Buena Vista Merlot 2007

Last night we went to the Sonoma Farmer's Market. There was a jazz band playing, Terry Disley's "Big" Experience.  They were doing alternating numbers by Vince Guaraldi and Dave Brubeck, to celebrate the region's jazz history.  It was pleasant. I preferred the Guaraldi tunes though I know I probably am not supposed to admit that.

I doubled my knowledge of how to drink Merlot with a simple suggestion made by a fellow listener and jazz fan. At some point I'll get around to some wine tricks that might help some of you along in your journey to enjoy wines.  My review from last night was written under the spell of the Merlot, and a few glasses of Cabernet that I had at the Roche tasting room, and a couple glasses of Sauvignon Blanc that I had imbibed at The Swiss Hotel even before that.

So, that is how it all came to pass.

We sat at the bandshell and listened, recounting our first date in NYC, at Small's jazz club.  It was a special time for us, neither of us having any idea that we would eventually marry (at Buena Vista Winery) and move together to Sonoma to start a family.  Though last night she certainly must have had her reservations. When I came home I decided to piss in the sink.  I don't know why.  It just seemed like something I wanted to do at the time.  Upon morning reflection it didn't seem like such a great idea any more, though not entirely without merit.  The idea of doing it without her seeing still held some charm for me.

No, I only kid.

On the other side of us at the concert sat two men, somewhat disheveled, in sweat pants and t-shirts that matched only in general dress sensibility. The cloth was tattered here and there and seemed to be in need of a washing, or to be discarded altogether.  One of them sitting closest to my wife recounted to her that she should avoid pit bulls, they can smell her being pregnant, they'll attack and kill her.  There are apparently roaming bands of them in the area seeking out fresh pregnant women to devour.  The story has been kept out of the press only by shrewd political manipulation of the facts and submerged police reports.  When these pit bulls cannot find a pregnant woman to hungrily feast upon they will oftentimes eat one of their own, singling out the weakest in the pack.  At this point my wife excused herself to go shop for tomatoes and pita chips.  I encouraged her to keep her eye on the horizon line, we don't want any pit bulls coming down from the hills, sniffing out her aroma in estrus, and subsequently turning her into their own little pita chip snack.

Ok, I could go on for hours telling stories of the subtle insanity of the place, and those herein, but I'll leave some for tomorrow.


I almost forgot, this bottle of wine took me about 50 minutes to drink.  I had employed a more leisurely pace, considering the setting, etc.