Grab a Hose, I Think I’m on Fire

Last night we drank a Beringer, Knights Valley, 2005 Alluvium.  It opened with a bang of high hopes along with high acid, chunky tannins and a smokin’ sizzle in the mouth.  Grab a hose, I think I’m on fire! 

Perhaps, it needed time, we concluded, and gladly put it down to do its business. This wine was high-on-charm-and-profile, but where was the VAVAVOOM! It glided in confidently talking on its phone, and motioned to the seat across from me.  Feeling generous, I obliged hoping the call would drop.  Instead, it proceeded to chat up its match.com date candidate while gazing across the table at me. 

“Hey, can I send you an email at this address?” it said in the tone of Chuck Barris.  “Well you know that’s the only kind I’d send, so I better not. (pause, smirk) 

I pressed my nose deeper into the glass and inhaled hard.  The fruit seemed to step up – a little black plum, blackberry, dark violet.  Hope was on its way.  But a quick taste revealed a menacing hairball in the middle of my tongue.  Damn, still there.  Husband?  Yes, his searing hairball was there too and melting slowly.  The short glimpse of fruit was gone, slammed shut like a sea anemone after you stick your finger in it.  I conceded: ‘Thanks for coming folks, but the shows over.  You can go home.’

 

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