Tonight, it is a just a sliver of an ascending moon, in the spring to be known as a Kissing Moon. A sneak peek at the fullness that is coming.  It is a perfect moon on which to contemplate the coming new year. May it be a year of wholehearted living and loving.

Besos,

Elisabet

Tonight’s Moon, Tomorrow’s Hangover (three haikus)
by Matsuo Basho (1644 – 1694)

A man that eats
his meal amidst morning glories –
that’s what I am!

On a blue sea,
waves fragrant with rice wine:
tonight’s moon

A hangover
but while the cherries bloom,
what of it?

Ralph Waldo Emerson

I have started a new creative venture. It is with a new group of people in a new environment with new ideas about wine and living life.  It strikes me how profoundly something brand new can feel as comfortable as a worn in sweater…the one you pull on on a cool Saturday morning, to read the paper and drink your tea … soft, roomy and just right. Mine is light blue and was my father’s who has since passed away. He had drawers full of these sweaters because we never knew what to buy for him and, when asked, he would ask for a blue sweater.

It is the concept of déjà vu, of all is one, of the realization that what you have come to stand upon was beneath your feet all along – a quantum jump from here to there, in place… here, again.

It is such with people we may meet from time to time. It is as though we have known them forever, or have been waiting for them and not known it. 

This is a poem by Neruda.  A bit lengthy but then again, like the person who has taken their own sweet time to arrive, worth the wait.

Besos dulces,

Elisabet

Ode and Burgeonings
by Pablo Neruda

The taste of your mouth and the color of your skin,
skin, mouth, fruit of these swift days,
tell me, were they always beside you
through years and journeys and moons and suns
and earth and weeping and rain and joy
or is it only now that
they come from your roots,
only as water brings to the dry earth
burgeoning that it did not know,
or as to the lips of the forgotten jug
the taste of the earth rises in the water?

I don’t know, don’t tell me, you don’t know.
Nobody knows these things.
But bringing all my senses close
to the light of your skin, you disappear,
you melt like the acid
aroma of a fruit
and the heat of a road,
and the smell of corn being stripped,
the honeysuckle of the pure afternoon,
the names of the dusty earth,
the infinite perfume of our country:
Magnolia and thicket, blood and flour,
the gallop of horses,
the village’s dusty moon,
newborn bread:
ah from your skin everything comes back to my mouth,
comes back to my heart, comes back to my body,
and with you I become again
the earth that you are:
you are deep spring in me:
in you I know again how I am born.

II

Years of yours that I should have felt
growing near me like clusters
until you had seen how the sun and the earth
had destined you for my hands of stone,
until grape by grape you had made
the wine sing in my veins.
the wind or the horse
swerving were able
to make me pass through your childhood,
you have seen the same sky each day,
the same dark winter mud,
the endless branching of the plum trees
and their dark-purple sweetness.
Only a few miles of night,
the drenched distances
of the country dawn,
a handful of earth separated us, the transparent
walls
that we did not cross, so that life,
afterward, could put all
the seas and the earth
between us, and we could come together
in spite of space,
step by step seeking each other, from one ocean to another,
until I saw that the sky was aflame and your hair was flying in the light
and you came to my kisses with the fire
of an unchained meteor
and you melted in my blood, the sweetness
of the wild plum
of our childhood I received in my mouth,
and I clutched you to my breast as
if I were regaining earth and life.

III

My wild girl, we have had
to retain time
and march backward, in the distance
of our lives, kiss after kiss,
gathering from one place what we gave
without joy, discovering in another
the secret road
that gradually brought your feet close to mine,
and so beneath my mouth
you see again the unfulfilled plant
of your life putting out its roots
toward my heart that was waiting for you.
and one by one the nights between our separted cities
are joined to the night that unites us.
The light of each day,
its flame or its repose,
they deliver to us, taking them from time,
and so our treasure is disinterred in shadow or light,
and so our kisses kiss life:
all love I enclosed in our love:
all thirst ends in our embrace.
Here we are at last face to face,
we have met,
we have lost nothing.
We have felt each other lip to lip,
we have changed a thousand times
between us death and life,
all that we were bringing
like dead medals
we threw to the bottom of the sea,
all that we learned
was of no use to us:
we begin again,
we end again
death and life.
And here we survive,
pure, with the purity that we created,
broader than the earth that could not lead us astray
eternal as the fire that will burn
as long as life endures

 Amantes de vino y besos,

I am on the search for Wine & Kissing locations and adventures. Do you know of a perfect place to stand, sit or recline for a delicious kiss and sip of wine?  If you do, you might be reluctant to share your secret spot. I felt the same but happily realized  that sharing such secrets allows me to find the next spot that much more quickly.

