"If you ever die, I'll kill you"

My wife Lorie has concocted the perfect New Year’s Eve: Burning logs in the fireplace, flutes of bubbly, and Oh-Dear-God, a “romantic” movie. This is what happens when a dude doesn’t have a plan.

Having just listened to Kris Kristofferson’s 16 Biggest Hits, she suggests the 1976 umpteenth remake of A Star is Born with Barbra Streisand and KK.  My vote is Tremors, the 1990 Kevin Bacon tearjerker. The rec-room scene with Michael Gross and Reba McEntire repeatedly shooting an enormous three tongued worm is a breathtaking expression of bonding through firearms.  I don’t own a gun, but I find their love of gunpowder palpable.

So,  A Star is Born it is.

**I highly recommend you  click here   to open a separate background music window to accompany the rest of this blog**

FLASHBACK 1977: Cousin Sherry drags my 16-year-old-cousin Phil and me to see the most romantic movie ever made. For two hours Babs posed and preened while Kristofferson toked, drank and snorted his way across the screen, out Morrisoning Jim himself.  Streisand looked pretty hot as the filling in her all-girl trio The Oreos, and Kristofferson rocked an open-to-the-waist shirt like nobody’s business.  He seemed so free, so unattached, as if he’d stumbled onto the set and the director said, “Hey wait, you’re a lot of fun. You ever been in a movie?”

One scene that remains burned in my brain possibly changed cinema, auto enthusiasts and beer forever.

  SPOILER ALERT

IF YOU PLAN TO SPEND NEW YEAR’S EVE WATCHING A STAR IS BORN DO NOT READ THE FOLLOWING PARAGRAPHS.

Esther (Streisand) and John (Kristofferson) have moved to the desert to escape the spotlight of music fame. John awakens early one morning, pulls on his jeans, surveys the beautiful surroundings and cracks open a Schlitz beer. He tosses the brew back, crawls into his Ferrari Daytona Spyder- the very car he told Esther was “Just like you. Fast and outta my league”- and speeds away into the abyss.

This just can’t be good. Drinkin’ and drivin’ is a big no-no, but Schlitz for breakfast is unforgivable.

We soon learn John has died in a crash and Esther rushes to his side to touch his face just one last time. The totaled Ferrari smokes and coughs helplessly in the background.

It should have ended there. But no. We cut to Esther in concert bellowing “Evergreen” and her version of John’s famous hit “Watch Closely Now.” Of course the only thing the audience is thinking at this point is, “Wow, they totaled a Ferrari Spyder for a movie??? And worse, Schlitz killed Kris Kristofferson?”

See,  Schlitz was a powerhouse in 1976. The number two brewery in America.  But in each of the following six years Schlitz lost considerable market share until finally, in 1982, it was taken over by Stroh’s. Why? Because people were pissed that a terrible beer not only killed Kris Kristofferson, it also destroyed a Ferrari. To make matters worse, the rather obscure PETF (People for the Ethical Treatment of Ferrari’s) formed in late 1976, and of course, the rest is history.

Ok. Back to Lorie, the DuraFlame log, the two bottles of Cristalino and a frozen chicken pie thawing in the fridge. We just previewed the trailer on Youtube and I’m beginning to think Saturday evening’s feature could possibly be better than Tremors.

OPEN ON MEDIUM SHOT OF STREISAND SINGING “EVERGREEN”

70‘s Announcer Guy:

Barbra Streisand. Kris Kristofferson.  Two lovers who had everything.

CUT TO KRISTOFFERSON AND STREISAND IN SEMI-NUDE EMBRACE

         Streisand:          (whispering) “If you ever die, I’ll kill you.” 

Kristofferson:     (grunting) “I ain’t ever gonna die”. 

 70‘s Announcer Guy:   

But sometimes… Everything Just. Isn’t. Enough.

Happy New Year

See you back here in a few,

TG

Recent conversation between a couple sommeliers:

Tim: “I mean, I like wine, too, you know.”

Susanne: “Yeah. I never thought about it much, but I think you’re on to something here.”

Catherine: “Holy crap! Me too!”

Doug: “Now I’m depressed. Thanks for reminding me, bro. Happy Holidays.”

After a few phone calls it became clear the phenomena was not my own. Many sommeliers and wine industry peeps are on the other side of this dreaded disease.

