It’s poor form, I know it, but I couldn’t wait for my friends to arrive before I opened the bottle of Carmela Benegas Argentinean Rose last night. Maybe it was the erotic nude on the label, 1 whose pink skin matched the blush color of the wine. Maybe it’s the fact that I had a hellish day at work and also slipped on the sidewalk ice on my way home and can’t tolerate another nanosecond of winter in Maine. Maybe I’m just a wino. But whatever the reason—and I suspect it’s a combo of all three--I opened the bottle as soon as I had my coat off and poured myself a glass.
The wine hit my mouth like a summer breeze at twilight. Light and fresh, it transported me: I was in a swimming pool. Then I was sipping lemonade. Then I had bare feet and was eating watermelon on a dewy just-mowed lawn. I felt warm. I felt much, much better.
My husband, Craig, looked at me scornfully.
“Aren’t you going to wait until everyone else gets here?” our ten-year-old son, George, asked.
“Nope,” I said.
“Can we try some of the cheese?” asked Dora, our daughter, who’s six.
“Once everyone else gets here,” I said, the bald-faced hypocrite that I am.
After we ate the take-out dinner I’d picked up on the way home, and hastily cleaned up the kitchen, the ladies2 arrived. Craig let the kids taste the boucheron before he brought them up for bed.
“The cheese tastes like somebody’s memories of hiking a mountain,” said George. “It’s earthy and fresh, like leather and rocky hills and air.”
Dora said, “It’s kind of spicy, like flowers. It makes me feel excited, like when George plays the drums. I don’t know what’s going to happen next.”
Craig said the wine brought to mind watermelon candy, Virginia Slims, and sparklers. Paired with the boucheron, he said, the taste was like a sunset.
And then the ladies and I got down to our own tasting. We sampled the wine and then paired it with the boucheron, spread on a delicious baguette that my friend Chris made. Here’s what they had to say:3
The rose has a very pretty color…smells like Hawaiian punch…sweet and mild, pleasing in my mouth…I think of bubbles, lemons, pink, stepping out of a swimming pool…the cheese is salty and goaty and pungent with a smoky aftertaste…the sip of wine is a refreshing contrast after the creamy and dense cheese…the sweet and salty together is like kissing a chewy 20-year-old Mediterranean guy…the wine soothes the salt of the cheese like aloe on a sunburn.
Myself, I was in love with the wine. I was spinning off into my own little summer vacation. And the cheese only deepened my pleasure. Salty, warm, and creamy, the boucheron perfectly complimented the flowery citrus of the rose. I didn’t want to come back from my vacation. Luckily, I didn’t have to. Not yet, anyway. Someone opened another bottle of wine, and the conversation morphed into topics other than cheese and wine, and the evening spread open, in front of us.
-- Nicole Chaison
Cheese: Boucheron – goat’s milk cheese from Loire valley
Wine: Carmela Benegas Rose wine – Argentina
Footnotes
1 Jacques from Old Port Wine informed me that this sexy and nubile model is the wine maker’s daughter. This gave me pause--maybe they do things a little differently down in Argentina, but here in Maine we don’t put naked pictures of our daughters on our wine bottles, etc.--but it didn’t stop me from drinking the wine. No, sir.
2 Lynne Rowe, Delia MacDonald, Chris Iyer, Leah Coplon, Stacy Brenner, and Ava Moskin.
3 I’ve arranged their bon mots as a montage, because I can’t remember who said what.
Bio: Nicole Chaison wrote Spice (ReganBooks, 2006) with chef Ana Sortun, which was nominated for a James Beard Award for Best International Cookbook in 2007. She chronicles the roller coaster of passion that is parenting in her self-published quarterly, Hausfrau Muthah-zine, which has generated a cult following among the lactating and radically sleep deprived. Her stories and comics have appeared in Mamaphiles, Fertile Ground, The Bad Mother Chronicles, and the collection Forty Things to Do When You Turn Forty (Sellers, 2007). Her graphic novel, The Passion of the Hausfrau, is forthcoming from Ballantine in spring 2009. Read her on line at www.thehausfrau.com.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Disconnecting
“Why didn’t you tell me how fat I was?” I ask my friend Ray when she shows me a photograph taken before December’s staff party.
