Which Wine With Googootz?

I wouldn't want to belong to any club that would have me as a member." - G. Marx

The bells and chimes are making a racket outside. The remnants of Tropical Storm Eduard are fleeing northward, overhead. It’ll probably make it in time to O’Hare before American Airlines does. Down below, on the terroir-stressed soil of Texas, we are in full-harvest mode. And just in time for the weekend, we have the cucuzza crop starting to hit. For Southern Italians, cucuzza is sacred, in fact there is a Sagra della Cucuzza in Calabria. Then again, they have a Sagra for almost anything, even a Sagra Cassata Siciliana.

But today the cucuzza is front stage and center. My son sent me a picture of the Cucuzza Squash Drill Team in California, so it seems a likely time to break out the old “Which Wine With” post format, for the second time this week, and give it a fling.

In preparation for that I emailed a couple of bloggers across the country to see what their choices were, along with a few old hands in this forsaken terroiritory. So let’s get started.

Then I heard from The East Coast, and Marco Povero.
His answer was a little longer

“Are you grilling it or having it tomatoes & pasta? These points are
important.”

I answered, “Doesn't matter-For the blog-You tell me-Subito-Grazie1000.”

His speedy reply:
“2006 Etna Rosato Scilio Sicilia
2006 Vesevo Greco Di Tufo
2006 Alticello Fiano Cantele Salento Apulia
2006 Costamolino Argiolas Vermentino Di Sardegna.”

A true Southerner trapped in the cold Northeast.

A short text to Tracie and she, being a foodie, also pressed, “Depends how it's made.”

Must be girl’s night out …. Any who, she followed with “...either a light red (Grignolino) or a deep rose'!”

Back to Curacao Mojitos and Jell-O-shooters girls, thanks for txtng bck.

Then I got on the phone with Tony the Bone and Joey the Weasel. They were heading to a party with a bunch of women. Or rather, “colleagues.” Don’t ask.

Tony answered “Riesling.” Could he have been a little more specific? They were rolling up to the party house.

Joey the Weasel mumbled a couple of inaudible suspects and then settled on a rather respectable Conti Zecca-Donna Marzia, Malvasia Bianco, from Puglia. Party on, ragazzi.

That wasn’t so difficult now was it?

Today I also found out the Koreans love cucuuza too. They have another name for it, sounds kinda like googootz.

But googootz thrives in the old Italian neighborhoods, one the East coast, up in Chicago, down here in Texas, and especially in Northern Louisiana (the cucuzza capital of the world), oh, and yes in California. It is loved in old Oraibi too, once had a friend who was a Hopi and he loved the stuff. He liked to dry it out to make ceremonial rattlers for some of the dance rituals. That’s right.


Women love to grow and pick googootz. The older ones even know how to cook it. My Nonna’s knew how to. My mom used to cook it for my dad and us kids. My mom’s recipe was good. It seems that everybody’s mom has a special recipe.

Some of those old Italians just loved to see how long it could get. They have contests in Canada to grow them at unbelievable lengths.

The plants take over the yard. And then they produce the fruit and they really go to town. I mean, before it’s over everybody is giving the stuff away. A little goes a long way.

The Northern Italians sometimes make fun of the Southerners love for cucuzza. I don’t know why, I think they just like to find anything they can to make fun of them. Kind of the way the old schoolers from the East Coast would taunt those who lived in the Southern states of the USA. Just plain ‘ol ignorance, manifestations of archetypical pathology. Probably don’t like accordions either.

Wine wise, for me? I’d go with a Montepulciano d’Abruzzo Cerasuolo or a light Calabria red like a Gaglioppo or a Ciro. There’s also a deeply colored Ciro rosato that would work. I could also go with a Cerasuolo di Vittorio (not a rose’) though it is a wee bit lighter than some Sicilian reds. I could also enjoy it with some of the Gruner Veltliner whites I tried last week, especially some of the Smaragds from Wachau. There, I got that in.

But if you could have one wine, only one, what would it be? Operators are standing by.

