Every now and then, a thought crosses my mind… “Maybe, at some point, I should get back to writing about wine.” That is after all, what this blog is (loosely) based on.
The trouble is, when I consider writing about wine, two very significant issues arise.
1) I remember that I know nothing at all about wine.
2) In light of that, I reflect once again on why I call this a wine blog.
And here it is — This blog is about wine. It’s about wine imitating life. It is about the things in life that wine represents: family, friends, history, culture, beauty, food, pleasure. Wine is a vehicle through which we share stories, break bread, celebrate, commiserate, debate, and appreciate, and this is what most interests me to explore in writing.
So, I can say that this blog is about wine, because in a way, it is. It is about the life behind the wine; the thoughts darker than a full-bodied red; the world bigger than a Super Tuscan; the moments, big and small, that are all worth a toast.
I can explain it better. A few months ago, I was sitting at my dining room table when my mother wished aloud that she could remember more about her childhood. That got me wondering: where do the stories go when no one knows them anymore? When they have ceased to exist in our conscious memory? At first, I was inclined to think that they simply disappear, but that answer proved too uninspired and dismissive for my contentment.
Because, there is this richness that surrounds us, a pervading energy that we cannot know or explain, but we feel it. This is where I believe our stories live on. Snow whirling in the illumination of a street light might be the story of my father’s birth. The folds in my winter blanket hold the traditions of my great-grandmother. The buds on trees, the bubbles in champagne, the clouds that streak a sky at sunset… All of these details and moments can mean so much more, if we let them…
And why wouldn’t we?