“You’re not fat, just a little chubby.”
“Give me that,” I say, grabbing it from her.
She stands up, snickering as she walks away. “Wine?”
“Is the Pope Catholic?”
In the kitchen, Ray de-corks a bottle while I stare at the photograph. I can see the faint outline of my stomach beneath the grey sweater I’m wearing. I must have had some sense I’d put on weight; even my khakis are baggy.
Ray passes me a glass of the Gouguenheim Malbec—our wine of choice—when she returns to the couch and sits down beside me. She grabs the photograph from my hand. “You look fine. Stop obsessing.”
I take a sip of wine and have the urge to grab the photograph back from her. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”
“And what was I supposed to say?”
“I don’t know, something.”
“And how would you have reacted?”
I pause. “Not well, probably.”
“Exactly.” She takes a long drink from her glass and reaches for the remote control on the coffee table in front of us. “What do you want to watch?”
I shrug. What we watch really doesn’t matter. I want to talk about the way I look in the photograph, how the way I really look doesn’t match the way I thought I looked.
Ray stops moving through the channels when she finds Project Runway. It’s a rerun, but she wants to watch it anyway.
I slide my hand over the love handle at the left side of my stomach, clasping the skin. I guess there’s more there than I remember. But, how could this have happened? I was so thin in college.
“We need snacks,” Ray says at the first commercial break, her back to me as she stands up and walks to the kitchen again.
That’s just what I need, more snacks. I should tell her I’m not hungry, but I don’t and, when she’s beside me again, I reach for the sliced cheese—a Chistou—she’s placed on the coffee table. I have absolutely no control and begin shoving two to three slices at a time into my mouth.
Ray lets out a soft giggle. “Hungry?”
“I guess so,” I say, but the truth is I’m not. And, I don’t know why I’m eating. I want to look at the photograph again, but she’s placed it on the end table to her right, and I’d have to reach over her to get it.
“That’s cool,” she says, when one of the models hits the runway in a dress made entirely of reeds.
I grab two more slices of the Chistou and stare at the television set. I’m not really paying attention to the models, or the reactions the designers have to their work on the runway. I take another drink from the glass of wine in my left hand; if I drink it quickly, I think, I’ll disconnect, from this body I clearly have little, if any, control over.
Wine: Gougenheim, Malbec
Cheese: Chistou
- Jesse W. Lane
“You’re not fat, just a little chubby.”
“Give me that,” I say, grabbing it from her.
She stands up, snickering as she walks away. “Wine?”
“Is the Pope Catholic?”
In the kitchen, Ray de-corks a bottle while I stare at the photograph. I can see the faint outline of my stomach beneath the grey sweater I’m wearing. I must have had some sense I’d put on weight; even my khakis are baggy.
Ray passes me a glass of the Gouguenheim Malbec—our wine of choice—when she returns to the couch and sits down beside me. She grabs the photograph from my hand. “You look fine. Stop obsessing.”
I take a sip of wine and have the urge to grab the photograph back from her. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”
“And what was I supposed to say?”
“I don’t know, something.”
“And how would you have reacted?”
I pause. “Not well, probably.”
“Exactly.” She takes a long drink from her glass and reaches for the remote control on the coffee table in front of us. “What do you want to watch?”
I shrug. What we watch really doesn’t matter. I want to talk about the way I look in the photograph, how the way I really look doesn’t match the way I thought I looked.
Ray stops moving through the channels when she finds Project Runway. It’s a rerun, but she wants to watch it anyway.
I slide my hand over the love handle at the left side of my stomach, clasping the skin. I guess there’s more there than I remember. But, how could this have happened? I was so thin in college.
“We need snacks,” Ray says at the first commercial break, her back to me as she stands up and walks to the kitchen again.
