Baade’s Office Closet Vinyards presents…

A 2009 Sauvignon blanc with no name.

Today, an investment made months ago paid off in the form of 12 bottles of homemade Sauvignon blanc.  My friend Jason– in addition to many of his lab mates– is into home-brewing/fermenting/distilling.  He made a nice Cabernet that was ready in time to celebrate the 2008 presidential election outcome.  He even made stylish political labels!  The wine was good, so I said “sure!” when he asked if I’d like to go in on half the cost of a Sauvignon blanc grape kit (I gave him $30), which would get me 12 bottles of whatever it ended up as.

When Jason transferred the case into my trunk in the Athletic Center parking lot this afternoon, we held a clear bottle up to the light and I appreciated the light color of the wine– “Straw-like in color” I said.  Jason grinned and nodded.   I asked when it would be appropriate for me to crack open a bottle, and he said to “try it tonight” but to “let it breathe.”

So I just finished a glass, and when I come back after refilling my glass I’ll tell you about how I like this wine.

I already mentioned the color aspect, so I’ll get right to the taste aspect.

MINERALS, MINERALS, MINERALS!

If these minerals were actually hard candies instead, their flavor would be this wine.

“This wine is like a gust of humid Cape Cod wind right in your mouth.”   –Anonymous

TARTNESS

Citrus abounds both in odor and taste.  A pleasant gustatory tartness that is preceded by a (mineral-rich) odor of aged grapefruit.

FORWARD FRUITS

All of the fruits, coming forward, towards your sensory neurons.

OVERALL IMPRESSION

“This stuff is going to age like wow.”

No Whey!

Whey.

In my slow descent into total intolerability, I’ve cut the cord on my rabbit-eared TV antennae and started making my own yogurt.  The result of the latter is a lot of whey.

So you know the “yogurt water” that most heathens pour off or quickly stir into their corporate Big Yogurt banana-kiwi pie yogurt?  That is the whey.  Even those sad aspartame-mutagenized bacterial colonies can crank out a little bit of whey.

But my homemade yogurt absolutely gushes the stuff.  I have collected almost 1L from two batches of strained yogurt.  In the strainer is Greek style yogurt (for the cost of one quart of your milk of choice– I use 2%), and under it is a puddle of whey.

The whey’s greenish tint comes from the presence of riboflavin (whose synthetic birthdate is 1935).  Body builders love to drink whey and there are many forums of body builders telling each other to ingest whey protein.  I’m no body builder, but who doesn’t want as much riboflavin as possible?  I drank my whey plain and chilled.

Yes, there were moments when I realized I was drinking something referred to as “milk plasma” and how wonderfully descriptive that term is and how I used to pour off the “yogurt water” when I was little…

I’m sure my burst of thoughts was triggered by the massive amounts of riboflavin I was mainlining.

Excuse me, I’m going to wail on my pecs.

Australian wine and cobbler success

I’ve just returned from a notable vacation to Australia where there is a large open-air market offering shoes, clothes, watches, scarves, jackets, fruits, vegetables, cheeses, meats, breads, and… wines.  The most loveable wine vendor offered tastings and the opportunity to  buy 1L reusable bottles and bring them back for $3.

We tried both the one shown above and the Pinot Gris.  My favorite was the pictured Sauvignon Blanc/Semillon.  Tart indeed!  And it sure did not taste like any white that is sold in a large clear glass bottle in the US!.

And when I returned home to Waltham, Cobbler no. 2 had done an extraordinary job on my boots.

Now I can walk on mildly damp grass without the risk of trenchfoot, and all is well.

Waltham cobbler wins my patronage

I visited cobbler #2 today, and was pleased enough to leave my boots in his capable hands.

He did not look at me like a crazy person, and he showed me the soles he will be attaching.  He looked like a native of New Jersey and only charged me $60.

Hopefully my boots don’t end up looking like this:

Cobbler review

And we’re not talking about warm fruit, oatmeal crisp, and melty ice cream.  We’re talking about people who make and repair shoes, and how these people can be jerks.

