Asprinio - a Ramble, a Recollection, a Revelation

“Summer will end soon enough, and childhood as well.” – George R.R. Martin

In my den, on an oak table, bottles of wine are lined up to be tasted. Wine from Sicily, from Chile, from Napa Valley, waiting. I should open them, taste them, make notes and find a way to tell readers what they’re like. But a newly aroused narrative has jumped the queue, an anamnesis, long ago filed and forgotten. And cadaver-like, it pops up, resurfaces, and appeals for its story to be told, before it is consigned once again to oblivion on the battlefield of memory.

Fury, Indignation, Outrage – Seeking Asylum from the Blitz Against Bliss

…and the wine we’ve been opening up lately, on the island.

Three years ago, I came up with this scenario that, quite possibly, the earth passed through a field of cosmic dust of unknown elements that caused a large part of the population to have experienced a mind-altering state, and not necessarily in a good way. Not a mass hypnosis (which doesn’t exist), maybe just a slight shift in the collective consciousness? Or maybe, mass psychosis? But if that possibly happened, to those who weren’t affected by the dust storm, it seems all kind of crazy was unleashed. But this is about wine, and Italian wine, so let’s get after it.

Burning Man At 50 - Five Gen ΑΩ Women Who Are Changing Wine and the World

Reporting from Black Rock City, August 31, 2036...

This is Leia Rippley; I am now 85. And as they say, 85 is the new 30, thanks to nano-extenders and the little solar generator that keeps my heart pumping. With global warming, there is plenty of sun, and Black Rock City, with its average temperature, this time of the year, at 125°F, my heart has another 40-50 years. That is if Terra does. Fortunately, I also had a vortex personal cooling rib-cage installed in 2025, and have only had to rebuild it three times. But, it’s all good, I’m cool.

Regarding Wine, Writing and “Influencers”

With time comes reflection. What makes a life? What are the influences, positive and negative? What shapes one’s thoughts, preferences, aspirations? What gives one greater fear, or the occasional gloomy feeling? What offers greater clarity and purpose? How does this little microcosm relate to the larger, more immediate world of the everyday? What is it about wine and writing about wine that fills one’s butterfly net?

The bubble of the wine world and the words that swirl about in that rarified atmosphere are but a metaphor for life’s greater meaning. This is my view. It, and the role of the influencer, are the basis of this personal essay.

Knowing Your Place

from the archives...The social hierarchy of vines

Among the many hundreds of Italian vines there is a pecking order. Some are more important than others. Often, the ones in power don’t shy away from letting the subjacent ones know who is on top.

In Italy, Nebbiolo and Sangiovese are the Chairman and the CEO. But not just any Nebbiolo or Sangiovese. The Nebbiolo must come from the Langhe, preferably Barolo or Barbaresco. And Sangiovese, while prolific, must be from the right neighborhood, Montalcino. Everywhere else is the other side of the tracks.

If you are Montepulciano or Nero d’Avola, what are the chances you’ll make it to the ruling class? You might have breeding and pedigree, but location is paramount. You have to come from the right place. And knowing one’s place in Italy’s viticultural society is vital to one’s status.

The Emotional Roller-Coaster Life of a Wine

...from the archives

I’ve been sitting in his wine closet for close to 20 years now. In the dark. Freezing. Once in a while he comes in, turns the light on and picks another one. The other, always the other. What must I do to get out of here?

I have spent the best years of my life in this small, dark room, with the others. Sometimes for weeks, he doesn’t come in; we don’t know if he has abandoned us totally. And then all of a sudden, he opens the door, turns on the light and squeezes in a few more of the others. This is sheer torment. When will I get out of here?

The top 10 destinations for Italian wine exports? China isn't on the list

From the looks of young Italian wine professionals Instagram and Facebook feeds, one would think China is their top market. Add to that the obligatory posts from Kuala Lumpur, Phuket, Bangkok and Phnom Penh, one would think there’s a lot of business for Italian wine in Asia. Let’s look at the numbers.

According to Istat data, 2019 (From Italian Wine Central) of the 20 top destinations for Italian wine exports, 2018, China isn’t even in the top 10. Yes, it’s a country with good growth potential and 1.2 billion inhabitants. But is the investment in time and travel worth it?