That’s just what I need, more snacks. I should tell her I’m not hungry, but I don’t and, when she’s beside me again, I reach for the sliced cheese—a Chistou—she’s placed on the coffee table. I have absolutely no control and begin shoving two to three slices at a time into my mouth.
Ray lets out a soft giggle. “Hungry?”
“I guess so,” I say, but the truth is I’m not. And, I don’t know why I’m eating. I want to look at the photograph again, but she’s placed it on the end table to her right, and I’d have to reach over her to get it.
“That’s cool,” she says, when one of the models hits the runway in a dress made entirely of reeds.
I grab two more slices of the Chistou and stare at the television set. I’m not really paying attention to the models, or the reactions the designers have to their work on the runway. I take another drink from the glass of wine in my left hand; if I drink it quickly, I think, I’ll disconnect, from this body I clearly have little, if any, control over.
Wine: Gougenheim, Malbec
Cheese: Chistou
- Jesse W. Lane
Monday, January 28, 2008
Pregnant Pause
The day did not begun auspiciously. One of our roosters, El Diablo, tangled himself in a piece of string overnight and at 5:30 in the morning my husband found him prone, his feet and scaly legs solidly frozen at odd angles in the coop’s shavings. Our daughter Charlotte, who woke when Karl rushed up the stairs with The Chicken Health Handbook, had a scarlet bottom and thrashed through her diaper change. Halfway through my morning cup of (mostly) decaf, NPR reports that even moderate amounts of caffeine can complicate pregnancy at any stage.
We had planned to put the baby to bed early and have a grown-up dinner: shredded roast duck with porcinis and homemade pasta, a nice salad, a little sparkling cava brut and a wedge of creamy, bloomy rinded Spanish goat cheese. But this does not seem like a day to tempt fate.
I am six months pregnant, and there’s so much that’s off-limits, so many restrictions that chafe at reason but are snared by superstition, that on normal occasions a swallow or two of wine, a little nibble of risky cheese, seem a prudent emotional release. In the first six weeks, when it seemed absurd that I could be pregnant again so soon, there were regrettable sins of omission and oblivion. But now, healthy sonograms tacked to the fridge, third trimester countdown begun, I sometimes give myself permission for a calculated, conscious transgression. Today, however, isn’t one for hubris.
Brining my daughter in skin-calming sea salts, debating whether to intervene as she tosses popcorn to the half-dead chicken in our living room, I spend much of the day fantasizing about the forbidden. Cheese and wine, raw oysters, now coffee: they taunt me from our bookshelves, from the covers of magazines I bring in with the mail. Oh, the fizz tingling through your whole body, the creamy center of a wedge of cheese, sweet, against all olfactory odds, warming and melting into your tongue like cream….
The baby pushes off from my ribs, swimming its little dolphin twists in my belly. My daughter pulls up my shirt and jabs her cold little fingers into my navel, “Beebee, beebee.” She snuggles her round cheek into my skin and drapes herself across my swollen middle. Who am I kidding? Would I trade any of this? Could anything give me more tingle, more sweet?
We have takeout burritos and milk for dinner, the three of us, early. Our grown-up night will wait.
Later in the week, Karl arrives home with a new piece of Sarah’s Nevat, a pasteurized goat cheese made by a single farmer near the Portuguese border and named for his daughter. Charlotte helps to roll out the pasta dough, samples a little duck, devours the porcini. We put her to bed and crack open the cheese and a cava brut that’s fittingly named 1 + 1 =3. Karl and I toast our life, our kid, and our crowing Lazarus, too newly risen to risk banishment to the barn. I have just a taste, but that’s more than enough.
-- by Margaret Hathaway
Wine: 1+1=3 Cava Brut, Spain
Cheese: Sarah’s Nevat, Spain
We had planned to put the baby to bed early and have a grown-up dinner: shredded roast duck with porcinis and homemade pasta, a nice salad, a little sparkling cava brut and a wedge of creamy, bloomy rinded Spanish goat cheese. But this does not seem like a day to tempt fate.
