Palate properly whetted, I spelunked for her clitoris, tasting Bourgogne Rouge and Maya's body.
I forced a swift smile, then turned back to my glass, salvation and sanctuary viniferously bundled into one.
I tapped a forefinger to my temple and raised my glass of single-vineyard Foxen Pinot. Between here and here lies the Rubicon of the imagination.
Miles, it's only morning and you're already drunk.No, I'm not, I weakly protested. I'm just thirsty.
We were drinking a memory, one that would be forever associated with the memory of this trip.
I can't kill myself, I thought. I'm too insignificant. I'm nothing. I'm a thumbprint on the first-floor window of a skyscraper, a smudge of excrement on a tissue surging out to sea along with millions...
You're such a cheater. The best wood in your golf bag is your pencil!
Maya, Indian goddess of illusions. Siren of shipwrecked sailors. If only you lactated Pinot Noir, you’d be perfect.
Polypharmacology and curmudgeonliness were keeping her alive.
Wine is so complex, I mused. Thousands of experts and hundreds of thousands of amateur experts would rhapsodize or vilify the vinification of these seemingly simple bunches of grapes. But in the end,...
I snapped to consciousness with the incandescent realization that somewhere, deep in our dreams, or deep in unconsciousness, or deep in the afterlife, all conflicts and acrimonies are resolved. That i...
In tasting rooms I can never tell how tipsy I am. But once I'm outside, the awareness factor of my inebriation is greatly magnified. Everything looks and feels different. The surrounding flora seems t...
Pinot Noir country. My grape. The one varietal that truly enchants me, both stills and steals my heart with its elusive loveliness and false promises of transcendence. I loved her, and I would continu...