OF MOUNTAINS AND VINEYARDS or A TASTE OF WINE AND GRASSES

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OF MOUNTAINS AND VINEYARDS

or

A TASTE OF WINE AND GRASSES

Stellenbosch Mountain rises in one immediate thrust toward the sky. She takes up the low spotlight of sunset and shows off her crags and precipices like the consummate professional. She understands the nuances of light and shading and timing. If a geologic neophyte were looking to learn the drama of being a true mountain, he would come to see her.

There are no real foothills before her, no geologic introductions as you approach her from the sea. There is only a sudden spine of treeless rock that juts upwards. Vineyards slope away gently in all directions from the base of Stellenbosch Mountain, rows of perfectly strung vines that give the impression of thousands of little people all standing in perfect rows with their arms over one another’s shoulders.

We live here now.

The vineyards, of course, produce wine. We, of course drink wine. This is an incredibly symbiotic relationship for which I am forever thankful. Or as Zorba would say, “Life’s a rum thing boss.”

One evening, as Stellenbosch Mountain was smoldering after a ferocious performance behind out little flatlet, we pulled the cork on a Chardonnay. After about half the bottle we began to play the game: “Guess The Wine Descriptions That Guys Who Have Nothing Else To Do Give To Wines That We All Drink And Are Happy To Call Simply, ‘Fabulous.’”

So we began to swirl and look for “legs,” stuff our noses into our glasses and sniff for bouquets. We sipped and held it in our mouths then swallowed. Then the real fun began as we tried to give names to our white. We came up with hardly complex things like “honey, and nutty, and vanilla-y.” Then we read the label and found ourselves, for the most part, to be off the mark. “Classic blackcurrant, dark chocolate and sweet plum flavors,” were written on the bottle, and we didn’t nail a one.

So, what were budding wine aficionados to do now that Stellenbosch Mountain was dusky, the lights down and the stage dark?

Open the bottle of Chenin Blanc, n’est ce pas?

Oh, we truly threw ourselves into this task, almost sweating with the effort. The concentration it took, I must say, was extremely taxing.

Kristen had her nose just floating above the rim of the glass. She swirled and sniffed, swirled and sniffed.

Then she said, “Grass.”

“What,” I chortled, “Grass?”

“Grass,” she said.

Even to her it seemed a little preposterous. After all we were halfway through bottle number two and were, how you say, drifting to the starboard?

Kristen took up the bottle, and like a student looking at the answer sheet after a test, she read the label.

“Full tropical fruit flavors with gooseberries, figs and a hint of grass,” she read.

“No way,” I said, incredulous, “It really says grass?”

She read it again, “…and a hint of grass.”

We clinked our glasses.

One of us is developing a nose.

The other is still using words like, “This is really good.”






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Photos

barrels I
Developing a hint of oak

barrels II
Wine casks at the Dirtopia Trail Center

Wine grass
Settling in with a fine grass of wine

Comments

[LBO]

gras a dye (grace ofGod)
wine grass........jeez...I can't touch the caleb blog but Im already hooked on this one sonny boy..what a writer you are. you both are. It was eerie ..I could see the two of you doing wine as if I were the proverbial fly, could hear your voices and see the K's famously lovely nose

[Rhonda]

So these are the days of wine and grasses and grasses of wine. Thanks for my morning chuckle.

[Kevin Rice]

of course grass
if it can have a bouquet of course it can have grass