These are my favorite boots.  They started off as my mom’s boots when she ordered them from L.L. Bean probably more than 10 years ago.  I don’t remember when I started wearing them, but now I can’t stop.  I love them.  They are part of my legs.

Unfortunately, they are in desperate need of repair.  The soles are cracked basically in half, and there are holes in the heel architecture that allow a surprising number of pebbles and stones to lodge themselves up there, and make a little clicking sound when I walk on tiles.  If I wear them in the rain, my socks are immediately drenched and I run the risk of coming down with a bad case of trench foot, maybe even gangrene– who knows.  But I still wear them all the time and can’t imagine any other pieces of footwear taking their place.

Propelled by my insistent and undying love for my brown leathery footmates, I looked up “Cobblers, Waltham MA” on Google and found, to my delight, that there is a plethora of local cobblers!  So I brought my boots to the one with the highest rating on Yelp and hoped for the best.

The shop was very… cobblery.  It was small and smelled of leather, and contained two old Russian men.  I knew this was going to be just perfect.  One of them used his thick accent to ask “what can I do for you, young miss?”  I launched into professing my love and devotion for my old boots and pointed out all the defects that are largely restricted to the soles, and asked with legitimate concern “if there was anything that could be done?”  They looked at each other, looked at my boots, looked at me over the rims of their glasses and started shaking their heads, making extremely discouraging sounds.

“Is possible, but would take a lot of work.”  More head-shaking.

“Will probably cost a lot…”

I had kind of expected that, and wasn’t shocked when I asked how much and he slowly tossed his head back and forth, musing, and said “Eighty-five.  And you need support in the back here.  Will cost extra.  Will be a lot of work.”

I narrowed my eyes.  Not because of the price, but because of this seeming reluctance that was oozing out of every word they uttered.  These guys are cobblers!  They should be moved by my commitment to these boots!  They should embrace the challenge!  They could charge me $85 as long as they looked at my boots with a gleam in their eye and said something more along the lines of “Is big challenge, but will breathe life into sole of boot and they will walk with you for long time.”

But no.  These were some seriously uninspired, weak-ass cobblers.  I said I would get a second opinion, but thanks anyway.  Luckily I have many more cobbler options, but at the same time this was an entire world I didn’t really want to get sucked into very deep.  The world of… cobblers.

Pimm’s No. 1

This past weekend, the extremely notable Matthew Garrett brought me potable Pimm’s from London proper.  I have once before encountered this liquor, but I was in Atlanta and therefore probably also blindingly drunk.  I have hazy recollections of “gin” and remember that it looked like iced tea, but was fizzy.

Now I can say that I’ve been formally educated in the way of Pimm’s.  Although there are other varieties, distinguished by the liquor they are based on, Pimm’s No. 1 is gin-based.  Basically, it’s like English Campari– dark in color, slightly bitter but mostly sweet, spicy, citrusy.  Also like Campari, the Pimm’s recipe is A SECRET.  The Internet tells me that only six people know the secret recipe.  I’m guessing this guy is one of them:

A popular cocktail involving Pimm’s is “Pimm’s and Lemonade.”  Sounds simple enough, but according to Matthew the English version of  “Lemonade” is unattainable here in the States.  English Lemonade is fizzy and made by Schwepp’s, and the most analogous American equivalent is, shamefully, Sprite.  If you want American lemonade in England, you need to ask for “Traditional Lemonade.”    So Matthew made Pimm’s with Sprite and the appropriate foliage (apples, cucumbers, raspberries, mint).

It was too sweet!  I could appreciate the spicy orange olfactory sensations, but I felt like a live hummingbird in a craft store.  We decided it would be best to make English lemonade from soda, lemon juice, and simple syrup.  And that’s just what I did, while Matthew was on his flight back to the home of fizzy lemonade.

