Thirteen Ways of Looking at The Geyserville

I could almost say that I was oenophilically born again, in that last night, I opened my mouth, and accepted The Geyserville as my savior.


The Geyserville.


The 2010 Ridge Vineyards Geyserville, but we only ever said … The Geyserville.


Dinner was that kind of revelation — Thirteen Ways of Looking at The Geyserville.



Every dish delightful, every dish unique, and in the corner, Roland Micu and I, saying once again, The Geyserville.


And every guest delightful, every conversation bright, and at the table, Laurie Lindrup and I, saying once again, The Geyserville.


Roland Micu, Laurie Lindrup? So much talent, so much skill, so much gravitas!


And I, but a pagan in the fields, but a lunatic of zen, but a tale told by myself to simply no one, meaning nothing. Special Guest Christopher Watkins, who struts his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more.



Thirteen Ways of Looking at The Geyserville



Four wines-of-place: three of the mountain,

and the Geyserville;

not of the mountain, but placed there.



I was of five minds,

like a field blend

in which there are five grapes.



The Geyserville swirls in the crystal;

emotion without speech.



A lover and a lover

are one.

A lover and a lover and a Geyserville

are one.



I do not know which to prefer,

the beauty of appearance

or the beauty of aroma;

the Geyserville poured,

or just after.



Sunset filled the long windows

with fading rays.

The bottles of Geyserville,

crossing them to and fro,

turned white plates

into mood rings

signifying happy.




O thin men of the millennium,

why do you imagine golden lagers?

Do you not see how the Geyserville

wraps around the palates

of the people about you?



I know the juju

of The Jazz;

and I know, too

that the Geyserville is involved

in what I know.



When the Geyserville dripped down

the side of the bottle

it made one of many circles.



At the sight of the Geyserville

pouring in the candlelight,

even the sommeliers

would cry out softly.



I rode over California

on a motorcycle.

Once, a joy overtook me,

in that I mistook

the shadow of my saddle-bag

for a wineskin of Geyserville.



The decanter is moving.

The Geyserville must be drunk.



It was evening all afternoon.

It was sunset

and the sun was going to set.

The Geyserville sat

on the white linen.



Let me begin anew, or should I say, let this essay be born again! Let it open its mouth and accept lucidity as its savior!


What I’m trying to say is this, that dinner at The International Culinary Center last night was amazing! The food? Amazing! The service? Amazing! The rooms, the spaces, the places, the people; amazing! And let me say again, the food? Amazing! Matched in excellence only by my co-hosts (and I blush to so brazenly place myself amongst them) Roland Micu and Laurie Lindrup.


But what really got to me, what really moved me, what was revealed to me, was the divine versatility of the Geyserville. I swear it worked with every single dish!


Did we actually have thirteen courses? Of course not. But in thinking of the courses we did have, and the ways in which a new side of the Geyserville was revealed with each, I was reminded of the great Wallace Stevens poem “Thirteen Ways Of Looking At A Blackbird,” which I reprint here below, as a gesture of apology for the borrowing I’ve done above:


Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird



Among twenty snowy mountains,

The only moving thing

Was the eye of the blackbird.



I was of three minds,

Like a tree

In which there are three blackbirds.



The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.

It was a small part of the pantomime.



A man and a woman

Are one.

A man and a woman and a blackbird

Are one.



I do not know which to prefer,

The beauty of inflections

Or the beauty of innuendoes,

The blackbird whistling

Or just after.



Icicles filled the long window

With barbaric glass.

The shadow of the blackbird

Crossed it, to and fro.

The mood

Traced in the shadow

An indecipherable cause.



O thin men of Haddam,

Why do you imagine golden birds?

Do you not see how the blackbird

Walks around the feet

Of the women about you?



I know noble accents

And lucid, inescapable rhythms;

But I know, too,

That the blackbird is involved

In what I know.



When the blackbird flew out of sight,

It marked the edge

Of one of many circles.



At the sight of blackbirds

Flying in a green light,

Even the bawds of euphony

Would cry out sharply.



He rode over Connecticut

In a glass coach.

Once, a fear pierced him,

In that he mistook

The shadow of his equipage

For blackbirds.



The river is moving.

The blackbird must be flying.



It was evening all afternoon.

It was snowing

And it was going to snow.

The blackbird sat

In the cedar-limbs.



Are you cooking tonight?




Then allow me to suggest …


The Geyserville.










Categories: Food & Wine Pairing, Geyserville, History, Varietals & Blends, Viticultural Salmagundi, Wine & Food Pairing, Wine & Poetry, Wine Tales, Zinfandel

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