Suburban Wino 2: The Wordpress Experiment

Wine Blogging Wednesday #63 – Finding My Muse | November 18, 2009

Eloquence is not my virtue. A golden tongue I have not. Yet the specter of “Wine Blogging Wednesday #63” hovers over my clumsy fingers, my clouded brain; as if the Angel of Journalistic Death himself- scythe at-the-ready to tear blue language and plebeian vocabulary asunder from the hallowed institution of writing.

The writers’ charge (as dictated by Rob Bralow of Wine Post): summon one’s muse. Let inspiration and contemplation guide one’s pen, not the pursuits of brevity, efficiency, and urgency. And the object of such carefully-crafted discourse? Wine; yet, not just any wine: one perhaps as elusive as that cursed muse himself. The bottle that has caught one’s eye; one’s desire; but not one’s taste, touch, or smell. A cask worthy of such lofty lexicon.
At my task’s infancy, one revered name leapt to life immediately, as if that rascally muse’s frolic had already commenced. The Greatest wine of Northern Italy, the unrivaled champion of the Piemonte region, had too long evaded my grasp; it’s lavish pedigree too distant for my pauper’s billfold. But- alas!- it rested in my careful hands, under calculated strain of the corkscrew: a bottle of 2004 Rivata Barolo. Nebbiolo-based wines had crossed my lips before, even the heralded offerings from Barbaresco. But Barolo…just the utterance of the term commands reverence.
With glass’ stem tended carefully in my eager hand, I probed the welcoming bowl of ruby-hued elixir with snout. Pleasure oft unmatched met my senses; a vibrant, elegant bouquet flush with plump red cherries, bright strawberries, tart cranberries, and pronounced flourish of rose petals. As the perfumed nose further danced upon my olfactory receptors, I detected tantalizing undertones of black licorice, malty caramel, milk chocolate, toffee, and roofing pitch. Even the slightest hints of toast and herbs manifested themselves, if only a figment of my now-inspired imagination.
Spending what seemed like hours enveloped in the wine’s luxurious aroma, my lips, tongue, mouth, and gullet groaned in protest. Consumption could be parried no longer, despite nose’s selfish intentions. And on to my thankful mouth, who’s patience was rewarded with an initial shock of tartness, folding itself into intense flavors of the aforementioned berries: this time, raspberries, cranberries, and strawberries. The velvety mouth-full of tangy fruit soon transformed itself into a powerful blast of peppery spice, eventually fading into a bitter, dark chocolate-y finish, as the wine’s substantial (but impressively interwoven) tannins captured my now fully-submissive senses…
…senses left wanting more. For as swiftly as the onslaught to the pleasure centers of my brain began, like a symphony, a soliloquy, or a setting sun, it was all soon but a forgotten memory. Once within my grateful possession, the source of my muse’s call has escaped me. How to put into words what is no longer present?
Eureka! Another glass awaits. Another symphony. Another soliloquy. Another stroke towards inspiration’s sly reward.
…damn, that was hard.
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