Wining about my Palate

I know a good slice of pizza or a quality piece of chocolate when I taste it. I have a sensitive palate for water, turning my nose up at all sorts of bottled and tap without batting an eye. My taste buds can differentiate between a delicious piece of cheesecake or something whipped together by the infamous Sara Lee. I hate freezer burn and will turn away a lavish ice cream sundae if said ice cream is suspected of the burn. Pink chicken makes me nauseous, shiny deli roast beef makes me cry, mayonnaise is my Darth Vader. When it comes to steak I am all about fillet mignon. But we all have our blind spots. Wine is mine.
Don’t misunderstand, I like wine. I like it a lot. I like white wine. I like fruity, white wine and I like not so fruity white wine. I’m not a big red wine drinker, but will knock some back in a pinch. I just don’t quite understand the wine experience. I don’t really care if the grapes were grown in Spain, France, Washington, California, or on Uncle Pete’s farm in Topeka. I can’t taste accents of pear, apple or boysenberry in my wine. I can’t tell if my wine tastes earthy, buttery, dry or wet. I guess I haven’t built my palate yet. (Don’t worry that was an accidental rhyme and will not be followed by some sort of Seusslike monologue-I do love the good Dr. Seuss though, so maybe next time).
The problem of course is that wine is one of those things that as an adult you should know a thing or two about. Well, okay, I know a thing or two. I know that Mad Dog 20/20, despite its extensive flavor selection and undying popularity in 11th grade, is not really a fine wine. Apparently it’s not a wine at all. I know that the Riunite that my Ohio Aunties used to drink out of a jug, well not really out of the jug-they poured it into glasses-is not a great hostess gift in 49 of the 50 states. I know that if you find a bottle of wine in a doorway in your childhood apartment building, even if the cap is still on and the paper bag is still in nice condition, it’s probably not made from the world’s highest quality fruit. And, for some reason, I know that in 2003 the Merlot grape crops were particularly good, but I have no idea why I know that, or in what region that was true, or if someone at the wine shop was just pulling my leg. Those people in the wine community do have quite a sense of humor.
All is not hopeless though. I have a handful of friends who know as much about wine as I know about Hanna Barbera characters. (Wait dear reader, you didn’t know this about me? Well trust me; from Captain Caveman to Atom Ant to Squiddly Diddly, I’m all over that HB trivia). So from my friends I have learned some basics. Like don’t leave your wine bottle open (even with a cork or bottle stopper) in your fridge for a lengthy amount of time. What you consider a lengthy amount of time is of course, subjective. For instance for me four weeks is a long time to have a bottle of wine in the fridge, to my friend Micki four days is a sin. And apparently you shouldn’t save any red at all. An open bottle of red must be finished that very evening, even if it means Micki and Eddy are at your house until THREE AY EM finishing off the bottle! (Wait this advice is becoming suspect…hmm). From Susan I know that some wine needs to breathe, whatever that means. And she also has taught me that most people like Syrah and though expensive, it’s usually a sure thing. Or did she say most people don’t like Syrah? Or did she say most people don’t like Sarah, her old high school cheerleading rival? Yeah maybe I am confusing wine with whine, never mind that advice. From my guy friends in college (who we affectionately nicknamed “The Slobs”) I learned that the much beloved White Zinfandel has certain aphrodisiac powers that are quite strong, yet short lasting, leaving even the prettiest of girls looking disheveled and, frankly, ashamed as they come out of their wine coma, nothing between them and The Slobs but an empty gallon of White Zin. Okay perhaps, The Slobs are not in the same category as Susan and Micki. Still good advice is good advice.
Recently I added to my list of advisers my coworker Gail. Now a fourth-sixth grade teacher, Gail used to own a wine shop for seven years. She’s somewhat of a connoisseur. She has written articles for wine magazines, knows the taste and temperature distinction in grapes in the California wine country and knows the difference between Yellow Tail and well something fancier than Yellow Tail. (yes, my not-so-wine-savvy-friends there is something fancier than Australia’s finest out there). I had to call Gail the other day as I was heading into the wine shop (a.k.a the wine aisle at Albertson’s) to buy a bottle to bring to Micki’s for dinner. This is risky, bringing a bottle of wine to someone’s house, especially someone who knows something about wine. Gail was helpful, though a bit rude as she put me on hold so she could talk to her pet squirrel about his dinner; so as she was asking her squirrel questions like do you prefer something oaky or fruity, I was looking at the cute labels on wine bottles. I guess you could say I was distracted as there are so many choices out there. Maybe I stopped listening to Gail. I settled on Cupcake Chardonnay (sassy label) and some bottle of red with a super cute kangaroo on it. I am not at liberty to say the brand as Gail might be reading this blog and could choose to throw her hands up and never advise me again. Let’s just say that the kangaroo is the logo for a certain mass-marketed super sweet Australian brand. It’s like the Hershey’s of chocolate or the Domino’s of pizza. It was a bad choice, as they don’t even grow grapes* in Australia, but dang, it said it was imported!
At this point you might be asking, What does this blog really mean? Well I have no idea. You can take it to mean that I am not so cultured when it comes to wine, or you can take it to mean that I am very cultured when it comes to L’Eau (French for water), cheesecake and pizza. But I think you should take it to mean that you can show up at my door with either Kung Fu Girl Riesling or Sauvignon Blanc and either way I’ll let you in, just be sure to leave the shiny roast beef at home.