A complex taste…
Life is never good. It always seems one of those stories people tell with this regret or that, this pain or that… it gets boring and you want to slap the speaker sometimes for even thinking about telling you all this, this all too common story that you’ve heard one thousand times or more, from every living being. Its one of those things you wish you could say, yeah I know, I’ve lived, wake up you freakin moron…
The great thing about wine is that it tastes better the more you drink. Sinatra and Dean alternatively croon through my speakers, as I sip a terrible Beaujolais Nouveau. It has too much bite, and a quite a bit of oxygen… so much that it fizzes slightly in my mouth. When I lived in Austin, this would be unacceptable… I’d complain to my coworkers in the wine department and they’d find me a nice bottle and ask why I was stupid enough to try Primeur… they wouldn’t even carry it at my store… and if they did… none of the wine guys would recommend it… they always had a knack for knowing just the right wine.
She’s it. Yes. She’s it.
The smile on my face is a welcomed traitor. I’m in the midst of a crippling state of depression and anxiety, where even breathing can be a chore… around my friends and co-workers my body seizes, and with it, the mucus lined tubes that transport life. I’m an asthmatic, and this, this, is very bad.
But for some reason her smile cures me, her voice soothes, and her touch pure ecstasy.
A good wine is one that is so good, you worry about drinking more, wondering if you’d fall out of the fantasy and awaken to a bitter biter that obfuscates itself with alcohol content. Its one that you remember hauntingly at dinnertime, when you find its perfect compliment, and realize you drank the last of it the night before, as you chatted with friends.
Keys... Door… Open. Keys… Desk. Door… Close. Automatic.
It’s the small things that you wonder how they happened, when you get up off the floor.
My knees are all I remember… the thud upon the thin carpet bought by her mom… the rocking back and forth on them, as on all fours I was overcome, breathing tears. The lack of pain in them… these knees; sometimes it feels like that’s where I belong, on my knees.
The perfect wine is your wine… no one else’s… its choosing Chianti with a white fish or a Riesling with steak… it fits your personality to a T and it makes your food soo much better. It transforms your food from a meal to an escape.
Americans eat food too fast, without much thought. Perhaps it has something to do with the grade school cafeterias we’re all accustomed to. To living life as if the details don’t matter… We’re always running from one meeting to the next, never having time to breath, and only occasionally having time to shower. My Tuesdays are like that… busy busy busy… from the time I wake until the time I escape I’m doing something… and dinner is one of the things I fit in… one of the after thoughts… one of the moments
I have to take to make sure I don’t pass out in my next meeting.
Have you ever lived in time? Let it be your servant, not your punisher?
The gourmet grocery store I worked at has become part of my unicorn… People worked there not because they had to, but because they lived. The life of a foodie is different than the life of everyone else… it’s mystical. We walk differently and talk differently, as if our wildest dreams can come true… and with the sly grin that suggests they have… We walk into a kitchen with expectations of a great meal to come… we scrounge the cupboards and fridge for those forgotten pieces of manna hidden in the plains-clothes of a cucumber or chicken breast. We walk in and taste things never tasted, cook things not yet cooked and dream things never dreamed. We walk with hope.
the dead end job thing has been done before, and no one became rich, and no one felt terribly rewarded... I don't want to live like a drone... mindless... emotionless... I want to LIVE... something few have ever dared to do in the history of mankind... I want to tell the system to back off, stop trying to destroy my heart, stop trying to tame the life within me... stop trying to change me into your pawn for your safe consumption...
I want to live in a way few have dared. I want to BREATHE!
We even take a bad Beaujolais Nouveau and dream a perfect citrus marinade, for a delicious chicken served over angel hair pasta, spiked with strawberries and orange slices in a delicate and slight red wine sauce hinted with basil, rosemary and parsley…
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