I am six months pregnant, and there’s so much that’s off-limits, so many restrictions that chafe at reason but are snared by superstition, that on normal occasions a swallow or two of wine, a little nibble of risky cheese, seem a prudent emotional release. In the first six weeks, when it seemed absurd that I could be pregnant again so soon, there were regrettable sins of omission and oblivion. But now, healthy sonograms tacked to the fridge, third trimester countdown begun, I sometimes give myself permission for a calculated, conscious transgression. Today, however, isn’t one for hubris.
Brining my daughter in skin-calming sea salts, debating whether to intervene as she tosses popcorn to the half-dead chicken in our living room, I spend much of the day fantasizing about the forbidden. Cheese and wine, raw oysters, now coffee: they taunt me from our bookshelves, from the covers of magazines I bring in with the mail. Oh, the fizz tingling through your whole body, the creamy center of a wedge of cheese, sweet, against all olfactory odds, warming and melting into your tongue like cream….
The baby pushes off from my ribs, swimming its little dolphin twists in my belly. My daughter pulls up my shirt and jabs her cold little fingers into my navel, “Beebee, beebee.” She snuggles her round cheek into my skin and drapes herself across my swollen middle. Who am I kidding? Would I trade any of this? Could anything give me more tingle, more sweet?
We have takeout burritos and milk for dinner, the three of us, early. Our grown-up night will wait.
Later in the week, Karl arrives home with a new piece of Sarah’s Nevat, a pasteurized goat cheese made by a single farmer near the Portuguese border and named for his daughter. Charlotte helps to roll out the pasta dough, samples a little duck, devours the porcini. We put her to bed and crack open the cheese and a cava brut that’s fittingly named 1 + 1 =3. Karl and I toast our life, our kid, and our crowing Lazarus, too newly risen to risk banishment to the barn. I have just a taste, but that’s more than enough.
-- by Margaret Hathaway
Wine: 1+1=3 Cava Brut, Spain
Cheese: Sarah’s Nevat, Spain
Friday, January 25, 2008
A Celebration
Toward the far end of our property is a small graveyard, hidden behind a fringe of cedars. We bury him there in the spring and celebrate with a bottle of Francois Montand, letting the foam drip onto the dark earth and grass seed. We have no glasses so we take drags from the bottle between drags from our cigarettes as we stare into the dirt. Come high summer only the grasses and Queen Anne’s lace will mark this spot.
“Let’s save the rest for the cheese,” she says and spits on the ground, already turning back toward the house. This is fine enough for me. There’s a thin, biting wind whistling through the trees and I’ve long ago begun to feel uneasy. A light fog is clinging to the hollows of the field and the few surviving patches of snow there and the long blue shadows of the cedars claw at our backs as we scurry away from the woods.
By the time we reach the house it’s dark. I must have been walking far faster than I thought because I’m out of breath as I tumble through the door. I can still feel a low pulse of fear beating in time with my heart but it lessens once we’re both over the threshold. Only a single low lamp is on at the far end of the kitchen, illuminating a fat, bright round of Brillat-Savarin, its rind a pure white haze of mold. She cuts it and the inside is a pale buttery yellow to match our Brut which I have transferred to flutes for the occasion. Unsmiling we toast the victory of our revenge with the sweetness of heavenly decadence.
-- Kyle Volland
Wine: Francois Montand Brut, France
Cheese: Brillat-Savarin, France
“Let’s save the rest for the cheese,” she says and spits on the ground, already turning back toward the house. This is fine enough for me. There’s a thin, biting wind whistling through the trees and I’ve long ago begun to feel uneasy. A light fog is clinging to the hollows of the field and the few surviving patches of snow there and the long blue shadows of the cedars claw at our backs as we scurry away from the woods.
By the time we reach the house it’s dark. I must have been walking far faster than I thought because I’m out of breath as I tumble through the door. I can still feel a low pulse of fear beating in time with my heart but it lessens once we’re both over the threshold. Only a single low lamp is on at the far end of the kitchen, illuminating a fat, bright round of Brillat-Savarin, its rind a pure white haze of mold. She cuts it and the inside is a pale buttery yellow to match our Brut which I have transferred to flutes for the occasion. Unsmiling we toast the victory of our revenge with the sweetness of heavenly decadence.
