There's a cuckoo clock in my house and I’m fascinated by its mechanizations. Members of cultures to whom the cuckoo clock is consequential have claimed that the gadget is the soul of their home, but I don’t think I’d give it that much credit. I could settle for “heartbeat” in that its perpetual ticking is the only sign of life when the sentient beings are in repose. But perhaps despite my romantic proclivities, this is still a bit much; rather, the clock is the metronome of my home.
“Beaujolais is for drinking, more so than any other wine. The classic swirl, sniff, sip, swish and spit approach us pretentious wine "professionals" flaunt so regularly doesn't properly encapsulate the soul of the best Beaujolais. One must invoke the "gulp" or the "chug" technique to unveil the full beauty embedded within these captivating wines. And with price tags a fraction of their big brothers in northern Burgundy, this proper testing technique can be enjoyed while still making your mortgage payments.”
‘Neath an azure sky this Sunday past, mine wife-lady and I didst traveleth to yond sylvan parketh whose namesake recalls a prince forgotten. Seeking an aft’rnoon of living theatre, we satteth ourselves on inviting parcels of grasses lush and green to enjoyeth a p’rf’rmance of The Two Gentlemen of Verona.
Not a celebration of the (too-often) repeated Beatles song, but rather a statement of a reality.
Drew Noon of McLaren Vale, Australia, says it best when he unapologetically states “I make wine in a warm climate; I make big wines.” What he suggests as “big” are somewhat reflective of a classic Australian red wine. These attributes of ripe, plump body, rich berry flavours and sometimes considerable alcohol have become the subject of mockery by many (including myself - guilty as charged).
No doubt all of you have experienced the rather hot weather of late. Pleasant, by my standards, but warm for most I suppose. I understand that not everyone agrees with this caveat, as my internal thermostat begins somewhere around 25ºC. Therefore, this “heat” is personally, idyllic. Now, before you simply dismiss this piece as the inane ramblings of a lunatic muttering about the weather, please allow me the opportunity to see my analogy through to its completion.
We’re too narrow-minded in our sensorial discussion of wine. By “we” I mean wine professionals, amateurs and consumers of all types, but it’s mostly the fault of the pros because their lead is followed by everybody else. Descriptions and reviews of wine, whether written by the chief editor of Wine Spectator Magazine or a vainglorious Pittsburgh-based banker with a Vivino account, are almost always laughably fatuous, nauseatingly derivative or both. I’m no better, but I’m willing to explain the nature of this failure.
If one year ago, an omniscient being told me how many meditation hours I would proceed to bank in the months to come, I would have called bullshit. I was a logical sceptic at heart, valued the scientific method as a basis for my beliefs and was totally allergic to any ritual or ceremony that could be considered “mystical”. However, much thanks to a particular author and podcaster, I slowly became open to the concept of meditation and was convinced enough to give it an honest shot.