It’s called Vinus Fridgidus.

Suffers from Vinus Frigidus

Vinus Frigidus is the inability of one outside the wine business to share fermented grape juice with an acquaintance in the wine business. Symptoms include irrational fear of being perceived as lacking taste buds or sound judgment, often leading to anxiety, unusual bowing of head and/or uncalled-for moments of apology.

People that study, work and breathe wine quickly learn the true joy is in sharing, not judging. Sharing the first sip, the second bottle. And as much as we love talking factoids and history, or answering what questions we can about your bottle at hand, we get a bigger thrill discovering what you know and like about your wines.

See, none of us know it all. In fact, the further you go down the rabbit hole the more you realize there is no destination. In vino land there is only more. More to discover. More to share. More to pour. That’s the thrill of it all. Pushing boundaries, growing, learning to roll with it, baby.

So don’t be shy when your “wine connoisseur” friend invites you to the next dinner party. Forget the flowers and let your freak cork pop.

See you back here in a few.

TG

Home is Alquezar Photo by Tim Gardner

Alquezar Sunset Photo by Tim Gardner

Sometimes there’s just something in the air. Pay attention, and you may experience a small percentage of what’s really going on.

We arrived as road-weary wine import dudes in desperate need of a hot meal and a comfortable bed.

The ancient town of Alquezar in the Somontano wine region of Spain is so ridiculously beautiful that even the French sneak across the Pyrenees to bask in its loveliness. This night, however, little of that beauty was to be seen as only candles and tiny electrics illuminated the cobblestone streets.

We stuffed our smallish suitcases into the even smaller elevator of Hotel Villa de Alquezar. There we were, four guys squashed into a space made for one, laughing at our stupidity. We were zombies but it was time to get our act together for some down-home tapas and vino.

With bags tossed on beds and a quick face-splash of unfathomably cold aqua we were off. Two walking blocks away we ducked under an enormous stone archway headed for our favorite restaurant, Casa Pardina.

A few steps down the path and – wait.  Hmmmmmmm. That was a strange feeling. A kinda sixth sense that maybe we were being followed. The tell-tale tingle down the spine and hair standing at attention on both arms and neck. All sights, smells, tactile sensations kicking into overdrive. The kind of sensory overload available only to those who’ve had less than three hours sleep. Tomorrow we would beg for this sensitivity when blending wines: but not tonight traipsing dark alleys to a hidden restaurant.

Stop. Listen. A distant pitter-patter. Pitter. Patter.

Feet.

A quick look behind us. Nothing.

Left side, right side. Nothing.

Another pitter, but no patter. Above? Ahhhhhh, yes, above. It’s you.

Un gato.

Relieved we were not going to die, we stood in silence and watched the nimble critter walk the rooftop edge.  He swished and strutted and never took his eyes off us. You know the look: “Hey Doofusses, you like what you see? Of course you do. Tread lightly, bozos, cause this is my town. Oh- and lest you forget- I’m freaking brilliant, and yes; I walk on tops of buildings. You don’t. Remember that.  Now, keep it moving, hombres.”

We found our way to the restaurant and wondered out loud if he’d be there waiting for us after dinner, offering up another dose of kitty-cat stink-eye.

He was.

The next morning he walked my terrace observing his kingdom and making plans to track the next unsuspecting visitor. With the door cracked open he wasted no time zipping past ankles and perching at the end of my bed. He wore no collar, no tag, had no name.  With a hearty java toast his humble host proclaimed, “You shall be called…  Merle. Yes.  Merle it will be. Merle, in honor of the magnificent Merlot we Doofusses imbibed last night.”

And with that he raced out the door, leapt over the rail, and vanished into the street below.

Here’s to you Merle.  We’ll be expecting you when we arrive in January.

Merle Photo by Tim Gardner

See you back here in a few.

TG

Go, Big Steamer

For a kid growing up in an evangelical Southern family, wine had no place at the dinner table.

The drink of choice was sweet tea, very sweet tea that flowed as freely as the insulin rush that followed.  Diabetes and obesity be damned, at least the caffeine high and sugar lull didn’t make you dance, possibly naked, like the commoners that drank alcohol.

