Wet Rocks

I stopped at the liquor store on the way home from work yesterday and while browsing for a new chardonnay came across a wine description from a winery that among other things described the wine as evoking wet rocks. It wasn’t clear whether they thought it tasted or smelled of such. But then the smell and taste of a wine are so closely linked that maybe it didn’t matter.

It certainly got my attention. Wet rocks. Who is tasting or smelling wet rocks? And why would anyone want their wine to taste or smell like it. I’m not even sure that evokes anything for me. I’ve seen descriptions that evoke a sense of minerality before. Stone. Slate. Graphite. But rocks? And wet no less.

Here is a rather odd description of another wine I found:

"Packed, in a brawny, muscular style atypical for this lush vintage, with a gravelly undertow to the currant paste, braised fig and dark licorice notes. Picks up even more steam on the finish, with grilled mesquite, mineral and garrigue notes and a long, hot stone-filled finish."

There are so many things wrong with this I almost don't know where to begin. Are we supposed to be drinking this, or building a house with it?

For instance: grilled mesquite. Can you even grill wood? Doesn't it just catch fire? A gravelly undertow? A long, hot stone-filled finish? Garrigue? This one I had to look up. According to Wikipedia: Garrigue is a type of low, soft-leaved scrubland found on limestone soils around the Mediterranean Basin, generally near the seacoast, where the climate is ameliorated, but where annual summer drought conditions obtain.

Well, now I'm definitely intrigued. Rocks. Mesquite. Paste. Licorice. And an obscure Mediterranean bush.

In The Dark

You don't really realize how much you enjoy electricity until you find yourself cold, drunk and in the dark. That's been my experience anyway.

Last weekend we were hit with what has been only one of several blizzards in New Jersey. This isn't the typical hyperbole from the local action news team. This was the National Weather Service. We got not one, but two honest to God blizzards in a matter of a few weeks. The last one knocked out the power for several hundred thousand homes. We were one of them for a bit.

Late Friday night, or early Saturday morning, depending on how you look at it, we lost power. Now because we live a little off the grid, meaning that we have well-water, oil heat, and propane cooking gas, you wouldn't think we'd be that affected by natural disasters. But take electricity away and the pump that brings the water from the well no longer works, the pump that injects oil into the heater no longer works, and even the oven doesn't seem to want to work without the aid of an electrical current. The only thing that did work was the stovetop, but only if you lit with a match.

I woke to the sound of my wife Jane and her sister Bern coming into the house. They had spent the night whooping it up at Bern's house just down the street and when they woke up without power, decided to walk through the snow storm to our house. I looked over at the clock to see what time it was, and that's when I knew.

We've lost power before. In fact, it seems like it happens all the time. We live on a state highway and if ice and snow isn't bringing a line down, it's a drunk on his way down to the shore.

But I can't remember it happening when it's this cold and you can't get anywhere because there's a foot or two of snow outside.

So, we started a fire in the dining room fireplace, closed the doors to the other rooms, and opened a bottle of vodka. Frankly, what else were we supposed to do? We couldn't make coffee, as we didn't have any water. There was alcohol, plenty of ice, and canned mixers. We didn't have anywhere to be. We had nothing to do. We made cocktails.

I don't know the last time you sat in a room for eight hours with no lights, no television, no computer, no internet, and just drank and talked. I think it was college for me and there was cocaine involved.

Presumably, the snow also covered the nearby cell tower, rendering it nearly useless, because I normally have a full 3G signal on my iPhone and I was left with barely a cell signal. So even my powerful smart phone was rendered powerless.

So as the light of the day began to fade, so did the batteries in our phones. We were being plunged into darkness with no real connection to the outside world. We had the fire going, which put out just enough heat to keep us from freezing, but not really enough to warm the room and we lit candles which gave us just enough light to not run into things, but not enough to see anything.

At 6pm, Bern announced she had had enough and headed upstairs to bed. I can't remember the last time I went to bed at 6pm. Jane and I were left to drink and stare at each other. Eventually, we decided to argue about something, just to keep it interesting. Then we went to bed. It was 8pm.

I woke at 3am on Sunday morning with lights coming on all around the house. I got up and walked around the house, turning off lights, checking the heat, and running water through the pipes, before going back to bed.

In hindsight, I recommend eating something if you're going to drink for 12-13 hours, because the alternative is waking up with a pretty good hangover. I had been sick for a few days and my back was out from shoveling the weekend before, so when I first woke up I didn't recognize the hangover since I'd felt like shit for at least a week anyway. Eventually, it hit me.