I combined my American non-traditional lemonade, Pimm’s, and foliage, and went outside to enjoy.  It really is quite a wonderful springtime cocktail. In making my own lemonade, I cut back on the sweetness and was able to enjoy a botanical sensory extravaganza. 

Lovely.  Thanks, Matthew.

Thmatthew.

Roses are red, violets are blue, and m*x + B = ax2 + bx + c

Ah, spring.  When the robins return, crocuses bloom,  and thoughts of lines intersecting parabolas… wait.

Springtime dogma shift

Well, it’s Spring.  And with a chilly glass of my limoncello in my hand I make the announcement that, now, not only will this blog include notably potable substances but also things that I find generally notable.  Yes, that’s right, it opens this whole thing up to any number of topics.  Scared?  No.  Don’t be.  Well, just a little.  Maybe.

Dynamic, 2008 Sauvignon Blanc

Really, at first glance, what’s not to love?  For me, very little.  I love Sauvignon Blanc, I love simple architecture, and I love the word “dynamic.”  So this label activated some very important neurons in my reptilian brain– hand reach, grab, pay, transport, chill, drink… enjoy?

Wait.  My highly complex hominid brain kicked in back at home, and I noticed THIS:

Seriously?  SERIOUSLY?  Why.  WHY would you do this to a perfectly fine Sauv Blanc?  And in such a sheepish way?  THREE PERCENT?  That’s like pissing in the shower, but JUST A LITTLE and then  clenching off your physiological impulses and showering in agony until you can use the appropriate facilities.  Maybe I’m being too graphic, vulgar, awful, gruesome, nasty, vile, etc.  But!  Let’s see what the label says:

“The Biodynamic Tower on our property is where, during cycles of the year, homeopathic teas are prepared to enhance and regulate plant growth and soil fertility which brings forward the unique qualities that this wine demonstrates”

Shut UP!  You put 3% Gewurztraminer in your Sauvignon Blanc!  And you’re trying to spin me shit about homeopathic teas?  Why don’t you just shut up.  Right, so, I poured it into a glass and took a full-nosed sniff:

I encountered aromas of tingly sweet fruits reminiscent of REISLING, and fruitiness that elevated my eyebrows to levels far above my actual forehead and then to an immediate decline far, far past the bridge of my nose.  Oh yeah?  3%…

Yeah, so I sneezed, and I SNEEZED.  The effervescence, the fruits– it all hit me like a MAC truck and I was down, ever so briefly, for the count.  Then I regrouped and realized that a stiff middle finger was all that is necessary to counter the 3% Gewurztraminer.  So, take note.

Limoncello di Waltham: the Reckoning

So after 30 days in the mostly dark cupboard where I keep my pots and pans, the limoncello was ready to be diluted by half with sugar water.  The vodka had taken the meyer lemon peels’ yellow hue, so when I added the sweet solution I was pleased to see a cloudy pale yellowness in my jar.  Had there been any Drosophila larave in there, they would have floated to the top at this point– dead, drowned in alcohol.  But everything looked good, so it went back into the cupboard for another week.

And now I’m drinking it.  And it’s 10 degrees outside.  With a windchill of -1.  And the limoncello has little shards of ice floating it, encountering my teeth, making me wince.  It’s kind of like when I drank/ate snow, but this is at least has a good percent alcoholic.  Let’s dream:

It’s May… May 20th. Wait, no, I think I have to give group meeting on May 20th.  Okay, it’s May 20th at 5:00pm.  I find myself wearing a sundress and have a handfull of blueberries.  Where am I?

YOU’RE IN WALTHAM, LENA, AND THERE IS ONE WHOLE FOOT OF SNOW OUTSIDE THAT REQUIRES YOUR SHOVELING, LIKE, NOW!

The whole “ball drop to spring” thing didn’t quite work out.  But, the limoncello gives me great visions of new birdsongs and the green vale of vernal rebirth, etc, etc.  Dirt under fingernails, sweat on brow from walking home, etc, etc.  And sundresses!