The following is a wine tasting writing exercise that I did on Fattoria Fibbiano for my Travel Writing class:
My feet sink through the worn limestone floor soothing my posture into a languid stupor. Back and forth I languidly sway to the melody of aged oak tables, tobacco smoke, and friendly mildew surrounding me. Aged electric light, exhausted by the years, illuminates a cellar of dusty wine racks, burnt orange stonewalls, and a low oak beam ceiling. Unfamiliar with wine cellar ambiance of I any kind, I at first feel out of place, then I see the antique cupboard in the corner and think it is not so different form the china cabinet in my grandmother’s kitchen.
The clear smooth base of my wine glass feels warm as I pinch it between fingertips. My forearm and bicep bow into a V to hold the glass at a perfect forty-five degree angle. Sinless, the washed white cloth draped across the oak table provides the model backdrop for my eyes to carefully inspect the golden white vintage in my glass. Dancing light is miraculously caught in its golden apple hue. Gently, I agitate the glass until the liquid leaps to life, striding in circles around the goblet track. My head dips close to the rim with my nose breaking the plain, intruding and curious. Abruptly, a rush of sweet golden apple erupts like a rocket, loud and dominate; then, trailing behind tings of spring blossoms and perhaps tangy citrus. I wet my lips, take up my breath, and close my eyes in anticipation of a sweet kiss. I am not disappointed. Apples tumble out of the glass and bounce across my tongue followed at a distance by tart lip pinching tangs and strong alcoholic fumes. The introduction lasts no more than a few seconds before I reluctantly allow the delicious stream to continue its flow down my throat, only to be pleasantly surprised by a departing gift of persistent lingering flavor and dry tongue. Now shamelessly fantasying I hastily reach for a second kiss in search of spring blossoms. Forcing myself past the attractive apples I am rewarded for my persistence by the budding presence of subtle spring flowers. This is more than I could have imagined, so I think it is best that I wash my glass and stow away my apple blossom first kiss in memory.
This first white wine was an infinitely enjoyable and memorable experience. Indeed gratifying but I am not satisfied. Waiting on the table in front of me is my next great adventure, a red. The still dark liquid pulls me from across the room. Curiosity pushes me forward till I am at the table’s edge, gazing down into the glass. I see my own arm reaching towards my desired prize, my fingers unwrap themselves, opening for one brief moment as they encircle the round, smooth bowl and then close tightly around it. With my glass safely in hand I hastily, I position it directly between the pure white cloth behind it and my peering eyes. So dark and heavy. The white cloth is invisible and all light is taken in, completely devoured by the rich earthen color. I am told Ox blood is the proper name given to such a dark vintage. I am pleased with this name. Continuing my inspection, I slowly begin agitating the glass until the tranquil red fluid springs to life, swimming in gradually faster circles around the glass. Flashes of twirling red Flamenco dancers spark from within its stride. My eyes have had their turn now my nose jumps at its chance. Exhaling, I allow all the air to leave my lungs; then lift the edge of the cup to my nose. I pull in a deep breath. Air rushes into my nostrils bringing with it all the tantalizing smells from my glass. Immediately, my mind begins to segregate and categorize the various aromas. A warm summer afternoon erupts from the glass with smells of sun warmed earth, black cherry, and light tobacco. I am mesmerized. How can a single drink contain such a diverse array of flavors? Full steam a head, my taste buds are going wild with the wait. I reward them for their patience and place the rim to my lips as I eagerly tilt the glass back. Finally, the rich drink fills my mouth. I close my eyes and allow the performance to begin. The Lead instantly captivates my attention, stealing the show with rich, earthen flavors of tobacco that linger like the smooth smoke of my grandfather’s pipe. The antagonist follows closely on it’s heels, taking the form of bold dark cherry. The two vie for power and control, much to my delight. Enthralled in the layered plot, I am find I am sad as the current falls with a swift rush of cedar forest. I am left licking each last droplet of flavor from my lips. Yet, I know this is no tragedy, for the show is not over. Indeed, a glass full of encores promise a complete performance I will not soon forget.
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