatic pleasure still there, my desire to consume it heaped on my hopeful heart as I write this. Last night being handed the remnants of a sample bottle of 2008 Chandon de Briailles Pernand-Vergelesses Ile des Vergelesses, a premier cru white Burgundy that is not only a tongue twister, twists some of my other bits too. A profoundly powerful bottle of Chardonnay that crosses that line for me, that line between mere beverage and heart stopping true love, the kind that makes my whole body shake, the kind the begs me to spend hours letting its almost vicious, oily body roll around in my warm mouth before releasing it and letting it trickle down my throat. The kind of wine that whispers to me even now from behind that coffee cup, “I’m still here, still waiting for you, still ready to splash around inside your mouth, cover your tongue….taste me, take me, let me” the possibility for more, fuck….so much for Jesus freak right?!

That want inducing wine, from one of the most beautiful places in the world making love to me last night, reminding me just how good I can feel along with this morning’s watching the world come to life, the starting of a new day full of hope, light, smells and sounds, the possibility for more. Wine has once again spun my little head on straight and is standing behind me, pushing me, making me feel stronger, flipping my want switch, making me crave….inspiring me. Woke me from my foggy slumber just to be near it again. Little pool of lover still in my glass, sun now bright in the sky, neighbors leaving for work and school, the hum from the freeway louder and racing with commuters….awake, my city, me, my desire, my drive.

Found.