To begin this fun ‘terroir’ section of Wine & Kissing, I hope to present hidden locations and not-so-hidden locations.  If you venture to the hidden spot and find some other Wine & Kissing folks, by all means, do not leave! Give a nod of acknowledgement, unpack your wine glasses, plant your picnic blanket, and enjoy the kissing ambience.  

Que aproveche!

Elisabet

 A Splash and A Splash

Can the same person enjoy a very public ‘fancy’, over-the-top social experience such as Francis Coppola Winery with a Las Vegas-esque campus with al fresco and indoor dining areas, tasting rooms, vineyards and swimming pools, and also fall in love with a taco stand, or dim sum Airstream trailer complete with tent to fend off the elements, string lights, and a fire pit to warm the hands and soul?  I say yes! Here then are two such locations, both absolutely perfect for enjoying the grape and lips together.

What strikes me as similar in both locations is that a serious “foodie”, a seeker of food experiences beyond the day to day experience of the average Joe,  might overlook both both  to the first’s ostentatious presentation and the second’s ‘street’ consciousness.  That would be a tragedy and brings home the message…  the more rules we set for ourselves, the less we are able to experience.  Throw away the rules.  Jump into the pool!

Kissing in Public: Francis Ford Coppola Winery 

Outdoor refreshments (wine), stairwell to a gated entry that made me hum the Johnny Depp’s Willie Wonka song (Willie Wonka, Willie Wonka), gorgeous pools with fountains ready for Esther Williams to ballet-swim through — this is a public kissing venue extraordinaire. Where might you kiss?  Standing at the indoor tasting bar, at the circular outdoor bar, sitting on the bocce ball court wall, on the chaise lounges pool side, in the private cabins with showers?  Some may poo poo the largess of the Coppola Winery but please don’t forget that crowds create anonymity that a smaller venue cannot.  It is rumored that when the pools were completed but before they opened to the puplic, Mr. and Mrs. Coppola held hands, walked to the edge of the pool, and jumped in. Very romantic.

Go ahead, kiss by the pool,  in the pool, under the water. Jump in!

Kissing in Private: Dim Sum Charlie’s  

 Outdoor Dim Sum Charlie’s under the stars or, if it is drizzly, under a tent with strung lights, is an oasis of romantic gourmet perfection.  As a well-read, well-spoken, albeit stubborn, friend of mine (from whom I recieved permission to write about the evening) wrote, “This place is the secret heaven”.  I had proposed meeting for a drink first at an elegant Napa establishment which my friend termed ‘the devil’ (well not really, rather it was ‘cable TV notorious’). Originally a geographical miscommunication, I sat at the bar of the celebrity-chef locale while he sat at the love shack east of the tracks with a bottle of  Cycles Gladiator open. 

A battle of wills ensued. “Get over here”, he suavely wrote.  “I am heading home if you don’t come here.  It is my treat”, I responded.  Settled in his romantic enclave he sent, “You are totally missing the moment. I am in the mood for soft conversation in the rain, not being ripped off by some mega chef in a loud and obnoxious room. The dim sum here will kick that iron chef’s ass all the way back to phoneyland.  Sorry.  I am in the mood to talk, not to shout.” Then, before I could reply (I later found out he was giving a play-by-play to the owners and guests of Charlie’s) he typed “This place is Phuket on the beach. It’s Ghorepani waiting for the dawn over the Annapurnas. It is the most heart Napa has to offer. Are you up to it?”

“Coming” I responded.

He text-sighed, “Well fucking done.”

I  made my way to the secret Dim Sum Hideaway ‘Dim Sum Charlie’s’, perhaps my new favorite restaurant,  and  arrived in a style best left to personal diaries (involving a splash!)  —  let’s just say it required a third-party automotive rescue company. My handsome dining companion forgave me for my tardiness and misguided culinary detour when I pulled out the tablecloth, wine glasses, and gift of candle and book of poetry, and flashed my new dress.  Clayton, whose card reads #1 Steam Jockey, seemed to appreciate the picnic accoutrement at our table. We feasted on nearly the entire menu including Pork Su Mai Dumplings that melted in the mouth, Steamed Scallop and Garlic Dumplings, Steamed Veggies and Dumplings, Lobster Shrimp and Sea Bass and others I can’t recall by name but can remember as exquisite tastes of steamy hot Chinese flavors, while the rain drizzled over our tent.