In the meantime, back to practicing. I can’t wait for the Sagra Cassata Siciliana, hoping to be invited to play with Beatrice again. Yeah, right.


My Cucuzza ~ by Louis Prima

My Cucuzza
Cucuzza bella
She's my pizza pie with lotsa mozzarella
With Cucuzza
I wanta be
'cause Cucuzza is so crazy over me
Cucuzza grows in Italy
They love it on the farm
It's something like zucchini
Flavoured with Italian charm
I call my girl Cucuzza
'cause she's sweet as she can be
She loves to hear me say
"Cucuzza please babotcha me"

My Cucuzza
Cucuzza bella
She's my pizza pie with lotsa mozzarella
With Cucuzza
I wanta be
'cause Cucuzza is so crazy over me

Now you can have your pasta
And your chicken cacciatore
I'd rather have Cucuzza
'cause for me it means amore
So when the moon is shining bright
On dear old Napoli
I dream of my Cucuzza
She's the only dish for me

by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

It's a Doggy Dog World

I have been thinking about pain lately. Pain as pleasure. Pain as remembrance. Pain as ennoblement. It can double one over on a regular basis if it is sharp enough. It can recall moments from the past that never go away, never heal. It can remind one that all this is fleeting and transitory, this earthly shell, this carnal cage. And yet, we press on, we scrape and bite and scratch our way toward making sense of some thing in order to give these few moments a sense of meaning, a reason for being.

What ever one finds on the trail, wine will never be enough. But without wine, the pain could be unbearable. Sounds like something one might find in the writing of a desperate visionary from the late 1800’s? Perhaps. Maybe from a solitary soul sitting at his favorite restaurant in Palermo after WWII, working on his only book. Never to be published in his lifetime.

Probably for the better, as it would only collide with a world coming out of the succeeding century. Imagine this tidy, friendless someone, if he happened to accidentally get a glimpse into a world 50 years past the time in which he wrote what would be considered one of the greatest novels of Italian literature in the 20th century. And if his world concerned the world we have woven on this little Italian wine planet three times a week for the last two years, if he were to be dialed in to the planet that the Italian wine trail is, what then? Let’s talk a little walk down that road.

First of all he would see his children, and many others’ children, scarring themselves with elaborate decoration. His precious glass of wine, the one that he drinks everyday, that un quarto of vino bianco, might be a little brighter, a little lighter, a little merrier. Not so morosely introspective, so muddled, so flaccid. Pain as release from burdensome memory. Grillo gone girly.

His beloved trio of reds, Barolo, Brunello and Amarone, might appear a bit different after their last Crusade. Barolo will be leaner, more erect and youthful. Brunello would now pose as the standard bearer, the model of virtuous deportment. And Amarone will have lost his baby fat, not so sweet and lovable now, the campaigns have leaned him out and made him self aware and solemn.

One bright light in his fairy tree might be the white wines of the Northeast. Lithe and hopeful, not without having lost a little of their youthful innocence, but still hopeful in the anticipation of purity and promise. Fifty years have wrestled the fairy princess from the shackles of the grave Teutonic sentinel. Fifty years have produced lightness and a Lolita-like twinge from a high acid and sharp fruit profile.

Over in Barbarossa land, he might witness a still brooding range of reds, from Basilicata to Puglia, but he would also see that the lord of the manor had been wrestled to the ground and is now a servant prince. The price to pay for dominance can often be to serve. While wines to the north queue up for tankers filled with the golden rich sunshine of the red wines from the South, no one bothers to accuse those in the South of adulterating their wine with the thinner, weaker reds from Tuscany or Piemonte. And why bother? Barbarossa knew where to conquer and to be conquered in like. The pain of domination and a region ascends into a world that for thousands of years thought little of their Southern cousins.

Not one to gamble, except in matters of the heart, the old writer peered once again over his glass of wine and looks into the abyss. Staring back in a vacuous manner was an unkempt little tramp, Soave. Back in the day, the little white wine from the Veneto would be seen in a few restaurants in Palermo and would be seen with the various antipasti making their way in the bars of the Charleston. Nowadays, how would he feel about the stylish little osteria near his home, I Vespri, in the Palazzo Cagni of his family homestead? Instead of a solitary offering of Bolla, he could find the various bottlings of Tamellini, Inama and Pieropan. Not a huge gamble, no big stakes, but something gained, something won from the last fifty years.

