The ‘what’ can take a thought or two, the how, where, with whom, barely a moment. But the ‘when’, ah the ‘when’, there’s the rub.
I don’t have a favorite wine. I can’t afford to. Not for the obvious reason that my tastes might run too rich, but because a favorite would mean having to feel the same way, every time I open a bottle. In my whimsical world, the perfect world that lies beyond my wine education, the answer to ‘When should I open this bottle?’ is not calibrated by the vintage or by the quality, but by the visceral. However, ‘When you feel like it’ may be considered flippant especially if it’s that bottle you’ve been hoarding, eyeing up, and anticipating. Nobody really wants to be told such unknown treasure should be opened merely on a heartbeat. But I’ve moved within countries and continents and watched, in some anguish, as prized bottles are left behind unopened. I’ve thought ‘why didn’t we open that? what were we waiting for?’.
“Tell me,
what is it you plan to do
with your one
wild and precious life?” – Mary Oliver
I have comforted myself with the knowledge there will be others and after all, it’s just wine. It is, just wine. Sure, let it breathe, decant it carefully, pour it mindfully into selected stemware if you will. Treat it as a guest at your table, let it flirt with your companion and make their eyes bright, let it dance with what’s around you, always. Allow it to host your celebrations, your little victories. Let it meet your loss, your need. It will do so with grace, greet and then fade away into the background, turning merely to alcohol amidst the candles, flowers and silverware.
But what about that perfect glass? That one glass that sets your night alive, your world to rights, your mind to rest. How did it know to do that?
Have you ever wondered when the wine in the bottle decides to come together, to find its flow and harmonize in such a way as to outdo its poor soil, its struggling roots, its gnarled trunk, its greedy leaves? At what precise moment does it take its smashed berries and broken skin and make a flawless profile? Wine can turn its birth starved of oxygen, scraped with sulphur, its leesy wrap, its tomb of steel, its oak-hard cradle, its glass coffin, into an experience less ordinary, more alive and more colorful than any life we dream of living. When does it take its manhandled history and turn it into a fairytale, or a tribute, or a gift, nourishment far beyond its nature and nurture? When does it know when to do it for you?
Perhaps it happens when we are sleeping, our restoration the start of its revolution. Or when we ignore it and brush past the rack or unopened case, its manifestation a response to our rejection. Perhaps it waits until the…
