Al and I played hookey today up in wine country.  I haven’t been there in a very long time, and the fall is my favorite time to be there.  The grape leaves are still on the vine, turning mostly yellow but also burnt orange and red and a little green sprinkled in from the hangers-on.  The grapes are gone – but not quite.  The air is still filled with crushed grapes – it’s hypnotic, somewhat like the fragrant flowers of Hawaii whose aroma permeates the air.  

We stopped at two places for wine tasting.  I’m getting better at it.  I no longer feel intimidated by all the aura around tasting and can quite confidently state: “I don’t like that.”  “It’s okay.”  “I like that.”  That’s about as far as my critiques go.  I’ll never be a wine writer, that’s for sure.  Al challenges me on this description of a tasty cabernet: “What does a ‘muscular entrance’ mean?”  I’m serious, the description actually said that.  Chocolate and baking spices.  Mocha and fruit, but not just any fruit – blackberry, cherry, bananas.   Oh for heaven’s sake.  It tastes like wine.  Grapes. Years ago the wine descriptions were pretty much the same: fruity, oaky, woody.  Now, muscular?  Must be pretty competitive, that vintner writing craft.   On top of all that I’ve got Al next to me going through the whole motions of tasting the wine, which is fine, he knows a lot about wine, but he can get so – Missouri – about it, even to the point of a slight gargle and swish.  Oh for heaven’s sake squared.  I tried swishing but I didn’t notice anything more than wine stinging my tongue so I reverted back to just rolling and swallowing. 

A storm is rolling in for the weekend and the mist came in over the coastal range that borders wine country early in the morning, and by noon when we walked out of lunch (oysters, fish and shoestring potatoes) it was misting in earnest.  Mist on coastal mountains and vineyards is an evocative sight.  It made me want to pull out my sewing machine right there in the car and start sewing something, preferably next to a fireplace with a blanket on my lap.  Off in the distance the rows of yellow vines climbed up a hillside, looking like golden stairs leading up to the green forest of live oaks at the crest of the hill.  Wisps of clouds danced around amongst the trees and the sky slowly closed in on us.  It was time to head home. 

We are back home now.  It’s really raining.  I’m pleased to see the storms starting as mist – that means it may be a serious winter of endless rain.  You know how I love that cabin fever type of feeling, which makes one eventually appreciate a warm sunny April day.  Of course out here in paradise this also means the flowers will start blooming again.  Our long summer of dryness and deadness ends when the rain comes in and we are treated to hills that rival any in Ireland -green hills and primroses and sometimes many rainbows all at once. 

I can’t complain, but of course I do.