Now it's one thing to wake up the day after a snowstorm with the prospect of digging your way out when you feel good. But if your back is tweaked, and your head won't stop throbbing, it's pretty miserable.

I'm seriously thinking about getting a generator.

Good Writing Habits

"A lot of good writing consists of waiting around the for aquarium to settle so you can see the fish."
- Abigail Thomas.

They Were Small Once

There was a time when my children were small. This might not seem like a profound realization, but it is. Most people my age or younger, have small children. Babies, toddlers, elementary school kids. They blog about cute things four year olds say, little league and the stresses of dealing with diapers, bathtime and family time. I, on the other hand, am planning my oldest daughter's wedding while praying that my youngest will graduate high school (which it looks like he won't).

I yearn for the simpler times. This growing up stuff is the pits. For them. For me. Remember when you wanted to grow up and be an adult and make your own decisions? I'm seriously thinking of asking my parents if I can move back home. I'll be good, I promise. Hell, I'll take out the trash, keep my room clean...hell, I'll pay the mortgage

I was reading a blog recently by a guy who has three small children. He's a good writer and he seems to have a wealth of material to draw from with three boys. What was I doing when my kids were small? How come I wasn't writing?

Maybe I'm having trouble with perspective. The things I THINK I have to write about don't seem humorous, interesting, or even mildly educational. I'm more irritated than anything.

I shouldn't be. My daughter got engaged, was actually able to find a house, and a mortgage in this economy. She has a good job and she's not only moved out, she's getting married in a few months. Why am I not overjoyed at this? It's not like I'm not proud of her, because I am. I'm most pleased.

Maybe, like I said, I just miss those more intimate moments when it was us and them. No cars, dates, jobs, or friends. They went wherever we went. They did what we did and ate what we ate. If Jane and I decided to go to the beach, they went to the beach. Now, we're lucky if we see them for a meal.

I guess, I'll just have to wait for grandkids.

Bed In Summer

By Robert Louis Stevenson

In winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candle-light.
In summer, quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.

I have to go to bed and see
The birds still hopping on the tree,
Or hear the grown-up people's feet
Still going past me in the street.

And does it not seem hard to you,
When all the sky is clear and blue,
And I should like so much to play,
To have to go to bed by day?

Do you remember the anguish of going to bed while it was still light and the laughter of people older than yourself drifted up to torment you? I do.

Living History

For the first time since I've been eligible to vote for the President of the United States, I'm excited and terrified by the possible outcome of this election. Excited by the possibility of change. Terrified by the possibility of the status quo.



I turned 18 in 1986 with Regan in office. Two years later, while still not old enough to drink, I was given my first opportunity to vote for our nation's leader. The choice was between George H. Bush (The Weenie) and Michael Dukakis (The Dork). I honestly can't remember who I voted for but I'm assuming George Bush since I was a Republican and I don't remember being very hopped up about Dukakis.

At 7:12am this morning, I walked into the community rec center and cast my vote for Barack Hussein Obama, a Harvard educated black man with an African/Arabic name. I can't ever remember being excited about a Presidential candidate. I've never wanted to give money, or volunteer. I never understood people who were so passionate about one candidate or another. They all seemed rather lame to me. It was more about picking the best of the worst.

But I always voted. I'm a strong believer in our right to vote. I believe it is a gift that is awarded to the citizens of this country. We assume it's a inalienable right, but history says otherwise. It should be cherished. And on a more practical note, I believe that if you and your peers vote, as a group, you will be recognized by government and pandered to. There's a reason why senior citizens in this country are heard and young people are not. Old people vote. Young people don't. Historically.

For the past two elections, I've been one of those frustrating voters known as undecided. I honestly didn't know who I was going to vote for until November 4th. I simply didn't like either of them. In our last election, I voted for a Libertarian candidate. I can't even remember his name. It wasn't important because I knew he had no chance of winning. I wanted to be counted. To say I was there and that I voted. I wanted the politicians to know that there was a 36 year old, white male, living in Goshen, New Jersey that voted. And he didn't vote for you.

I feel like I did between the first half of Game 5 of the World Series and the conclusion 46 hours later. Excited and nervous. Excited that Obama could win. Nervous that the polls are wrong and he won't. If I was a betting man, and since I'm not superstitious, I'd say Obama is going to win by a fairly large margin. Dare I say landslide?

We'll see tomorrow, or maybe even later tonight. Hopefully I will be celebrating and not gnashing my teeth and packing up to join my brother in Canada.