Wine, Petty Thoughts

“Well I been to Brooker and I been to Micanopy” just like Tom Petty, though I’ve never been asked to sing at the Super Bowl. Probably we’re better off.

Micanopy is south of Gainesville, Petty’s hometown and mine, across the prairie where Mayberry meets the Twilight Zone. And Brooker? Brooker’s on the same exchange as Monteocha.

Late in August, the muscadines and the scuppernongs, the sweet grapes of Florida, come ripe and hang off the vines in voluptuous presentation. I know an ole boy on a few thousand acres, sent me some wine from his 2007 vintage. Careful now, homebrew has a potency untested, little sips little sips to see if yes indeed you can take it. I wouldn’t call it red. I wouldn’t call it white. I wouldn’t make derogatory comments on its culture. It swirled up the sides of the bowl with fat thighs and had a sweet smell that portended pancake syrup. A cautious taste, ready to spit…it was surprisingly light. Despite the heavy aroma, the thick legs, it lay lightly on my tongue and went down like swallowing an essence rather than a liquid. Monteocha may be an obscure location, but its wine upholds subtle refinement. Still, I wouldn’t drink too much of it at one whack.

I am not a self-appointed sommelier (except of course when we’re camping). Generally I rely on the mouths of experts when it comes to fermented grape juice selection. For instance, I went to our local winemongery looking for a nice engagement present and I had in my head something funny like BIG HOUSE RED or CARDINAL ZIN, appropriate for the occasion. The expertessa recommended a bottle of VIRGIN CHARDONNAY. She told me to come back if things didn’t work out; she had another bottle called BITCH.

In my last life I was born a termite. I love the taste of wood—the woody wines of California over the French any day—the redwoods, oaks, and birches. (Even with tea I like twig-flavored brews.) Perhaps I prefer the cask more than the effort of the fruit, but I do enjoy a chardonnay that tastes like a buttered slice of oak.

Certainly I break with the connoissewers when it comes to red meat. Red meat—red wine. White meat—white wine. And if you’re having ‘possum…? (No one’s ever answered that question.) I say there’s nothing better than a good steak and a nice buttery chardonnay. A chardonnay is better compliment than a baked potato and less fat. Why dull the sacrifice of beef with a starchy tuber?

Cheers, and enjoy the super bowl.