This is a tale that public can be as private as an out of the way spot due to its crowded, anonymous nature. It is also a tale that if a handsome man can equate the Napa railroad tracks to Thailand and the Himalayas, you run don’t walk to join him.  It is the right thing.  One of Dim Sum Charlie’s tag lines reads “This is where love begins and it doesn’t get any better.”  Corre, no anda!

I have a feeling that if I set out to find the voluptuous, seductive, wine and kissing references in the writing of Mr. Jay McInerney, I might never return.  He is a kindred soul to all of us who seek a life that contains a wine glass in one hand and a bosom in the other.  I have known of Mr. McInerney for a time now. He visited an ultra high-end winery and caused harvest to occur nearly two weeks ahead of schedule.   ¡El poder! 

 Following is a Jay McInerney, author of Hedonist in the Cellar, piece for your wine and kissing reading pleasure…

 Speaking of Krug, he writes “’The soloist is the year, but the orchestra is Krug.’  The powerful, slightly backward ’88 and the monumental ’90 vintages are well worth seeking out and cellaring for a few years, even if, like me,  you can afford only a bottle or two. I once compared the  experience of drinking Krug rosé to a dream I had of kissing Sharon Stone; I suspect that drinking the 1990 in a few years will be something like kissing Angelina Jolie.”

 Besos,

 Elisabet

There seems to be no shortage of wine writers. But, day in and day out, the makers of wine taste their creations and put pen to paper to describe what they have created.  It is what we long for from song writers and poets but seldom recieve:  the explanation of the work — what it means to them. We have to come to conclusions about the work on our own. So it is with gratitude that we read these discriptions.

What is even more wonderful is the number of descriptions that make us want to stop everything and taste the wine.  Sometimes even inspring us to kiss the person we are with!  We are fortunate to enjoy a world of wine descriptions that weave a such a tapestry of tastes, smells and vivid imagery. 

 By the way, I had the pleasure of tasting Matthew Rorick’s “Forlorn Hope” wines at the sultry Portuguese Fado singer Ana Moura’s (click here for a video)  show last Sunday evening.  Mr. Rorick was pouring his wines in an ascot.  He looked smashing.  

Ana Moura

Following is an example of fine wine writing for Matthew Rorick’s wine Forlorn Hope – Mil Amores.  Try the real thing!

Que aproveche!

Besos,

Elisabet

2007 Mil Amores

DeWitt Vineyard

by Matthew Rorick

In the centuries-old Portuguese tradition, the DeWitt Vineyard produces a field blend of classic Iberian varieties. Touriga Nacional, Tinta Cão, Tinta Roriz and Tinta Amarella combine the supple enchantment of a lover’s embrace with the savage artistry of the matador in each vintage of Mil Amores. Serve it with cuisine from coarse to classic, or stay up with friends or a lover until dawn drinking toasts, dancing to gypsy music and telling outrageous truths; this bottle will be as welcome an addition to your dinner table as it would be spinning empty on the floor in the midst of a late-night fandango.

Besos,
Elisabet

Excerpt from Rock Bottom
by Michael Ondaatje

What were the names of the towns
we drove through

      stunned     lost

having drunk our way
up vineyards
and then Hot Springs
boiling out the drunkenness

What were the names
I slept through
       my head
on your thigh
hundreds of miles
of blackness entering the car

        All this
       darkness and stars
but now
under the Napa Valley night
a star arch of dashboard
the ripe grape moon
we are together

I love this muscle
that tenses
     and joins
the accelerator
to my cheek

Do you have someone in your life who has asked you to ‘break the glass’. Have you been that person for another? This is a lovely passage. I hope you enjoy it.

Besos,

Elisabet

Excerpt from By the River Peidra I Sat Down and Wept
by Paulo Coelho

His eyes gleamed. He was ready to surmount any barrier.

I took one of my hands from his and placed my glass of wine at the edge of the table.

“It’s going to fall,” he said.

“Exactly. I want you to tip it over the dge.”

“Break the glass?”

Yes, break the glass. A simple gesture, but one that brings up fears we can’t really understand. What’s wrong with breaking an inexpensive lgass, when everyone has done so unintentionally at some time in their life?

“Break the glass?” he repeated. “Why?”

“Well, I could give you lots of reasons,” I answered. “But actually,  just to break it.”

“For you?”

“No, of course not.”

He eyed the glass on the edge of the table — worried that it might fall.

It’s a rite of passage, I wanted to say. It’s something prohibited. Glasses are not purposely broken. In a restaurant or in our home, we’re careful not to place glasses by the edge of a table. Our univers required that we aovide letting gllasses fall to the floor.