Any and all family celebrations were totally dry affairs. Weddings made for particularly interesting occasions, especially when one tea-totaller clan married into another.  Sparkling apple juice bubbling from plastic champagne flutes, red Solo cups filled to the brim with Mountain Dew and Tab soda.

Even liturgical use of wine was a no-no. Vinum de vite, wine of the mass was a Catholic concept.  We had no idea if Catholics were real Christians, but we weren’t taking any chances.  Alcohol “just wasn’t needed” to mark our faith or insure a good time.

Sunday school teachers reminded us that wine was different in Biblical times. One teacher, a beautiful young woman this 10 year old had a crush on, wisely imparted that wine had no alcohol back then. Interesting.  Another miracle I guess.

To tempt your taste buds with modern wine was to lay chocolates at the Devil’s door. Satan, you see, would use whatever means necessary to seize his prey and his surest weapon was fermented fruit.  Evil yes, but very smart, as his secret was to make it taste really good. He was the original snake oil salesman methodically lubing his victims into a haze of blissful relaxation while usurping their souls of all goodness, their minds of all common sense.

Welcome to Hell, brother.

The only way to keep The Big S at bay was to steer clear of booze, attend church and pray.  A lot.  Sunday morning, Sunday night, followed by a mid week brush up on Wednesday evenings.  Morning services started at 11AM and came to a rambling conclusion around 12:45- 1PM.  Two hours of preaching that scared the living crap out of my siblings and me.

Each service, though vastly different, followed a similar structure:  opening hymn, visitor welcome, announcements, choir performance, 30-40 minute sermon, offering plate passed under another hymn, Alter Call, a hymn, communion, and dismissal as another hymn played us out of the building.

There were special performances every month or so, in which a traveling musical group, all wearing the same costume sang a few uplifting songs and took up a separate offering. There was also a morbidly obese saxophonist and blind accordion player that occasionally accompanied the piano and organ on a hymn or two.

The Alter Call, in particular, was the event that caught the attention of a young, potential sinner-in-the-making like me. The minister invited those that had transgressed to make their way to the front of the church to ask forgiveness. It was, of course, the sinner’s choice to share the episode or kneel quietly as the pastor and other members placed their hands on backs and prayed.

I knew why the sinners were down there and I vowed then and there that I would never, ever smell, touch or taste any fermented beverage for as long as I lived.

As the newly forgiven made their way back to their seats, and the service was nearing it’s end, my friends and I got excited as it was only a matter of moments before the old steam engine would begin stoking its fires.

None of us knew his real name, as we were instructed to refer to adult church members as “Brother” or “Sister.”  Brother Roper was an impeccably dressed older gentleman with an easy smile, firm handshake and a hearty ‘God Blessya.’  He settled in to the same pew, same seat, every Sunday morning at 10:55AM.

To a youngster, he was the life of the party with only one real name: Freight Train.

Freight Train Roper would sing quietly as the hymns played. But then a very strange thing would happen.  Odd noises radiated from his body.  A near wailing cry followed by an animal like huffing, puffing, louder and louder, then “CHHH- CHHH- CHOOOOOO- CHOOOOO!! WOOOOOOOOOOOO HOOOOOOOOOO! HALLELEIUJAH!!!!!!”

Up and out of the pew he’d fly, hands raised to the heavens for a trip or two around the track. The track consisted of the farthest aisles on either side of the church.  With arms in the air, he ran, shouted and praised.  At times he appeared to run half a lap with his eyes closed.

It was a particularly good sign if Freight Train brought it home with a sprint down the center aisle while tearing off his suit jacket, followed by a trot up the pulpit.  That meant a handshake and hug for a few choir members.

Freight Train wrapped it all up with an explosive lesson in linguistics.  Bent over and gasping for breath, he’d rise slowly with a deep moan, stretch his arms to either side and begin speaking in tongues.  We watched in awe, knowing that it was not for us to understand what he was saying.  Only God knew.

Communion followed.  Tiny thimbles of Welch’s Concord Grape Juice and snippets of Saltine crackers.

Wine?  Unthinkable.

That stuff makes you do crazy things.

See you back here in a few.

TG

Last Friday, everything was special.

Abandoning the cozy comfort of bed. Brushing hair, teeth, dog.  Packing underused luggage.  The lingering zip! of the house key sliding from the lock for the weekend.

One hand on the wheel, the other tipping back a travelcup breakfast.