The significance? If there is one, rather than a late night tip-toe through the tulips, it might be to admonish the old man for his stern countenance that led to his early demise. Or was it that he blew it all in one book and saw no reason to stick around? Surely the world has become a coarser place in the last half century. Less civil in some ways, more matter-of-fact. Less structured, but more flavorsome. Not without the little pains that come if you live long enough. But a little glass of Marsala or passito di Pantelleria can ease one into sweet slumbers in preparation for another day of battle in this agro-dolce world.

written by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

Thanks to the art, courtesy of The Tattoo Studio.

Hotter Than a Pizza Oven in Pozzuoli

Whirlwind week. Three days in Chicago, marathon wine tastings and food forays. Korean, Italian, Pizza, New American. Sicily, Piemonte, Campania, Wachau. That’s right. Wake up at 4:30 AM to catch a flight from Dallas to Chicago. Meet up with my colleague and Master-Somm, Guy Stout. Three days later, back to Dallas in the evening. Unpack, rest a few hours and wake up again at 4:30 AM to drive to Austin and then to Blanco for the Syrah harvest at Stout Vineyards. Arrive just as the last of the grapes are being rounded up and taken to a nearby winery for crushing. Fruit was good (24-26 brix), a small but healthy crop. From Nerello Mascalese on Etna to Syrah in Blanco, quite a week on the wine trail, from Italy to the hill country of Texas. And did I say it was hot?

Chicago was cooler, only in the 80’s (°F). The city really feels comfortable this time of year. I know it sounds crazy, but 105°F has a way of making 85°F seem like a cool front. I realize every city has its good and its bad but we had some great Italian (and Austrian) wine and food to match. A little less hectic than NY, more like a bunch of neighborhoods closer by. Love them both, but it was nice to reconnect with Chicago.

On the road again in Texas, to the Syrah harvest. A great time to connect with colleagues, co-workers, friends, clients and sit under the stars and talk to each other about wine and food and where the heck this is all taking us. That’s something about the Texas experience that is pretty unique. We all spend time talking to each other, moving this ship a few inches at a time. There is a great energy in this area, along with the heat, that I have not seen anywhere else in the country. I know some folk like to discharge Texas as some nameless, faceless place along the flight patterns from the East coast to the West coast. That would be a dismissive and erroneous; something very definitely is going in this country below the skies.

How does harvesting Syrah have anything to do with Gragnano or Gruner? I reckon it is all in the way one might understand the synchronicity of apparently unrelated experiences and how they add up to a whole new direction. We’re in the middle of something right now; I can’t even put my finger on it. But I know it’s there and it’s coming and it’s a pretty exciting time.

So sitting under the porch (where it was only 92°F) we were chatting about Aglianico and Valtellina Superiore, all five of them (Sassella, Grumello, Inferno, Valgella and Maroggia). One in our group was relating the difference between Fiano on the coast and Fiano inland and at higher elevations. She should know, being our resident Southern Italian wine expert. Another was on a mission to learn everything he could about Valtellinese wines. Kids after my own heart.

In Watermelon Sugar Grappa

Here we have the making of a group of young and engaged professional enthusiasts, just wanting to delve into the deeper aspects of Italian wines. The wine trail in Italy intersects the Blanco River from time to time and this is how it all weaves itself together, makes it relevant that we go to Texas Hill Country to harvest Syrah and Italian wine lovers, at the same time. All this over a platter of paella and some cool Dolcetto.

We spent some time talking to George Vogel, a peach farmer near Johnson City. Decided to go visit him and talk to him about ancient farm tools for a project one in the group was researching. George just turned 80, has spent his whole life in and around Johnson City. A pretty amazing place, the feel of it, the spirit of the place is All West, individualistic, a little LBJ thrown in there (remembering a President from Texas that was bigger than life) and a time spent listening to stories about the Germans and the farmers and the peaches. Good setting for an area that from 38,000 feet doesn’t seem to important. What does at that altitude? On the ground with a real person, and a story teller to boot, that’s the strength of this place.

