Inauguration From the Office

We ducked out of our meetings to watch Obama's inauguration from our big "tech talk" videoconference room. We're a predominantly liberal lot, and the one guy who clapped when Obama thanked Bush for his service was briefly the focus of some sixty stares. Ironic, then, that the big screen was tuned to FOX news. I wasn't as moved as the people we saw on TV, even some in the room. I did vote for Obama, and I recognize the history unfolding, but some of the catharsis I see worries me. This is no "mission accomplished;" this is the beginning of a hard, long road. I'm happy we have a smart man in the White House, but even so, progress will be hard-won. I'm hoping that the emotion I saw was not the joy over a supposed savior, but a hopeful rededication of purpose on behalf of all citizens. We'll see.

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Hitting the Bottle: Turley 2005 Howell Mountain Zinfandel, Dragon Vineyard

It's the premier of the final half-season of Battlestar Galactica. We have a Lou Malnati's deep-dish pizza in front of the television, and it's time to hit the bottle. This time, it's a 2005 Turley Zinfandel I've been saving. It's a pretty, translucent color in the glass, like the skin of a black cherry. It smells like I just stomped through a field of red raspberries, but underneath that, there's a whiff of something like Coca-Cola. If they made Raspberry Coke, it would smell something like this. And on the first taste... if cola wasn't sweetened by anything but a squeeze of blackberry juice, that'd come close to the flavors. But this is a hefty sip with tannins that stay on your tongue with a taste that'd come from something smelling of cedar. A couple of years ago, I tried a bottle of this wine that was a fruit-bomb, a riot of raspberry and blackberry jam with lots of pepper and woody spice. Now, it's a little more calm and smooth. This is a food wine, but this pizza isn't the right match. This wine wants something savory, something roasted. Slow-cooked beef ribs, where the meat falls off the bone. No barbecue sauce, mind you. Just roasted meat and the subdued blackberry and cedar of this wine.

Glass number two. Maybe my pizza smell is overwhelming it, but blackberries and cola are tight, reluctant to waft out of the glass. A deep sniff gives me a red streak of raspberry, jazzy and then gone. Is this Turley past its prime? It has been lying around the condo for more than a year, subject to B's 80-degree thermostat and Remy's incessant tail-swatting. I'll get this pizza out of the way... There we go -- dried raspberries and blackberries, and the first sip fills the mouth with dry, woody fruit and spices. This is not a cocktail wine -- you have to keep eating, or it'll suck the moisture out of your mouth. Feh. This wine is too somber. Turley, I remember when you were fun. What happened? I don't have any barbecue for you, and you're just clobbering this tomato sauce.

Glass numbers three. And four. Okay, this isn't a wine for my pizza, so it's time to start dealing with it on its own terms. It's giving me some fruit -- dry and almost bitter -- and a lot of scented wood. This is good. This is a dry dinner wine. It's also thick and hefty in the mouth -- thick as whole milk. Salty bacon bits from our salad make the fruit a little brighter, but this is still dark, deep stuff. After some salt-and-savory, I got a mouthful of blackberry jam with a peppery bite. These are spikes. This wine wants to percolate in the lower registers; it talks like Brando in The Godfather -- nearly incomprehensible if you're paying attention, but sit back, let your mind wander, let its tastes play around on your tongue. This is actually a damn good wine. I'm sorry I doubted you Turley. You're A-OK in my book.

My wife is telling me to drink water. This is a good idea. It's time to say night-night to Turley. I'll see you again when I have barbecue. Or pot roast. Yeah, that'd rock.

Winter Whiners

It has been snowing for days here in Chicago. There has been a lull today -- but that was just because the temperature dropped into the negative double-digits, obliterating moisture at the molecular level. This happens every year. And every year, we Chicagoans start to whine. "Why do we live here?" "This town isn't fit for human habitation." But, of course, it is, and we do. The perpetually cheery kids who want "a moment of your time" to save the environment/children/whales are still standing at every corner in the Loop. The homeless guys are still out in force, asking for change, somehow less bundled-up than they are in the summer. And the Urban Professionals like me scurry from their warm lofts to trains/busses/cabs to the office and then back again, bitching about the weather to whomever will listen.

And we all listen, because we're from Chicago, it's winter time, and we're bound together in our annual ritual of suffering. Chicago folks know how wind off the lake can cut through four layers of clothing. We know how shoes and pant legs from the knees down become a dull, uniform gray from the salt. We know how frozen nostril hair crunches as we breathe. And we know that the skin in that unprotected oval between the bottoms of our hats and the tops of our scarves can bypass the sensation of "cold" entirely and go straight to "pain." Most of us have a story about having to eat snow off the roofs of our cars while stuck in an icy five-hour traffic jam. We tell these stories to our friends-in-warmer-climates. It makes us feel tough by comparison, and it makes them feel smart by comparison. Everybody wins.

I do think Chicago blossoms in the summer precisely because it suffers through the winter. The warm weather is a catharsis. It is not taken for granted. But I like winter in itself too, though I don't say that where my wife will hear. Few scenes are as hauntingly lovely as moonlight reflected on new snow, the hush in the air as it falls in big, fluffy flakes. The gray, dirty city turns clean and white, if only until morning. Remy likes it too: after a snowfall, he charges through snow banks, pokes his nose under the drifts, and chases after snowballs that vanish on impact. After the snow falls, the landscape is new, bright, and begging to be explored.

Hitting the Bottle: Jessup Cellars 2003 Estate Bottled Cabernet Sauvignon

It has been snowing nonstop for the last two days, I'm still achey from working out for the first time in months, and it's time to hit the bottle. Jessup Cellars, 2003 Estate Bottled Cabernet Sauvignon, which Bela and I brought back from Napa Valley.

Oh yeah -- plum-dark and thick enough to be opaque, and it smells like spiced blackberry jam. And cream. That comes from the oak, right? Another sniff -- gingerbread. But enough foreplay. Time to drink up.

Thick as milk, this one, and spicy -- cinnamon and pepper -- and raspberries. This is like raspberry jam on a fresh-baked scone. (It's smelling like bread now. That soft, fresh-baked white bread that's just out of the oven and light as air. With a bit of nutmeg floating in the background. It's like Christmas at a baker's house.)

Okay, glass number two. Or is it three? I dunno, we're watching the first half of Battlestar Galactica Season 4, in preparation for the premier this month. The glass keeps refilling. It's so good, though. I can't say that it pairs with the super nachos I made for our BSG marathon, but what would? Nachos are beer food. And maybe Malbec food. But hey, it has spiced ground sirloin, so that kinda goes with a spicy, jammy Cab. Nah, not really, but that's okay -- it's big enough to trounce even my nachos. This reminds me of those gigantic Australian numbers, the Shiraz wines and such.

Last glass of the bottle. So yummy. If there was a BYOB serving venison with a raspberry sauce, this would be the bottle I'd bring. This stuff is like velvet on the tongue. There are tannins, sure, but they're soft. Silky, even. And just like that, it's gone. My beautiful Jessup Cab is no more. And we have five more episodes of BSG on the DVR. But 'tis the nature of pleasure to be ephemeral. Goodbye, fair Cab. Until the next.