-- Kyle Volland
Wine: Francois Montand Brut, France
Cheese: Brillat-Savarin, France
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
A Tasting
6 adults. 4 kids under 3. What were we thinking? A bottle of Stonehedge Cabernet, a wedge of Spanish Mahon, homemade mac and cheese for the little ones, a monstrous pile of toys: the hope of a few snippets of adult conversation amid the din. 2 wives swirl and sniff their husbands' wine glasses longingly while counting out sets of blocks and discussing childcare. Two boys build towers. The youngest is briefly enthralled by a miniature tractor-trailer driven by a piece of cheese. This cheese needs this wine, someone says. The boys shout Crash! as the towers tumble. This wine needs this cheese, says another. The pregnant ladies scowl sweetly. What were we thinking? The pile of toys in the living room morphs and moves, seemingly on its own. The talk veers toward potty training techniques, pond hockey, Cormac McCarthy, plastic talking ponies, toddlerspeak (Mommy, the goo-ga went wombly twombly!), the vagaries of organic gardening. A boy grabs a cardboard block and bops his older sister on the head. We ride the waves of crying, the negotiations and battery-driven voices, fitting our conversations into the lulls. There is, of course, one wooden fire engine that all four children must have right now. A lesson on sharing. Who do you think will win the school district seat? Liam, back away from the pony. Yes, I've started yoga again. Did you try this cheese? Give her back the little green man. I told him no iPhones in the bedroom. How many glasses of wine have you had, honey? Daddy, look, a real hammer! What were we thinking? It's hopeless, and beautiful.
-- Gibson Fay-LeBlanc
Wine: Stonehedge Cabernet, California
Cheese: Mahon, Spain
-- Gibson Fay-LeBlanc
Wine: Stonehedge Cabernet, California
Cheese: Mahon, Spain
A Break from the Hectic
What I’ve always liked about wine and cheese is their surefire ability to slow me down in the midst of a hectic time. Unlike so many other things in our fast-paced, overly scheduled lives, making great wines and cheeses cannot be hurried.
And likewise, enjoying a glass of wine and a knob of cheese, preferably with good friends, is a simple way to call “time out” on a busy day.
That’s exactly what I did recently when I treated myself to a simple lunch of wine, cheese and fresh bread. What I thought would be a short break in the day turned into something special when a couple of friends dropped by unannounced. The three of us caught up with each other and talked about nothing in particular. Like many meals that turn out great, this one was simple, not highly planned, and focused on friendships as much, if not more than, what was on our plates.
About the wine and cheese: I’m usually a bit of a blank canvas when I walk into a wine or cheese store, and this time was no different. Jacques offered a gewürztraminer from South Africa – Robertson Winery’s 2007 Special Late Harvest – with loads of sugar and lots of honeysuckle and floral aromas. It’s fun to taste wines made with varietals grown outside their usual region, and this South African gewürztraminer interested me.
Wine in hand, I headed up to see Kris at the Public Market House. After telling her about the wine, she thought a bit, and recommended a Spanish goat’s milk cheese called Nevat. This creamy, soft-ripened cheese has a bloomy white rind that reminded me of brie. But the texture is much creamier and the flavors much stronger – nice saltiness, with a tangy finish and lots of pungent aroma.
Life can be full of simple, unplanned pleasures, and discovering new tastes and connecting with friends are two of the best. I wonder why it’s so easy to rush through life looking for the big reward, when all it takes is a bottle of wine, a little cheese, and someone to share them with? (Don’t forget the corkscrew!)
-- Thom Householder
Wine: Gewürztraminer - Robertson Winery 2007 Special Late Harvest - South Africa
Cheese: Nevat – Goat’s Milk - Spain
And likewise, enjoying a glass of wine and a knob of cheese, preferably with good friends, is a simple way to call “time out” on a busy day.