Finally.  Just the two of us and the pooch. Alone together, cheekily trading harmonies with The Boss on E Street Radio while racing away to a mountain weekend several months in the making. Last week’s overtime now melts in the rear view mirror.

Ahead, steep twisty pavement and apple cider stands. An open sunroof sends backseat ears-a-floppin’ and slobber-a-flyin’.

It’s peak week and the Blue Ridge Parkway is teaming with lookie-loos.  They come from all 50 states to spy a brief burst of color -more often seen on the easel than the hillside- that fades and drops to the hiking paths below.

A cool day turns to a cold night, with fresh caught mountain trout and sweet potato baked on high in the fireplace. The perfect dinner on paper plates.  Dirty dishes and scraps tossed into the trash.

This is what it’s all about.

No TV, no radio, no internet. Only a dead cellphone, the two of us and the pooch that sleeps in front of the blaze.

And the bear.

As the hungry beast overturns the trashcan and sifts madly through our leftovers, he sets off the car alarm, which upsets a slumbering Labradoodle, that rushes the door and sends the glasses of what little Albarino we had left to the floor.

Ah, nature.

It was time for a glass of bourbon anyway.

See you back here in a few.

TG

Yeah that one.  The one you’ve been holding onto.  Just can’t bring yourself to open it.  It’s just so special.

Why?  Simple. Because you have it.

You are the owner.  And everyone wants a limited edition, “highly recommended,” collectible, best in show, #1 pick of the century, right?  The ol’ “Scuse me while I whip this out,” kinda thing.

Very impressive.

One day, years from now, when that really special event happens, you’re going to open, eyeball, sniff, swirl, sip, and lovingly drink this priceless wonder with the husband, wife, lover, son, daughter, or best friend.

Graduation? Nah.  Anniversary? That happens once a year, so, not special enough for ya.   30^th, 40^th, 50^th, 60^th birthday?  No. It has to be big. Maybe you’ll just wait another year, or two, or five.

2012? No.

2013? No. 13 is an unlucky number.

2014, ’15, ’16, ’17? No, no, no and no.

2018 Probably not. But maybe.

Flash forward to 2018. Finally, somehow the right time has arrived. Now we’re talkin’. Time to open that sucker.

Hmmm. Cork’s a little crumbly.  No worries. They say that happens sometimes.  Color’s a little strange too, but you’re guessing it’s because it’s “aged.” And “aged” = great, right? Heard great Pinot can sometimes smell like dead flowers, so, you’re good there as well.

Sip #1. Wow. It’s different than you remember.

Not quite the same as it was at the party, wedding, dinner, trip to Europe. Hmmmm. Is this what the magazine, shop- owner, “friend that knows his wines” described? Well, I’m sure it’s-

Sip #2. Uh-oh. What’s this? Sip #2 tastes a little – well – to be honest, it’s – it’s kinda lame.

Sip #3. Uhhhhh. Dear God what happened?

Is this wine, or liquid air?  There’s just nothing there. This wine sucks.  What was I thinking?

Hmmmm.

Maybe you weren’t. Maybe that perfect time slipped through your fingers. Weird. Same thing happened with the perfect mate, job, vacation you never took. They just snuck right by when you weren’t looking.

Don’t let the next bottle do the same.

See you back here in a few.

TG

WTC Collage, July 2000, by Jimmy Higgs

I Remember

Athens, Georgia.

Though the building was new, the basement was skanky and reeked of bleach.  The light overhead, a cheap florescent, noisy and green.  This dungeon was the only available meeting space, as the rest of the building was being primed and painted.

In the midst of our presentation, our client’s phone rang and he answered yet another call from his wife, now 3 months pregnant.

“What? Ok.  Ok. When? No- I’ll find out.  I’ll call you back in a few minutes.  We’re almost finished here.  Love you, too.”

Zack flipped his phone shut and looked at us, dazed and confused, then told us an airplane had flown into one of the World Trade Center buildings.

We sat for a moment, stunned at the thought of how many innocent lives may have been taken by what must surely had been computer failure, or worse, human error.

The phone rang again.  It was Zack’s wife Debbie.  Again.  We collectively held our breath as he answered. The desperation radiated through the tinny telephone speaker.  “…some kind of attack.  Come home, please!”