Driving back home on the small highway 281 from Johnson City through Marble Falls, Lampasas and Glen Rose in heat that went up to 107°F. Even the dogs are looking to cool off.

Comfort minded folks need not apply. Stick to a comfortable air conditioned seat in a safe and darkened movie house, or the front of an airplane, and just fly on by. Getting through the security line at an international airport isn’t the work that interests us here on the front lines. This is the part of the wine trail for those who aren’t afraid of the heat or the streets. This is where we will build our trade, in the 21st century, from the rustic vineyards in Italy to the rugged frontiers of America.

written by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

Tre Giorni ~ Tre Pizze

Three days in Chicago, before the harvest in Blanco, Texas. Tasting new wines from Austria and Italy. Eating our way through this town. Korean, new American, Italian and Pizza. Today we had a trio of pizze from Spaccanapoli. This place ranks up there with Pizzeria Bianco in Phoenix and Luzzo's in NY.

The Truffle pesto, the Marinara and the Salsiccia e Broccoletti, Pizza Bianca with Italian Sausage, Rapini, Fior Di Latte Mozzarella. They just kept getting better. The last one, Salsiccia e Broccoletti, took my breath away.

Wines? Nino Franco Faive, Caggiano Irpinia Bianco Fiagre (Fiano-Greco), Ca dei Frati Lugana, Cusumano Benuara and Tenuta delle Terre Nere “Guardiola” Etna Rosso.

Spaccanapoli has a wine list that is predominantly Southern Italian. I have seen Italian places that have wine lists that are Italian only; this one was Southern. Texas, take notice. This is in your future. Brace yourself.

written by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

The Mother of Intervention

Before there was Rolland and Accad, long before Helen Turley and Clark Smith, ages before Cotarella and Tachis, there was an influence in winemaking that probably has had as much authority, over time, as all the above combined. (And you can throw in all the high-ranking wine critics too). Were his techniques natural, or did he meddle?

Recently I read this in one of the old books on wine that I inherited from a friend and mentor who recently passed away. The passage went like this:

Q. In winemaking, what do you get if you don’t intervene?
A. Vinegar.

The following are some excepts regarding winemaking, translated from his mater lingua. Seems that was the way in those days in sunny old Frascati, i.e. Tusculum. Have some fun; nothing new under the sun?

• Wine for the family to drink through the winter: Pour into a jar 10 quadrantals of must, 2 quadrantals of sharp vinegar, 2 quadrantals of boiled must, 50 quadrantals of fresh water. Stir with a stick thrice a day for five consecutive days. Then add 64 sextarii of old sea-water, cover the jar, and seal ten days later. This wine will last you until the summer solstice; whatever is left over after the solstice will be a very sharp and excellent vinegar.

• If your place is far from the sea, you may use this recipe for Greek wine: Pour 20 quadrantals of must into a copper or lead boiler and heat. As soon as the wine boils, remove the fire; and when the wine has cooled, pour into a jar holding 40 quadrantals. Pour 1 modius of salt and 1 quadrantal of fresh water into a separate vessel, and let a brine be made; and when the brine is made pour it into the jar. Pound rush and calamus in a mortar to make a sufficient quantity, and pour 1 sextarius into the jar to give it an odor. Thirty days later seal the jar, and rack off into amphorae in the spring. Let it stand for two years in the sun, then bring it under cover. This wine will not be inferior to the Coan.(Coan wine is wine from the Greek island of Kos)

• Preparation of sea-water: Take 1 quadrantal of water from the deep sea where no fresh water comes; parch 1½ pounds of salt, add it, and stir with a rod until a boiled hen's egg will float; then stop the stirring. Add 2 congii of old wine, either Aminnian or ordinary white, and after mixing thoroughly pour into a pitched jar and seal. If you wish to make a larger quantity of sea-water, use a proportionate amount of the same materials.