The 2nd Most Important Book About Italian Wine – Ever

Ian D'Agata's latest book, "Italy's Native Wine Grape Terroirs"

If you are a lover of Italian wine, it is inevitable that you will become enmeshed in the arms of grape-laden vines. And it helps to have a good memory, preferably an encyclopedic one. Most of us aren’t possessed of such attributes, but thankfully there is a doctor in the house.

Ian D’Agata’s latest tome, “Italy’s Native Wine Grape Terroirs,” serves as a worthy companion to his groundbreaking work, “Native Wine Grapes of Italy.” Similarly named, with an additional word, terroir. Which is important to wine aficionados, as terroir is the vital link to understanding the wines from the grapes (a full explanation emanates from the book).

"Leave poetry to poets… I want to know whether I'll like a wine or not"

The Incredulity of Saint Thomas by Caravaggio, c. 1602

"Wine writing is horrendous. I am a relatively young (in my mid 30s) and a neophyte to the world of enjoying wine, and the vocabulary of wine criticism is all but useless to me. Only about 5 of these terms convey anything remotely concrete about the way a wine tastes, smells and feels. The rest are hazy evocations of the emotional state of the author and so subjective that they completely fail to communicate anything. Leave poetry to poets, and write clearly and simply about wine. I want to know whether I'll like a wine or not, and the layers of abstraction and mystery pushed in guides like this make it impossible for me to know what to actually ask for and identify why I liked another bottle. I appreciate that we must rely on metaphor and simile to communicate some of the nuances of flavor and odor. However, unless it's being shot out of a spray gun into my mouth, it's hard to see how wine would feel propulsive. Wine is not a mystery, and rhapsodizing about it as a transcendental mystical experience and not a (humble, delicious) drink just leads to people like me thinking we lack the capacity to understand and enjoy it. Telling me a wine is tense, precise, energetic and alive tells me everything about you, and almost nothing about the wine" - Max – NYC - July 15

In a recent piece in the New York Times, Eric Asimov penned, “15 Helpful Words for Talking About Wine - Here is a practical lexicon that helps to describe the elusive characteristics of wine, without eliciting eye rolls and forehead slaps.” Inevitably, there were eye rolls, head slaps and comments. Max’s comment (above) was one of the top comments in terms of the readers choice for “likes, recommends and replies.”

In the same comment section Nandini Sankar from Mumbai asked, “How about an article on 15 words to use when you are asking about wine? I stumble a lot here, despite having some pretty specific likes and dislikes, and am always lost at a wine shop!”

Nandini is asking for practical advice in the form of words. Eric is offering a thought piece, as he sees it, and Max, well, Max is being Max. None of these folks are wrong. All are seeking a simple solution to understanding and, hopefully, loving wine.

"There are no interlopers in my vineyard - they all are indigenous living things"

Pt. VII

All we knew was that they were grown above in the vineyards in their native state. And they were made in a natural way. Not in the prepossessed way of the present in which every wine maker, merchant and marketer who wants to be seen as “in” make statements with regards to their sustainability, their non-interventionism, their indigenous yeasting, their no sulfur regimen, all the trigger words to mark that one has “arrived” in the world of real wine. None of this was stirring in these dark, cool, quiet rooms.

I arrived Monday morning and Daria met me at the door. “Signore, Diana is still asleep. She had a rough couple of nights. Maybe a stomach flu. She’ll eventually be up. Come in and have some coffee and we will wait a few minutes.”

Diana had sidestepped a brief encounter with cancer some years ago. She was clear of it, but as it happens with things that age, something always comes up. The goal isn’t to live forever, no one can do that. It’s just to steer clear of as many infirmities as one’s constitution (and resilience) will allow. Diana was tough. But even the strong stumble. We would wait.

From the "News" Desk - and a Little Personal Business

Quick post here before I sign off from the miasma we call the internet these days. And do a little celebrating.

Two new pieces about wine, which coincidentally have Italian wine in them. In the Dallas Morning News.