Zack shut the phone, again, and we all realized something horrible, something unthinkable, was taking place.

Little did we know.

As my wife and I held hands through the four hour drive home, I remembered how the year before, in July 2000, I’d forced myself to take the incredibly long elevator ride to the 106^th and 107^th floors of 1 World Trade Center.  I am afraid of heights and was damn near petrified.

Windows on the World.

A wine lover’s paradise. Cellar in the Sky.  Greatest Bar on Earth. 50,000 bottle wine cellar, 1,400 bottle wine list.

I’d literally crawled off the elevator like a child, ready to vomit when I saw the distance from 107^th to the ground below.  I pulled myself up from the floor and placed my hands on the window and thought, ‘Step one, complete. You made it to the top.  It’s ok.  You’re safe.’

From the bar I heard, “Hey pal, relax, you got this shit handled. Where you guys from?”  And, from another, ‘I know.  The first time I came in for an interview, I thought there was no way I could work up here.  But, you know, I got used to it.  It all works out.’

I laughed and we all had a drink at the top of the free world. And I can still feel the weakness in my knees.

This weekend, take a moment.

Remember.

I’ll see you back here in a few.

TG

The Pistol Annies

Maybe it’s Grumpy Thursday, but IMHO there’s way too much wine pairing info on the internet.

Pages and pages of menus, do’s, don’ts and absolutes. Its all there.  But what’s missing is info on the art of pairing vino with the moment.

Friends often describe a wine-night-out with nary a mention of what culinary masterpiece they shoved down their gullet. The memories of the evening start and end with the mood. Of course, mood encompasses many things, but for our purposes let’s concentrate on one aspect of the equation, wine and music.

As an experiment, I had a few friends list their recent favorite ipod selections, which I then paired with wines.

Fun stuff.  Check it out.

Listener: Heather

Song: Busted by The Black Keys

Listener Comments: “I think of riding around PA in the country, summertime, windows down, in the back of my dad’s Lincoln Continental Mark III with faux white leather seats. My siblings and I melted crayons back there many times. I hated the oldies then. But this “new-wave” oldie type makes me think of those ‘easy days’.”

Ahh, The Black Keys covering Howlin’ Wolf.  Nassssssty.

When cranking these guys you may suddenly feel the urge to beat cardboard boxes, chew marbles and run down a dirt road in your underpants.  Good stuff.  Gritty down home grind needs something with a little grip, a little funkatude, and the fruit to make it go down reeeeal smooth-like.  Definitely a classic Rioja Grand Reserva-a wine once described by a famous sommelier as having “the aroma of sweet assness.”

I think you get the picture.

Listener: Steve

Song: Holland, by Neutral Milk Hotel (NMH)

Listener Comments: None

NMH, the fuzz-folk masters that make you want to pull on Daddy’s slippers and maniacally zip in and out of bumper-to-bumper traffic on a Vespa. Or, perhaps, sit in a corner and count the number of times you can blink in a minute.

We have to prescribe something here that plays AGAINST the frantic beat.  Slow sipping, thoughtful and focused.  Instantly leaning towards an Italian, a Sangiovese, say a Vino Nobile di Montepulciano or Chianti Classico.  Remember: Drive safely, dismount and then partake.

Listener: Todd

Song: Under the Bridge, by Red Hot Chili Peppers

Listener Comments: “Feel- motivated”

A big salute to the City of Angels.  You gotta go Californian here.  Zinfandel.  A big, briary red that will wash away the blues and keep you off the bridge.

Listener: K-Dawn

Song: Drinkin’ Wine Spo-Dee-O-Dee by Jerry Lee Lewis.

Listener Comments: According to K-Dawn this tune puts her “in the mood to dance with people that are not downers.”

What we have here is another jumper from The Killer his-selves. Definitely want a wine the entire family likes, especially the cousins. A crowd pleaser that’s not too complicated; otherwise you’ll be thinking about the juice instead of the dance floor moves. White wine.  Yep. Straight forward, and fruity without the tuitti.  We also don’t want to feel guilty about downing the remains if the song ends before we do.  Can’t lose with a unoaked California Chardonnay or Chenin Blanc. Whew!!  Goodness, gracious…

Listener: David

Album: Ghetto Pop Life, by Danger Mouse and Jemini

(Note NSFW)

Listener Comments: “Makes me feel cooler than I have a right to be”

I imagine David listening to this album while destroying his computer, ala Office Space. Need a refreshuh.  Even Ritchie Cunningham would look cool listenin’ to this stuff with a chilly glass of bubbly.  Go for the Cava.  It’s a crisp, dry and inexpensive traditional method sparkler. D-D-D-D-DANGER!