That’s exactly what I did recently when I treated myself to a simple lunch of wine, cheese and fresh bread. What I thought would be a short break in the day turned into something special when a couple of friends dropped by unannounced. The three of us caught up with each other and talked about nothing in particular. Like many meals that turn out great, this one was simple, not highly planned, and focused on friendships as much, if not more than, what was on our plates.
About the wine and cheese: I’m usually a bit of a blank canvas when I walk into a wine or cheese store, and this time was no different. Jacques offered a gewürztraminer from South Africa – Robertson Winery’s 2007 Special Late Harvest – with loads of sugar and lots of honeysuckle and floral aromas. It’s fun to taste wines made with varietals grown outside their usual region, and this South African gewürztraminer interested me.
Wine in hand, I headed up to see Kris at the Public Market House. After telling her about the wine, she thought a bit, and recommended a Spanish goat’s milk cheese called Nevat. This creamy, soft-ripened cheese has a bloomy white rind that reminded me of brie. But the texture is much creamier and the flavors much stronger – nice saltiness, with a tangy finish and lots of pungent aroma.
Life can be full of simple, unplanned pleasures, and discovering new tastes and connecting with friends are two of the best. I wonder why it’s so easy to rush through life looking for the big reward, when all it takes is a bottle of wine, a little cheese, and someone to share them with? (Don’t forget the corkscrew!)
-- Thom Householder
Wine: Gewürztraminer - Robertson Winery 2007 Special Late Harvest - South Africa
Cheese: Nevat – Goat’s Milk - Spain
A First Wine & Cheese Pairing
When Margo asked me to be a part of the wine and cheese writing project, my first instinct was, “but I don’t know anything about wine and cheese!” After many assurances that I didn’t need to be an expert on the topic, I really started to look forward to this as a type of challenge ~ and I feel really fortunate for the experience. This project was to me: a wonderful new experience during the hustle and bustle of the holidays, a reminder of the importance of getting together with friends and enjoying the finer things, and a great writing challenge for a “numbers guy”.
In the hectic few days before Christmas, I found myself scurrying through Portland in the middle of one of our early snow storms. I was doing a little last minute shopping, and picking up the supplies for the writing project. I started at the Old Port Wine Merchant where Jacques handed me a beautiful bottle of Chardonnay. It was a 2006 bottle of Cartlidge & Browne, from California. At the time I had no idea how much I would enjoy sharing that bottle with friends. Next, I made my way through the snow to Kris Horton Specialty Foods, where Kris selected a piece of Comte cheese to match the wine. It was a seasonal cheese from France, that I was told came from the high mountains and was a product of the spring milking. Being completely inexperienced with wine and cheese matching, I really enjoyed the experience of discussing the wine, and selecting the cheese to match. I have to say the customer service and the expertise at both stores was top notch!
When the holidays passed and I finally had a chance to sit down with good friends and enjoy the combination, we marveled at how well the two complemented each other. All together, this was a wonderful experience, for which I want to thank Margo, Jacques, and Kris. I got to enjoy my first wine/cheese pairing, was introduced to two truly fabulous shops in Portland, and had the opportunity to get together with friends that I don’t see enough of. What could be better?
Timothy S. Keene
Wine: Cartlidge & Browne, California
Cheese: Comte, France
In the hectic few days before Christmas, I found myself scurrying through Portland in the middle of one of our early snow storms. I was doing a little last minute shopping, and picking up the supplies for the writing project. I started at the Old Port Wine Merchant where Jacques handed me a beautiful bottle of Chardonnay. It was a 2006 bottle of Cartlidge & Browne, from California. At the time I had no idea how much I would enjoy sharing that bottle with friends. Next, I made my way through the snow to Kris Horton Specialty Foods, where Kris selected a piece of Comte cheese to match the wine. It was a seasonal cheese from France, that I was told came from the high mountains and was a product of the spring milking. Being completely inexperienced with wine and cheese matching, I really enjoyed the experience of discussing the wine, and selecting the cheese to match. I have to say the customer service and the expertise at both stores was top notch!
