08/25/10
by DT Tarkus
Having trouble getting started today? There goes my muse again, popping in whenever I don’t need her. I tell her go away, I’m trying to do some serious writing. Oh you want serious she says. I suck in a breath to temper rising frustration. When she gets her dander up, there’s no ignoring her. She slaps one of the many cooking magazines I collect on top of my laptop, the page open to a recent assesment of Australian wines.
Have you ever tried to wordsmith wine reviews? Where the hell is this going? My approach to grading wines is either: “hey that’s good shit”, or “not bad”. Book stores overflow on the subject. All you need is a post graduate degree in literature, or a good thesaurus.
Au contraire she says. It’s visual writing, the very thing you struggle with. No, I struggle with a muse that fills my head with distraction. Damn, I’m getting that look again. Fine, I’ll play along, but do you promise to leave me alone?
She leaves the room and returns with two glasses of wine, a white and a red. Little early for libations, but I’m game. Start with the appearance of a wine. What do you see? I’m going to guess primary colors are forbidden, and I must use romance novel hues like bold lemon, garnet with flashes of violet, and pinky cherry. Better yet, I’ll visit the local paint store for some interesting color names, or that favorite lipstick kiosk you’re always sorting through.
She ignores me. Describe the aroma. Oh right, where oenophiles smell the wine in the manner dogs use to identify each other and inhale a bouquet of scents like savory, spicy, lightly floral, powdery, hints of leather, tar, opulent, stewed plum (who’s ever stewed a plum), and my favorite, reeked of milky, lemony, malolactic flavors. Couldn’t I just say the wine stank? What?
Her eyes sharpen on me. How does it feel in your mouth she asks between clenched teeth? Um…wet? I sense the storm brewing on her brow. Oh right, I must use descriptions found in badly written poetry, like spritzy vivacity, fills the palate, firm and meaty, crushed velvet tannins, glycerolic mouth feel, furry acidity, bit of grubbiness, and the ever popular light bodied with throaties lollies. I mean really, who makes this stuff up?
Taste it, don’t swig it. Roll around your mouth. Visualize it. I cheat and look sideways at the wine article with creamy oaken fruit flavors abound; melon, cassis, fruit salad mix, tamarillo, and buttered lemon (when was the last time you buttered a lemon). It goes on with chocolate latte, spiced fruitcake, herbaceous, lifted citrussy, nuance of paw-paw, creamed nuts (I don’t want to know what this is), hokey pokey ice cream, and who could resist a wine described as big, fat, and oily? But nothing beats a glass of black cherry forcing its way through out from tarry, savory backbone. Yummy…sign me up. What the hell is a tamarillo?
She cocked a suspicious eyebrow when I quaffed her offering into the gastrointestinal void that could care less if it was furry or not. Good wine should finish clean she says. Gee I should hope so, I’d hate for it to finish dirty. I duck a well aimed swat to the head. I’m supposed to admire the aftertaste, right? I sneak another peak at the article, which describes lingering hints of raisin, ripe full finish, and lovely vinocity; even better if it has a beautifully balanced, mealy backbone. What is this, a BBQ place? Is mealy a good thing?
With a huff and a sniff, she stomps from the room. Guilt trickles into my abdomen. She was only trying help. I’ll make it up to her. I wonder if she left the bottle?
14 Responses
DT. LOL. Your muse…truly, she’s mental–but she makes you spit out some good stuff. Keep letting her lead you by the hand, just not by the nose. You’ll come back pierced.
Heaven help you if she ever tries to lend a hand with writing a fight scene. You is doomed, my friend. And even your muse would probably agree cumin has a hint of athletic exertion about it, right?
Funny stuff, DT. You and your muse have a very, er, intense relationship. I’d watch my back if I were you.
I wouldn’t drink half the wines described, especially the one with nuance of paw-paw. In the South, that’s grandpappy.
OMG! I nearly spewed coffee onto my keyboard. Thank you for giving me a good belly laugh first thing this morning.
I listen to the wine guys on our local NPR station every week, and the descriptions never fail to make me chuckle. Tar and hay? All I can think of is the goopy black stuff they’re paving the road with and bales of alfalfa.
Thanks, but I’ll stick with beer.
The Earl Grey I’m sipping has a slightly musty finish, but, unfortunately, most of the mouthful is now saturating my keyboard.
Funny, funny, funny…
Hilarious! A great way to start the morning…now if I only had my own bottle, I could play along.
Oh hell, how am I going to contribute anything better than that? I’m outtahere… (No, not really.) Thanks for a good laugh!
one’s muse really should expand her views on wine beyond the pretensiousness of aftertaste. for instance, i like to choose wines based on the beauty of their labels. i figure a vintner wouldn’t create a work of art for a bottle of wine with a vinegary bouquet. i also play this little game – finding really delicious wines for under $5 – although with the economy, I’ve upped the ante to $7. I moved to a state where they sell wine in grocery stores and I’ve never been happier. hiccup. oh, excuse me.
I read somewhere that the average Australian takes only 26 seconds to choose a wine. Hence the proliferation of fancy labels to catch the eye.
26 seconds is a pretty long time, lol, since I have to go to either the only two bottles with a screw cap or, like Thea, the $7 section. The best one I’ve had lately my CP gave me – Menage a Trois.
DT – You got a laugh out of me even in my sleep deprived state. My muse says wine is like sex, the good stuff is great, and the not so good stuff is still not half bad. Obviously my muse is a guy. He’s pretty easy.
After two days of copy edits and a whirlwind book written in 9 weeks… My muse is on a well-deserved vacation. I think I’ll join him poolside in San Antonio tomorrow.
But since he left first, my brain is too dead to think of anything to say to the wild descriptions already posted.
Laughing in Texas, far away from real wine country or connoisseurs…the closest thing in our neck of the woods is imported Mexican beer.
~~Angi
exatamente!
Sounds like my sort of muse. But on this subject, I just reviewed an excellent book about wines, pretentiousness, snobbery, etc. on booksquawk. It’s called The Billionaires’ Vinegar and it starts with the auction of a 1787 Lafite which reputedly belonged to Thomas Jefferson and ends with a suspenseful investigation by an ex-FBI man into fraud. And there’s lots of good wine stuff on the way.