Listener: Michael

Song: Door Is Always Open, by Waylon Jennings

Listener Comments: “Feeling- Vindication”

Olorosso Sherry. Because she’ll be back.  Oh yes she will.

Listener: Lorie

Song: Hell on Heels, by The Pistol Annies

Listener Comments: “Makes me want to spank my own bottom and dance on the countertop”

Well, seems only right that we go pink here. Rose.  Garnacha.  Spain.

See you back here in a few.

TG

The transformation from rowdy sun-worshipper haven to peaceful backdrop is never lost on my family.

We play hard at the beach, and later, at the dinner table, we toast each other with gusto and glasses of zinfandel, gruner veltliner and  tempranillo.  We laugh one moment, cry the next, realizing that this is it. We may continue this tradition for the next 20 years, or never again. Who knows what life holds for one or all of us.

We only know that albarino in a ridiculous blue plastic glass tastes wonderful when it’s shared with a loved one.

Hope you enjoy the photos.

See you back here in a few.

TG

Toasting Sunset with the Perfect Plastic Glass

Dusk

Greatest of Ease

Castles in the Sand

Left

We recently shared an evening with my wife’s college roommate, Kathy King-Greene, and her precocious 10-year-old daughter, Kate.  The two K’s were enroute to the Smokey Mountains where they would later be joined by the rest of their family.

We’d seen Kathy from time-to-time, but seven years had passed since we last spent time with a then 4-year-old Kate.  Seeing how she’d changed, I suddenly felt old, and caught myself wanting to say old people-ish things, like, “Look how much you’ve grown!” Or the old standby, “I remember when you were blah-blah-blah.”

That would have been a major shock to the system, so instead Kate and I simply smiled, shook hands and gently hugged one another. Kate then quickly volunteered she’d forgotten Uncle Buddy, the name she’d given me the last time we were together, followed by an awkward moment where we stared at each other with that “now what?” look. She broke the silence and stated she also didn’t remember our house, but, she approved of it. So much so, in fact, that she’d made a walking-tour video of the entire floor plan before I’d gotten home from work.  The plan was to put it on the internet and teach people how to design a place with a very cool layout.

Ahhh, the fruit, obviously, did not fall far from the tree.  There is after all, a K-a-t-hy in Kate.

See, College Roommate Kathy has apparently always been a little bigger than life. My wife Lorie often recounts her University of Florida days with descriptors that rival the Bill Brasky of Saturday Night Live lore. “She’s ten-feet-tall, showers in Chanel #9, and feeds her baby shrimp scampi!” A legendary knockout with a wicked sense of humor, Kathy flew through those four years effortlessly, always casting her cape just above the hands (and heads) of smitten young men. She was, as Lorie once told me, someone wise beyond their own years and experiences, someone who just knew things. I had no reason to doubt this, but for the entirety of our marriage I could only take my wife at her word. Until this particular evening, the few, brief conversations I’d had with Kathy had been mostly by phone. I’d always liked and admired her, but I now realized I felt a little cheated out of getting to know this Wonder Woman.

It had been a tough Spring for Kathy.  A sharp pain in her breast proved to be the dreaded “C,” and two days prior to sitting in our kitchen she’d completed her second round of chemo. It was only a few more days before she’d begin experiencing the full wallop of her body going to war with cancer.

Lorie was packing that night to go on her own cool weather vacation, so Kathy and I bellied up to the barstools.  For a moment we quietly drank our chard.  “This is really good,” she said.  I glanced at her, and wondered how she looked more radiant than I remembered.

The wrap she’d chosen to cover her balding head reminded me of a crown and a strange chuckle echoed in my belly.

She held her glass at an angle, admiring the juice inside like it was the first taste of wine she’d enjoyed in years.  “No. I mean, this is really good.”

“Right!? Who knew a freaking chardonnay could taste like this?” I said, as we stared at our wine glasses.

Who knew?  Wonder Woman did.

See you back here in a few.

TG