• Recipe for Coan wine: Take sea-water at a distance from the shore, where fresh water does not come, when the sea is calm and no wind is blowing, seventy days before vintage. After taking it from the sea, pour into a jar, filling it not fully but to within five quadrantals of the top. Cover the jar, leaving space for air, and thirty days later pour it slowly and carefully into another jar, leaving the sediment in the bottom. Twenty days later pour in the same way into a third jar, and leave until vintage. Allow the grapes from which you intend to make the Coan wine to remain on the vine, let them ripen thoroughly, and pick them when they have dried after a rain. Place them in the sun for two days, or in the open for three days, unless it is raining, in which case put them under cover in baskets; clear out any berries which have rotted. Then take the above-mentioned sea-water and pour 10 quadrantals into a jar holding 50; then pick the berries of ordinary grapes from the stem into the jar until you have filled it. Press the berries with the hand so that they may soak in the sea-water. When the jar is full, cover it, leaving space for air, and three days later remove the grapes from the jar, tread out in the pressing-room, and store the wine in jars which have been washed clean and dried.

• To coat the brim of wine jars, so as to give a good odor and to keep any blemish from the wine: Put 6 congii of the best boiled must in a copper or lead vessel; take a hemina of dry crushed iris and 5 pounds of fragrant Campanian melilot, grind very fine with the iris, and pass through a sieve into the must. Boil the whole over a slow fire of faggots, stirring constantly to prevent scorching; continue the boiling, until you have boiled off a half. When it has cooled, pour into a sweet smelling jar covered with pitch, seal, and use for the brims of wine jars.

• If you wish to determine whether wine will keep or not, place in a new vessel half an acetabulum of large pearl barley and a sextarius of the wine you wish to test; place it on the coals and bring it to a boil two or three times; then strain, throw away the barley, and place the wine in the open. Taste it the next morning. If it is sweet, you may know that the wine in the jar will keep; but if it is slightly acid it will not.

• To make sharp wine mild and sweet: Make 4 pounds of flour from vetch, and mix 4 cyathi of wine with boiled must; make into small bricks and let them soak for a night and a day; then dissolve with the wine in the jar, and seal sixty days later. The wine will be mild and sweet, of good color and of good odor.

• To remove a bad odor from wine: Heat a thick clean piece of roofing-tile thoroughly in the fire. When it is hot coat it with pitch, attach a string, lower it gently to the bottom of the jar, and leave the jar sealed for two days. If the bad odor is removed the first time, that will be best; if not, repeat until the bad odor is removed.

• If you wish to determine whether wine has been watered or not: Make a vessel of ivy wood and put in it some of the wine you think has water in it. If it contains water, the wine will soak through and the water will remain, for a vessel of ivy wood will not hold wine.

• To impart a sweet aroma: Take a tile covered with pitch, spread over it warm ashes, and cover with aromatic herbs, rush and the palm which the perfumers keep, place in a jar and cover, so that the odor will not escape before you pour in the wine. Do this the day before you wish to pour in the wine. Pour the wine into the jars from the vat immediately; let them stand covered for fifteen days before sealing, leaving space for air, and then seal. Forty days later pour off into amphorae, and add one sextarius of boiled must to the amphora. Do not fill the amphorae higher than the bottom of the handles, and place them in the sun where there is no grass. Cover the amphorae so that water cannot enter, and let them stand in the sun not more than four years; four years later, arrange them in a wedge, and pack them closely.

• If you wish to make a laxative wine: After vintage, when the vines are trenched, expose the roots of as many wines as you think you will need for the purpose and mark them; isolate and clear the roots. Pound roots of black hellebore in the mortar, and apply around the vines. Cover the roots with old manure, old ashes, and two parts of earth, and cover the whole with earth. Gather these grapes separately; if you wish to keep the wine for some time as a laxative, do not mix it with the other wine. Take a cyathus of this wine, dilute it with water, and drink it before dinner; it will move the bowels with no bad results.