When the holidays passed and I finally had a chance to sit down with good friends and enjoy the combination, we marveled at how well the two complemented each other. All together, this was a wonderful experience, for which I want to thank Margo, Jacques, and Kris. I got to enjoy my first wine/cheese pairing, was introduced to two truly fabulous shops in Portland, and had the opportunity to get together with friends that I don’t see enough of. What could be better?
Timothy S. Keene
Wine: Cartlidge & Browne, California
Cheese: Comte, France
Traveling Without Moving
I've spent New Year's Day both cooking and building a bonfire. The snow is deep, but I've shoveled a path to my burn area, away from the house and barn, and slowly I've been dragging scrap wood, broken shingles and destroyed cardboard boxes out of the barn to throw atop the pile. In between, I've tended to the pots slow cooking in the oven. Mid-afternoon, after the sun sets, I light the fire, and the orange flames leap to form an intense contrast against the deep blue sky and the light purple snow. The time is right for a break and I remember the bottle of wine and medallion of cheese I've put aside for a quiet moment.
The wine is a Malbec, Septima in the Mendoza region of Argentina, and the cheese, Toledo, not from the Spanish city of the same name but from the Estremadura of Portugal, the region surrounding Lisbon. Toledo is an "all-in cheese," which uses milk from all of the big three dairy animals: cows, sheep and goats. It's shaped like a yogurt container, and the cheese is dense and tangy. A coating of paprika covers it's surface, and inside there are little blooms of the red spice throughout the cheese. The taste and feel are rustic, and fit well and satisfy in this outdoor setting. The wine has cooled a bit in the glass tumbler, which sits nestled in the snow at my feet. But compared to the cold air out here the wine feels warm in my mouth.
Although I've only traveled a few dozen feet from my house, the fire, sky, snow and the tastes in my mouth make me feel as if I've gone a great distance. The wine and cheese certainly have. The Toledo's paprika dusting reminding me of the millions of miles walked by traders on the spice route. Use of the dried pepper spice is native to Portugal, but is present in India, Turkey, Bulgaria, Germany and of course, Hungary. The wine also has a long history of global travel. Originally a Bordeaux grape, the Malbec found its way to Spain, and then later to Argentina. The shortened global distances are present in the hints of vanilla in the wine, not a traditional Malbec characteristic, but one pursued by winemakers to make wine more appealing to customers in America. So my mind wanders far, and the wine and the fire keep the cold away, but the kitchen beckons, so I return home.
Don Lindgren
Wine: Malbec - Septima, Argentina
Cheese: Toledo - Goat, Cow and Sheep's Milk, Portugal
The wine is a Malbec, Septima in the Mendoza region of Argentina, and the cheese, Toledo, not from the Spanish city of the same name but from the Estremadura of Portugal, the region surrounding Lisbon. Toledo is an "all-in cheese," which uses milk from all of the big three dairy animals: cows, sheep and goats. It's shaped like a yogurt container, and the cheese is dense and tangy. A coating of paprika covers it's surface, and inside there are little blooms of the red spice throughout the cheese. The taste and feel are rustic, and fit well and satisfy in this outdoor setting. The wine has cooled a bit in the glass tumbler, which sits nestled in the snow at my feet. But compared to the cold air out here the wine feels warm in my mouth.
Although I've only traveled a few dozen feet from my house, the fire, sky, snow and the tastes in my mouth make me feel as if I've gone a great distance. The wine and cheese certainly have. The Toledo's paprika dusting reminding me of the millions of miles walked by traders on the spice route. Use of the dried pepper spice is native to Portugal, but is present in India, Turkey, Bulgaria, Germany and of course, Hungary. The wine also has a long history of global travel. Originally a Bordeaux grape, the Malbec found its way to Spain, and then later to Argentina. The shortened global distances are present in the hints of vanilla in the wine, not a traditional Malbec characteristic, but one pursued by winemakers to make wine more appealing to customers in America. So my mind wanders far, and the wine and the fire keep the cold away, but the kitchen beckons, so I return home.
Don Lindgren
Wine: Malbec - Septima, Argentina
Cheese: Toledo - Goat, Cow and Sheep's Milk, Portugal
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