No doubt all of you have experienced the rather hot weather of late. Pleasant, by my standards, but warm for most I suppose. I understand that not everyone agrees with this caveat, as my internal thermostat begins somewhere around 25ºC. Therefore, this “heat” is personally, idyllic. Now, before you simply dismiss this piece as the inane ramblings of a lunatic muttering about the weather, please allow me the opportunity to see my analogy through to its completion.
We’re too narrow-minded in our sensorial discussion of wine. By “we” I mean wine professionals, amateurs and consumers of all types, but it’s mostly the fault of the pros because their lead is followed by everybody else. Descriptions and reviews of wine, whether written by the chief editor of Wine Spectator Magazine or a vainglorious Pittsburgh-based banker with a Vivino account, are almost always laughably fatuous, nauseatingly derivative or both. I’m no better, but I’m willing to explain the nature of this failure.
If one year ago, an omniscient being told me how many meditation hours I would proceed to bank in the months to come, I would have called bullshit. I was a logical sceptic at heart, valued the scientific method as a basis for my beliefs and was totally allergic to any ritual or ceremony that could be considered “mystical”. However, much thanks to a particular author and podcaster, I slowly became open to the concept of meditation and was convinced enough to give it an honest shot.
Pink wine has never been more popular than it is right now, nor has it ever been so uniformly boring. Like any style of wine, modern insight into winemaking has rendered the best examples “better” than the category has ever seen, but even many of these reek of winemaking apathy and taken as a whole they are disconcertingly narrow in their stylistic spectrum.