• Throw in a handful of black hellebore to the amphora of must, and when the fermentation is complete, remove the hellebore from the wine; save this wine for a laxative.

• To prepare a laxative wine: When the vines are trenched, mark with red chalk so that you will not mix with the rest of the wine; place three bundles of black hellebore around the roots and cover with earth. Keep the yield from these vines separate during the vintage. Put a cyathus into another drink; it will move the bowels and the next day give a thorough purging without danger.

• To blend a wine as a remedy for retention of urine: Macerate capreida or Jupiter, add a pound of it, and boil in 2 congii of old wine in a copper or lead vessel. After it cools, pour into a bottle. Take a cyathus in the morning before eating; it will prove beneficial.

• To blend a wine as a remedy for gout: Cut into small chips a piece of juniper wood a half-foot thick, boil with a congius of old wine, and after it cools pour into a bottle. Take a cyathus in the morning before eating; it will prove beneficial.

• Recipe for myrtle wine: Dry out black myrtle in the shade, and when dried keep it until vintage. Macerate a half-modius of myrtle into an urn of must and seal it. When the must has ceased to ferment remove the myrtle. This is a remedy for indigestion, for pain in the side, and for colic.

And my personal favorite,
• Dogs should be chained up during the day, so that they may be keener and more watchful at night.

by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

Thanks to William P. Thayer for the translation and the actual words from the Loeb Classical Library, 1934

The Festival of Malvasia

This is the ideal time of summer; lying out in the pool, on my isola, thinking about the little sounds and sights and smells that make up the perfect day in July.

As I take a little nap, under the sun, above the body of water that occupies my isola, I have a dream. We are back in Southern Italy, walking. Somewhere off the distance there is a masserie; they are waiting for us, with wine and lunch. We are just a few minutes late, but we parked the car when the road would take us no further. There is music and the sound of drums coming from the distant winery. They are celebrating the Festa della Malvasia.
This is a yearly event, bringing dancers, artists, musicians, actors, clowns and jesters to this one place in the country, to celebrate the casks and the wine and the middle of the summer. Large women are seen carrying these gigantic platters for the fire; today they are feeding the artistic community and we have been invited by the winemaker.

My friend, Carlo the clown, is already there. We have a psychic communication, he is wondering where we are. But he’s fine, he’s playing with the monkey. My musician friend from California has called me; he is bringing a philosopher friend from Paestum, so he is behind us.

The invitation was only sent a few days before. To get all the players together was a major feat, but this is a dream, all things are possible. The invitation went like this:

Please, all who come, bring a little piece of your past to share, and take home a piece of your future. We have cooks from Naples, so no one should go home hungry. The wine is neither the old, dirty wine nor the new, lifeless wine. We are cracking open the barrels of real Italy; please bring a demijohn to take some home with you. Bring your mother, bring your sister, bring your sons and daughters and lovers. Or bring the priest, for we will all need him eventually. Come as you are, not as you wish to be. The party will last three days. We will not sleep, you’ll see. Do not RSVP. Just arrive when you can. Don’t be late.


I thought it a little strange when I got closer and started hearing all kind of animal sounds. A tent by the side of the building was pitched, a circus had stopped by. The smell of fresh seafood and garlic, mixed with the exotic aroma of capers, saffron and rosemary, filled the air.

Once inside the building we were greeted by an older woman with grayish to white hair, long and gathered in the back. She had a handful of young children surrounding her and her eyes where bright green. She handed us goblets. One of the young children took us to a room where there were pitchers. We were poured some cool, white wine.

Across the hall was a large open room, with tables and music and tiellas of rice and mussels, steaming and aromatic. Jugglers were practicing with tomatoes and squash, packs of trained dogs followed their every move. There seemed to be an order to all of this, although it didn’t seem to make any sense, nor like this could ever happen in real life. And then we sipped the wine.

