I hear it said all the time, “She was the love of my life.” Or “He was the love of her life.” You get the idea. We bandy that phrase about so much lately that I often wonder now if it has lost its meaning or at the very least, its impact, its power. It’s such a powerful notion, “the love of your life,” isn’t it? But like everything, these days, it has suffered from overuse. It has become oversaturated with emotions that aren’t maybe that eternal. Maybe it just sounds good to say it, as if saying it conveys a greater gravitas for one’s life and their place in this world. More likes.
Likewise, I hear a similar use of “the love of my life” lately by people, when describing things like food and wine and places and car and books and sweaters and on and on, ad nauseum. Maybe it’s because some of us are getting a little stir crazy.
“That eggplant I grew from seed, it is the love of my life!” It kind of sounds silly doesn’t it? I mean, whenever is that eggplant going to reciprocate what you’re feeling for it? When it is doused in a rich tomato sauce and baked at 375⁰ F for 35 minutes and comes out piping hot with melted mozzarella and a nice topping of freshly ground pepper and a laurel of basil, as if it just ran some kind of marathon in that oven? I’m really getting out there, aren’t I? Yeah, I know.
The wine, that won my heart. Was it red? Was it white? Was it Italian? Or maybe French? Possibly Californian? Was it still? Was it dry? Or was it sparking and sweet? And maybe it was neither red nor white, maybe it was rosé?
In the timeless words of James Joyce, “yes I said yes I will Yes.” All of the above. So how can all of it fit into the little overnight bag sitting on the bed, the one which you are packing with all the loves of your life?
Ah, a dilemma. Yes, if one chooses to limit oneself to one particular thing.
But, you ask, isn’t something like the love of your life rather an exclusive club?
And, I respond, in which time and place are you referring? Have you not looked around, sniffed out the present? Are we just going to limit ourselves to that little cube in the corner, in which to pack all our life’s emotions and feeling, desires, wishes, hopes, dreams?
And so, with wine, how can I say the 1964 Monfortino was the vinous love of my life? Or the 1955 Biondi Santi Brunello Riserva? Or the many wines I’ve loved and written about in the past fifteen years in these posts on the wine trail in Italy? And here it seems, in the tunnel, that very long tunnel, known only to myself as this wine blog, it appears the opening to that tunnel is getting closer and closer, and I’m seeing more light and brightness and colors and isn’t that the faintest hint of the sea way out there?
Yes, as we get closer, all that comes with us recedes, as we approach the sea and the sun and the light and the smells and the noise of the seagull swooping above the horizon, looking for his next love of his life, his Sunday supper.
And that is just about it. There is still a little gas left and we’re still driving this vehicle at less than breakneck speed. But it’s still going too fast. But not too fast for the love of our life, who is way out beyond any of us, frolicking in the waves and splashing and dancing and singing and waiting for us to show up, just to show up. One more time.
written and photographed by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy
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