Feature Post
A Letter from the Back Porch
Most days I try to write something that acts as a legitimate article or an op-ed piece – usually there’s a beginning, a middle and an end, mostly with a point, too and enough facts to make my case. Today isn’t that day, though. I have other things on my mind.
I am traveling to Texas to see my Mom and Grandma at the end of this week and I’m excited about that. My Grandma will be 102 this year and she’s still sharp enough to think the economy is headed for more trouble … I think Depression-era folk have an economic rader akin to divining for water … they know. Thinking of my Grandma also reminds me of her sister-in-law, Virginia, the widow of one of my Grandma’s brothers, Glen, who passed in the early 90s. Virginia occasionally writes letters to my wife and I – in longhand, of course. I always feel bad because I have a hard time writing a birthday card anymore. I am so used to typing. My quid pro quo isn’t that great and I know I’ll be regretful at some point for not taking the time to return her gift in the form of my own letter, longer than a note card.
Virginia’s letters are usually seven or eight pages, mostly non-sequitar remembrances of times gone by—an anecdote about my Grandpa, what a kind and generous man he was, how clever he was with inventing useful things, or my Grandma, what a cook she used to be, the best in the family. Sometimes Virginia will note how happy she is that my Mom is in possession of a family antique that holds special memories, like the radio that acted as evening entertainment after supper. I’m lucky if I make it through with dry eyes. I reread them every now and again when I need to exorcise a burden that only tangential tears can relieve.
I saw some press last week about a new iPad application called the “Flipboard”—it takes all of the content from your Twitter and Facebook accounts, linked articles, photos and such, and turns it into a readable magazine of sorts. Virginia doesn’t have this in mind when she tells me about my Grandma catching a chicken for supper, life’s riches didn’t cost much back then.
Mostly, though, I have been thinking about the end of summer. I’ve been talking about going to see my Mom since earlier this year when the end of July seemed like forever away. We’ve all heard about seasonal affective disorder – the winter blues, right? Is there such a thing as the summer blues? The sadness that happens when you know the summer is getting ready to blow by you, before you even had a chance to say, “hello.”
It’s one of life’s cruel jokes – we spend January til May waiting for summer to get here and then it’s gone in a blink.
Here in the Midwest, you know August is coming furiously because corn and tomato’s are available on the side of the road, the suns’ intensity wanes in the afternoon sky, the locusts sing their symphony, the grass in the front yard starts to wither from its June greenery, football practice starts up and I count down the weekends till kick-off, trying hard not to forsake the glory of August because November will be here soon enough.
Yet, there is an internal body clock that shifts with the seasons. My fall cravings for a cheese plate with salumi, port wines and IPA beers happen subconsciously, and happened early this year, too; perhaps owing to the early spring we had, 80-degree temperatures through much of April. This past weekend I bought a mixed six-pack of bruising IPA’s and stouts, and opened a bottle of Port, all without too much conscious thought; it’s happening – fall is around the corner and I have a bunch of Sauvignon Blanc to drink, not to mention the Rosé.
One good thing about this summer has been I have not been without ice cream. Not at all. My waistline and my scale verify that, as well. I have my winter fat layer ready to go. Perhaps that is part of the reason for the Port – that 9:00 pm sweets craving can be mollified with a finger of Port instead of a big bowl of ice cream.
I like to follow the grinders of the wine business, the folks that are passionate about wine without the gravitas to make the juice, working on the periphery instead, trying to make a mark. I identify with people that start with not much and end with not much, despite the effort. There’s a nobility in the struggle.
StemGrip is one company I’m going to profile in the near future, a device that holds your glassware upright in the dishwasher. There’s always an interesting story in the development of a product. My latest inspiration is trail mix for dessert wines. Forget stinky wine cheeses.
Ports and dessert wines need a revolution – and the answer is …, well, the answer isn’t blue cheese. Who eats a hunk of blue cheese at 9:00 pm at night at home, before going to bed? Nobody, I tell ya. No, instead, the world needs dessert wine trail mixes, a delicious mix with a sipper.
My fave dessert wines are the Quady Essensia and any 10 year Tawny Port. To make a trail mix for the Essensia, or any non-Port style dessert wine, get some white chocolate baking chips, some vanilla almonds and unsalted cashews and mix that up with some dried chopped apricots, and peaches. Add in anything else that sounds like a good complement.
For the Tawny Port trail mix, Sandeman is nice, take toffee, butterscotch, and dark chocolate baking chips, mix in some dried blueberries, dried cherries, diced dried plums, maybe some cocoa roasted almonds and some unsalted cashews and nibble alongside a generously scant pour of the Port.
Heaven.
I’ve been going on too long, but I get that way when time is more of a function of operating between now and then, and not a milemarker to an unknown destination. Love to you and yours and best wishes on the rest of the summer and travels to visit family.
Posted in, Good Grape Daily: Pomace & Lees. Permalink | Comments (3) | Print
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