This was the wine we had been searching for. It wasn’t some baked, tired, brown mass of lifeless juice with an alcohol base. And it wasn’t a mass of vanilla and butter, seamless and uniform, as if it could have come from anywhere in the New World Order of Winemaking. It was perfect. Crisp and juicy, an acidic marmelata to relieve the rice and the mussels of their responsibility to be the sole nurturing force. It was golden, it was sunshine, the tan on the arms of a young woman working in the fields, the little hairs on the small of the back of the newborn baby, the strength of the pizzaiolo, gathered after all those years in front of a hot oven, working his life away for his art.

The food, the circus performers, the exotic animals, they all retreated to the edges of the dream. All that was left was a pitcher in the late afternoon sun by the edge of the water and the sublime silence of a hot summer day; the synchronization of a life searching for that perfect moment, found by accident, over a festival for an ancient grape.

written by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

Punchinello Drawings by Giovanni Domenico Tiepolo

Gig Order

Commentary by Beatrice Russo


IWG wrote about going off the reservation, in his last post. Have you seen the movie Apocalypse Now? Well, it’s one of is favorite movies, I know, because once when I watched his house for a week, I went through all his movies. And he had two versions of it.

For my generation, it’s a Vietnam era movie in which a couple of Green Berets go deep into Cambodia to assassinate a former soldier who has “gone native.” This Captain Willard dude is going after the renegade Colonel Kurtz. See the movie. I’m watching it close-up. Alfonso has gone “Kurtz” on me.

A few months ago he helped get me settled into this gig where I was around a lot of good wine, some money to pay the bills and a career track. Or so I thought. The reality was that if I don’t fight myself through the jungle I’ll never end up with much of anything. The whole wine biz deal is pretty much set on reaching these conditional goals that are constantly changing. I am Ok with a moving target, but, hey, I don’t see much incentive to excel, when the warlords at the top are controlling the numbers. IWG tells me to be patient, it will all work out. Like hell.

He’s off for a few days; has to take the vacation time or lose it. When he does, he escapes to his “isola” and leaves me with the keys. Only rule is that I don’t get all wicked and profane. No problem for me, I know how to make myself understood.

Anyway, he’s in the middle of a deal to bring in a line of new Italian wines and all of a sudden he’s verklempt about it. Dude has some gnarly emotions. Feels like he was handled. I told him to get over it, think about the poor suckers in the vineyards. Little young me, telling he who aspires to the pinnacle. Whatever. So he goes and takes off. Fine with me.

I IM’d my friend in Austin, tried to help her get me a bead on the scene. She was out “blitzing” some brand before the hurricane hits land. So she couldn’t help shore up the yurt.

Anyway, thank God he left a freezer filled with some better-than-sex Limoncello. Did I say that? Oh well, it’s been a dry haul lately and relief from Campania in the form of lemons and alcohol will offset my temporary personal disappointments.

And, you ask me, what does this have to do with the blog? Nada. Anymore than sequestering all the jalapenos has anything to do with making folks feel better. Don’t get me started. Here goes. We are now treating produce like we treat terrorists travelers. Stand here. Go through this screening process, drop your drawers, oops you have been infected with salmonella. It wasn’t bad enough that we all had to be infected with fear from the governmental overlords who get the jollies when all of us are scared to get on a plane? Now we have to be afraid of tomatoes? And jalapenos? What is going on in this country?

IWG is really going to freak with this one, but how about what we are all witnessing, this summer? I’m glad this is happening in my youth, although I’m not sure there will be much left in my older years. If I ever make it that far.

Ok, wine. That what everyone wants. I did try some flawless wines from the Loire. Neal Rosenthal stuff. Not Italian, so IWG will probably fuss. Not Verdicchio, he says. Not Fiano. Well, the last Fiano I had wasn’t Fiano. What’s up with that? I want acid, not bubble gum. I tell you, when that producer shows up next month, I’m going to corner him and defy him to turn his property back on track, little ‘ol me. I’ll get my friend in Austin and her southern Italian girlfriend to help me. I don’t want another wine from Southern Italy to taste like it’s from Australia or Paso Robles. Yeah, there’s a kind of hush, all over the world, alright. Telling me to shut my trap.

When the heck is IWG coming back? I can’t do this gig twice in a row.