But when we break them by accident, we realize that it’s not very serious. The waiter says, “It’s nothing,” and when has anyone been charged for a broken glass? Breaking glasses is part of life and does not damage to us, to the restaurant, or to anyone else.

I bumped the table. The glass shook but didn’t fall.

“Careful!” he said, instinctively.

“Break the glass,” I insisted.

Break the glass, I thought to myself, becuase it’s a symbolic gesture. Try to understand that I have broken things within myself that were much more important than a glass, and I’m happy I did. Resolve your own internal battle, and break the glass.

Our parents taught us to be careful with glasses and with our bodies. They taught us that the passion sof childhood are impossible, that we should not flee from priests, that people cannot perform miracles, and that no one leaves on a journey without knowing where they are going.

Break the glass, please — and free us from all these damned rules, from needing to find an explanation for everything, from doing only what others approve of.

“Break the glass,” I said again.

He stared at me. Then slowly, he slid his hand along the tablecloth to the glass. And with a sudden movement, he pushed it to the floor.

The sound of the breaking glass caught the waiter’s attention. Rather than apologize for having broken the glass, he looked at me, smiling — and I smiled back.

“Doesn’t matter,” shouted the waiter.

But he wasn’t listening. He had stood, seized my hair in his hands, and was kissing me.

I clutched at his hair, too, and squeezed him with all my strength, biting his lips and feeling his tongue move in my mouth. This was the kiss I had waited for so long — a kiss born by the rivers of our childhood, when we didn’t yet know what love meant. A kiss that had been suspended in the air as we grew, that had traveled the world in the souvenir of a medal, and that had remained hidden behind piles of books. A kiss that had been lost so many times and now was found. In the moment of that kiss were years of searching disillusionment, and impossible dreams.

I kissed him hard. The few people there in the bar must have been thinking that all they were seeing was just a kiss. They didn’t know that this kiss stood for my whole life — and his life, as well. The life of anyone who has wasted, dreamed, and searched for their true path.

The moment of that kiss contained every happy moment I had ever lived.

If there is something you cannot figure out, please stop trying to calculate, to measure, to weigh. Just say ‘yes’.  Calculate me.

Besos,

Elisabet

Drown In Love
by ‘Ayn al-Qudat Hamadani (d. 1131)
Translated by David and Sabrineh Fideler

If you drown in love, you will taste eternity;
in reason alone, you forsake real life.

Taste the strangeness of this wine!
Love’s intoxication is the path to sobriety.

Love stories surround us. If we look for them, we never have to look far. Look for the hands held, the sandwich cut in half, the hair strands brushed aside. Look for a walk on the beach with a dog, the love story in the missing,  pieces subject to the comings and goings of water and the weather. Here is the 22nd Sonnet of Neruda’s Cien Sonetos de Amor, including a letter he wrote to Matilde.

Hold a guitar. Lift a wineglass. Be a love story.

Besos,
Elisabet

Pablo Neruda to Matilda Urrutia
Translated by Stephen Tapscott

My beloved wife, I suffered while I was writing these misnamed “sonnets”; they hurt me and caused me grief, but the happiness I feel in offering them to you is vast as a savanna. When I set this task for myself, I knew very well that down the right sides of sonnets, with elegant discriminating taste, poets of all times have arranged rhymes that sound like silver, or crystal, or cannonfire. But – with great humility – I made these sonnets out of wood; I gave them the sound of that opaque pure substance, and that is how they should reach your ears. Walking in forests or on beaches, along hidden lakes, in latitudes sprinkled with ashes, you and I have picked up pieces of pure bark, pieces of wood subject to the comings and goings of water and the weather. Out of such softened relics, then, with hatchet and machete and pocketknife, I built up these lumber piles of love, and with fourteen boards each I built little houses, so that your eyes, which I adore and sing to, might live in them. Now that I have declared the foundations of my love, I surrender this century to you: wooden sonnets that rise only because you gave them life.
October 1959

100 Love Sonnets XXII
by Pablo Neruda

Love, how often I loved you without seeing -
without remembering you –
not recognizing your glance, not knowing you, a gentian
in the wrong place, scorched by the hot noon
but I loved only the smell of the wheat.

Or maybe I saw you, imagined you lifting a wineglass
in Angol, by the light of the summer’s moon;
or were you the waist of that guitar I strummed
in the shadows, the one that rang like an impetuous sea?

I loved you without knowing I did; I searched to remember you
I broke into houses to steal your likeness;
though I already knew what you were like. And, suddenly,

when you were there with me I touched you, and my life
stopped: you stood before me, you took dominion like a queen:
like a wildfire in the forest, and the flame is your dominion.