Tag: wine

Don’t try to convince me that pain is not a means of temptation.  My body says differently.

In the last forty-eight hours, I’ve suffered such pain that I want only what is good, delicious, healthy, clean, pesticide-free.  The thought of anything less turns my stomach.

You see, I’m very allergic to chemicals.  Don’t get the stuff near me, in spray or concentrate, on foods, and especially not steeped in beverages such as beers or – worst of all – in wines.

I learned of my allergy fourteen years ago, while I was cleaning houses to make extra money.  I thought nothing of cleaning without latex gloves; I had cleaned my house, growing up, without them, why should I need them now?

But the sprays I used on bathroom tiles started stinging my sinuses painfully, and my hands would soon break out in tiny pimple-like rashes that would itch and burn for three weeks at a time within an hour of using even the “mildest” of household cleaning products – whether I later wore latex gloves or not.  It was hard to breathe, being near such chemicals; my throat would close, and I’d have coughing fits.

I stopped using them, whenever possible, opting instead for benign combinations of white vinegar and baking soda, and lemon juice to clean and disinfect.

Eventually, chemical-free products were developed; apparently, I wasn’t the only one being affected.

Never, though, did I consider that foods, wines, beer could have the same effects upon me.  Not foods, and certainly not the things people laud as culinary delights.

I was sure it was just me, just my inexperienced palate that was the reason for my distaste of beers, wines when I’d sip one while my girlfriends raved, and I would taste – not the exquisite beverage they adored – but sharp abrasiveness that made my throat clench involuntarily when I swallowed.

It was me.  I was convinced, it was just me.

So, I stayed away from wines, both red and white; both had the same effect, caused my shoulders to tense, elicited a shudder of revulsion when I dared put the sharp liquid past my wincing palate.

Still, I’d test, sample, try; I worked in restaurants, after all.  It was expected that we know something about wines.

And they did get such renown, there had to be something to it.

Then came the Tawse tour.  The group of us drove along Niagara’s escarpment, six girls plus Brian:  our host, tour-guide, educator, and local rep from the country’s finest winery.

I’m always crazy for men of passion; I can’t wait to learn everything they know, to hear all that they can share with me.  I revert to the girl I was in school with such men, rapt and spellbound by all their wondrous teachings.  (It is usually men, these days, who put me in such states; the women I’ve met are generally so wrapped-up in their own worlds that they have no time for passions beyond themselves.)

And I was spellbound by Brian’s tale of the Niagara escarpment, of the layers of limestone that were once creatures of the great ocean covering all of the land around and melding the Great Lakes into one huge body.  I was thrilled to learn about terroir, to understand how wineries seek to cultivate their vines by forcing them to grow their roots deep into the soil, into the limestone and minerals to find new sources of water over spans of time, to begin to understand how such minerals make the grapes more distinctly flavorful, rich, voluminous in texture though not necessarily in yield.

It started to come together for me, that such land was precious to wineries; I started to comprehend the necessity and desire for precise locations that would shield the vines from weather too harsh, yet would force the plants to work to produce plump grapes that would eventually become magnificently-balanced, richly-flavored wines.

I was, of course, the nerd of the group – Brian excluded.

He handed us a rosé, and we walked around the sloped grasses to the strings of vines.  I almost winced at my glass; I had no desire for the pink thing; it would surely rip at my palate abrasively, or coat it in syrupy sweetness.

I sipped. 

I blinked, astonished.  Sipped again.

What was this?  Not wine as I knew it in any form.

It was too good, this flowery flavor, sweet-and-not, dry-and-not, filling my cheeks with refreshing, mellow minerals and faintly-fruity notes, making me wish to sip again and again.

As we headed to the first level of the gravity-flow building, I dropped my pace to walk with him and asked:  “What is it about this that is so different from all the other wines I’ve ever tasted?  It doesn’t sting-!”

He smiled, subtly proud, and gave me an inadequate response that I quickly forgot, dismissed.  There was something different here; I needed to know what it was.

We sampled eight more wines that day:  three whites and four reds, finished with an ice-wine.

Through each, I expected the typical abrasiveness, the gag-reflex in the back of my throat that told me definitively that I was an inexperienced wine-drinker, that I’d never understand this art, that I was and would always be a child.

It never happened.

Brian talked us through a Riesling (a wine I had already discovered at the restaurant as utterly palatable to me, yet relegated to the realm of isolated instances, in my mind) and two Chardonnays, surprising me with my ability to not only taste the flavors before he suggested them, but with my capacity to enjoy them-!

The reds would be awful, I was certain.  Reds are always awful; must be the tannins, I’m always told.

He poured the Pinot Noir, a pretty, twinkling garnet color.  Maybe this was easier to drink because of its lightness in color, texture, flavor.  Maybe it didn’t have the same strong tannins; it was the dark-red wines I don’t like, I decided.

I braced for the Merlot, commented to my friend beside me that I don’t like Merlots.  I watched as everyone else sipped from their glasses, hummed in enjoyment as I winced expectantly; oh, I really hate Merlots….

I sipped anyway. 

I was astounded by the roundness of this flavor, the fullness it produced in my cheeks, the drying texture on my gums near my teeth.  And, most astonishing:  the liquid passed my palate in all smoothness, leaving a heavenly breath of berries, dark chocolate….

I demanded of Brian again:  “What is this?  Why,” I asked emotionally, “does this not hurt my palate like every other red wine??”

He gave me his eyes. “The winery is organic, and bio-dynamic.  We use no pesticides on the grapes but what come naturally from the land around them.  We use chickens to eat the bugs, and sheep to trim the low-hanging leaves, and their manure fertilizes the soil.”

This was the answer that I sought.  I swirled my glass again, breathed in deeply, enjoyed at last the scents from this perfect wine… and drank.

I did not want to waste a drop of this, or any glass following.  I swirled, swished, breathed, sucked, sampled, tasted every glass poured for the rest of the afternoon, unafraid.

There are reasons for our distaste in things; we are not as mad as we may believe. 

It turns out that my maternal grandmother was so allergic to pesticides that she had to abandon her farm for most of the day, until they had settled; was so intolerant of petroleum-based products that she could not wear garments made with elastic or polyester.  It turns out that something of this was passed to me.

So, coming upon a New Zealand-made wine two nights ago and mistaking it for something that might be safe for me to drink, I consumed but a glass and a half, inducing two days-worth of pain and agony, making me averse to anything even remotely unnatural. 

Red wines, of course, are the worst:  seemingly-innocent grapes are fermented on their pesticide-coated skins for days and weeks, steeping the juice in all that makes wine crimson – and passing on what is, to me, toxic.

It’s likely toxic to you, too, you know.  You just don’t have the allergic reactions I have; your head doesn’t rip within a quarter of an hour after being tainted.

But, do you really need it to?