Dallas entrepreneur launches Crazy Beautiful Wines brand in big 1-liter bottles

The University of Dallas makes wine? Try this new red from vineyards on the school's Italian campus

Cracking Open the Corycian Cave (and the Key to Peace)

Pt. VI

"This was my revolution. Italian wine, in 1957, was not so delicious. It had alcohol, lots of dried earth flavor, but it was lacking life. I wanted the wine to be young and vibrant, youthful. Not tired. Not vinegar. Not brown. Red, like my blood. White, not brown. Like the clouds. And golden yellow, like a sun setting. I was totally immersed in this dreamworld, and there was nobody telling me to stop. And so, I ventured forth, and began my symphony of wine in 100 movements."

Daria let me in, it was barely sunrise and Diana was in her little study. As I approached her, I noticed the dog-eared book she loved so much was open to this passage:

“When it is understood that one loses joy and happiness in the attempt to possess them, the essence of natural farming will be realized. The ultimate goal of farming is not the growing of crops, but the cultivation and perfection of human beings.” ― Masanobu Fukuoka, The One-Straw Revolution

I was not a philosophy buff in college, tending more towards the arts, with a sprinkling of theology and mythology in my courses. I took a non-western course of studies, and words were not the emphasis I was being directed towards. It was a visual path: painting photography, filmmaking, ancient cultures. And to my introverted being, that was just fine. But here we were, in this little room, with these words. Perhaps words could be an artform too? In the hands of someone like Masanobu Fukuoka, this was a certainty. I’m not even sure my last sentence is defensible within philosophical discourse. I went into the kitchen; I needed some coffee.

A Symphony of Wine in 100 Movements

Pt. V

Who could we get here to help us, help this amazing woman who was unknown, outside of Tuscany and Florence, but, in my mind, was one of the greatest winemakers the world has ever known?

As it turned out, my career back home took a turn. In fact, everything changed, and in some ways, for everyone. The stock market crash, the fall of the Berlin wall, the end of the old order and the dawn of an age that humans weren’t quite prepared for – the internet age. But that was a good 10-15 years away from reaching its out-of-control momentum that we are now (in 2019) only realizing. Facts, reality, the cliff ahead, careening in a driverless vehicle, pedal to the floor, with no bridge and no parachute.

Meanwhile the consolidation of the wine trade in America saw me jobless for the first time in my adult life. I was adrift, floating and in Italy. And there was this treasure trove of wine, made over the decades by this amazing winemaker, Diana. Even though she was an elder, she showed no signs of stopping in the foreseeable future. It appeared that fate had bound me to the mast of this ship, for now.

Creating Your Own Current in the Sea of Life

Pt. IV

“Diana pulled out a small bottle, a dessert wine. It was amber and smelled of cloves and honey and celery. Odd creature, but quite pleasant with the wedge of aged pecorino we were polishing off. “I don’t recall a time when I didn’t think about freedom… All I could think of was freedom. Freedom from these chains.”

Several years later, when I was in Florence, I was having a glass of wine with my friend. “Have you heard about Diana?” Thinking he was about to tell me something terrible, I shuddered. “No, it isn’t that. Perhaps we should go out and visit her this week?”

Living Free in a World of Chains

Pt. III

“So, my journey took me to the field and through the vines right in front of the grapes. And there they were, everyone a story, all these little passages they made, sacrificing their life for something bigger, something hopefully greater than their singular, globular being. And my task, my calling, was to listen and try and understand all their little lives and put some sense of order, and beauty, to them. That has been my odyssey. And I never even left my little località.”

Our host, who asked not to be identified, invited us to return in January, when she was pressing some dried grapes for a vinsanto. “You will return?” Of course, we promised. It would be up to us to hold true to that promise. We’d found Eldorado in the hills of Tuscany. I couldn’t imagine not going back.

What is it in the span of 100 days that could alter one’s life, sometimes radically and inextricably? After a week at the vineyard of this amazing woman winemaker, my head was spinning. And it wasn’t because we were trying all here wines. We were that, but it was more of an exercise, dare I call it an ongoing master class? I needed a breather. I went to the mountain. I sat in the cave with the master. And now I had to go home for the holidays, back to America. I ran to the plane, would have run all the way to California. Something inside me moved, was changed. And I didn’t recognize the tectonic shift that had taken place.