Sunday, October 17, 2021

Wine, Women and Watches – Gathering Joy in the Long Lunch

I’m kinda in a mood. Not the Glenn Miller kind. More of a Billie Eilish/David Byrne kinda mood. I’m played out with wine writing. Can’t read it. Can barely write it myself, these days. I’m so doggone burnt out with stupid words and clichés, and drama and asinine tasting notes, and the same old repetitive crap, all the blasted time, parading as wine (and food) writing. Who in hell cares what anyone drank (or ate) in Jackson Hole or Bucaramanga? The narcissists and cliché curators have taken over wine and writing about it, at least on the open internet. It’s done, they’ve killed the “thrill” of it for me. And, from the notes I get from others, I’m not alone. Not that it should matter. I am an introvert, after all. In the past two years, I’ve learned to live in relative solitude.

That’s why my weekly lunch, outside the home, is probably a good idea for my mental health. It’s like going to confession, but with food and wine.

A friend asked me, the other day, just exactly what my stance on wine is these days. He didn’t know I’d been retired for a few years. Thought I still “identified” as a wine person. “Nope,” I told him, “I’m done with worrying about pH and acidity and barrel selection and south facing hillsides and natural vs. manufactured. Yes, I’m thrilled to be done with it in that department.” “So, what do you do with your time?’ he pressed.

“Look, friend, I’ve long had other things in life to secure my place on this little island. I don’t need to linger; it was all so much about transactional relationships anyway. I’ve culled my life, Marie Kondo’d it. I like it a lot more now, not having to chase all that trans-delusional nonsense. Those people were never my friends. I was their servant and they were my clients, my bosses, my masters, if you wish.”

Now I can choose my wines and my friends as I see fit. Hell yeah, I’m really embracing my inner Zoomer, thank you Billie!

None of this exists in a vacuum. I’m still sorely savvy that I ride inside a big, humongous benefit blimp. Unless I jump out of it, I’m in for the duration of the ride. But it won’t be that long. I’m flying somewhere between Area 51 and Food 52, sure to get shot at by a scone with a drone, or an interstellar excursionist.

So, the ride, as it is. The “journey.”

Once a week I peek inside the wine closet and pull out the good stuff. “Drink up, he said. Drink up. This night thy soul may be required of thee.” - Cormac McCarthy

Oh, this is where I talk about the great food and wine we’re so blessed to be having? Think again. My sidekick and I drink some great stuff. We eat OK, too. But mainly we talk less about wine. More about watches. And some about women. Or what makes women tick. But it’s really all about time. 

I have to say, hanging with someone, whom I have never had transactional dealings with, has shined a light on those previously thought-to-be-important transactional relationships. I’ve walked away from scores of those affiliations, since retirement and Covid19 simultaneously arrived. That’s really not 100% accurate. When you leave the work force, you can either leave it behind or eventually you can expect a big giant kick in the behind. Because whatever it was that one thought one was - in terms of their self-identification – they weren’t, and, sure as hell, now they aren’t. Period.

Oh, there are those out there who won’t buy into this. “No, I’m a wine expert,” they’ll say. “I’ve mastered this thing. They aren’t taking from me something I’ve worked so hard to become, crawled through the must and banged my head against the ceiling time and time again. They can’t take that away from me!”

No, they can’t. But yes, it will happen, anyway.

In the meantime, I can be found with my partner in crime, every week, gathering joy in the long lunch. Taking our time...

Oh, you want to see the wines we’ve been opening? Well, if it’ll make you feel better, which I cannot think of any reason why it would. Nonetheless, here you go. You’ll be thrilled, no doubt.


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