Can’t wait for my Cabernet. It’s almost too much for this stream-of-consciousness, in-the-moment, writer, this waiting. But, Katie told me today in a text, “All in due time. It will be great, don’t worry!” All I can now, at this point, research. And pour for Self. Sipping the remainder of last night’s Tempranillo. Better posture tonight. More moderated, less cranky. The wine, me. Last night, the herbaceous leather tosses were unevening, borderline unpleasant. No such bend will walk in my wine. Asked Katie about oak, but we haven’t approached that topic. That’s when she told me to relax, for the time being. That’s when she recited the above lines. I’m eager, yes. But, more important and imperative than my cinematically dramatic ambition, this intransigency has to be maturely, adequately, profitably channeled, especially if whoso cellars is to be opened before a later.
Not sure how I feel about French Oak versus American. I like both, yes. but don’t know enough about both to say I’ll need one before other. My tasting Room, I’m thinking, could be in downtown Santa Rosa, just as there are Room in Napa’s central streets. The wine I’m sipping now, this Spanish varietal: Romantic, slow, aimed, colorfully charismatic, like the coming Cab.
What other varietals do I see in my winemaking writer’s nearness? Not sure. Definitely a Sauvignon Blanc, like Katie. Cab Franc, Syrah. Would love to produce a Pinot, and a Cab from Mt. Veeder. I’m overly charged. Can’t be like this, not like I am with the writing. Wine demands professionalism, patience. Hate both those words, so I’m sipping again. More solar red fruit, tonight. Writing like I’m a calm Cabernet. In no rush to any word bullseye. Late, right now. Soldiering with this keyboard. And a Tempranillo occupied stemless bowl. Writer, winemaker, all autonomous. Finally. Little more of a smoky strut, this second night. Interesting. Training palate. More pours, what a writing winemaker needs. Especially in the beginning.