The Odd and the Crazy

"You have to distinguish between things that seemed odd when they were new but are now quite familiar, such as Ibsen and Wagner, and things that seemed crazy when they were new and seem crazy now, like Finnegan's Wake and Picasso." - Philip Larkin

A good friend of mine sent me this quote, and it seems particularly appropriate today, to the art world as a whole, and even the world at large. My husband, a classical realist painter, (who is also responsible for the beautiful photograph at left), wondered aloud yesterday evening if his latest paintings might be rejected for their somewhat morbid oddity. They are a series of beautifully rendered fowl, and  parts of fowl. They are exquisite, though some are a bit eerie to behold, with their bodiless heads and wings, now resting flightless and soundless on fragile bones spread before you. They are birds whose heads and wings I see only briefly in life, before they are severed and tossed away, and I have never looked closely at them until Richard requested I buy our hens and pheasants intact at the market.

Sometimes he paints the entire body, as with our latest  faison, but usually he paints only the head, wings, and feet, the body already having been made into dinner. Experiencing this act of looking closely at our food, a teaching of Michael Pollan among others, is important to us. If we can't look at the animals we consume, inspect every part, understand the value of the life they lived, how and what they ate, then see and consider them in death - how the feathers feel, how the neck becomes flaccid and almost pathetic in the hand - if we can't do that, well, then, what business do we have eating them? Thus, it is important to look, and therefore that eerie quality in Richard's paintings is there for a reason. It reminds us. It connects us to our food, and we can't look away from that. So I say to him, yes they are odd, but they are beautiful too. And the oddness has become familiar to me, because I see it, and I understand. This is part of what makes them great art.

What is crazy, and what always seemed to be so to me, is the blindness and complacency of man. People who accept whatever comes their way, be it a vacuum packed bird which led a life of imprisonment in a tiny cage wallowing in and eating its own merde, a dangerous vaccine, bad design, filthy sidewalks, propaganda to make them buy anything and everything, (you too can have fake eyelashes!) and of course, ridiculous, unskilled, very bad "art". An example which always comes to mind is Jeff Koons (who has never even held a paintbrush). So, hey, even though the world has given us masters like Degas and Rembrandt, who spent a lifetime learning the skills which made them great, why don't we just include in that category we call Art a large, inflatable pink rabbit? It doesn't matter that he didn't make it himself, or that it's absurd and insults your intelligence; it's art now! And you should pay a million dollars for it! Sadly, people do. They do pay, and they accept the crazy as the norm, because we have allowed a few marketing gurus and businessmen to tell us how to think. Now that's crazy. The truth is, Jeff Koons seemed crazy in the 70's and he seems crazy now.

What's even crazier is that this is all a part of how we are deceived. If we could really see, awaken each day with fresh minds free of the burden of constant advertising, maybe we would look at an inflatable Koons toy and say, you're calling yourself an artist? Are you crazy?! Maybe we would be able to see the labor and skill that goes into art. Maybe we would always look at our food and think, is this good for me to eat? Is it right or wrong to eat this and why? From where did this animal come and how was it slaughtered? Is this chair I'm sitting in made well, and with skill? Do I value it? Or did I just accept it because it's the latest style? But I don't think most of the world can ask those questions anymore. Maybe it's what they've put in our water and all those packaged bags of salad and single slices of cheese. If we're too tired to slice our own cheese, well....all in all, a clever way to get us to quietly hand over our paychecks.

There was a time, I think,  when people looked at the world around them; at the earth and the bounty it provides, at the meaning of learning a skill, of thinking for one's self. My grandmother knew how to raise and kill her own chickens. Most people now can't even butcher one. They think "chicken" is something they are entitled to, and comes in tidy plastic wrapped packages. The chair I'm sitting in needs to be re-stuffed and reupholstered, but only a cluster of fine upholsterers are left in the western world. That's because when we were all watching television, a large company decided to make cheaper chairs, fill them with Styrofoam and tell us cheaper is better. And everybody went for it. The companies profited, but did we? I think I'd rather learn how to build a chair myself  to tell you the truth, or pay someone who still knows how to use his hands and make something solid.

As I sit down to dinner tonight at a table made by a person, not a machine, and I eat the flesh of a bird who was sold to me at a fair price from a farmer I trust, I would like to offer up a toast. Here's to those of you who value quality and beauty. To those who know how to draw an accurate figure, who know the skills of painting, who know how to sew, how to grow vegetables without chemicals, raise animals humanely, build a table, make a fire that doesn't have an electric switch. Here's to the people who make wine with terroir, write literature and music, hunt, forage, bake their own bread. To those who still value knowledge over reality tv, and therefore know how to spot the odd from the perpetually crazy. Here's to the ones who truly see, and  know the parts equal a greater whole.

The Wine Files in Paris

I haven't been counting the days between then and now; that is to say, since I last wrote here, though I am well aware more than a year must have slipped away. Some of it passed quietly by with ease, and writing would have been no more than an unwelcome interruption to my delirious play, which for the most part took place in Soho in Manhattan. There has been bountiful laughter over many glasses of wine. Other parts of the year were not as kind - cruel, even. Thirty was difficult. Difficult, but generous too. I even made it to thirty-one relatively unscathed.

So, moving forward as we humans are wont to do, life has ushered me out of New York for a while, and I write to you from my fireside in Paris, France. The days have just begun to hold that certain coolness in the air from which a sweater lends only minimal protection, and everything is becoming very clear and clean to see and also to breathe. We are alert to a certain virtue of Fall, which gives us a little nudge to make haste, as the days are drawing shorter. My husband, Richard, and I can no longer count on those long days of a northern French summer, where it is light until 10 p.m. And each day is getting shaved a little more, drawing us away from the badminton court a little sooner each day, so that sometimes we become too wrapped up in our work and forget to go outside in time to play. Today was one of those days. I missed my light, my chance to play.

As I sit here by the fireside looking out onto the empty lawn (where we will surely play tomorrow!) I anticipate making my first tartiflette, a dish whose richness I don't really deserve after a sedentary afternoon in chairs. But I am determined to create and recreate every French dish I can learn here, and sometime around the hour of eight I begin to lay out my ingredients, procured twice weekly from my local farmer's market, and I survey the situation. This evening I have potatoes, heavily coated in a thick layer of mud, which I wash but don't bother to scrub. I have onions, I have creme fraiche and vin blanc, and I of course have lardons, which the butcher kindly diced into small pieces for me, despite the threat of the sharp knife dangerously close to his already badly wounded fingers (and this in itself warrants a whole other post which will soon follow). Lastly, and most importantly, I have a beautiful creamy morceau of Reblochon cheese, whose melting point has reached the sublime in culinary arts.

As I sip my Morgon, I can smell the fat and onions crisping atop their potato pillows. They are slowly submerged by a rich blanket of Reblochon, which leaves behind only its rind, creating a delicate crown of crust. The wonderful aroma is filling the first floor, and my Morgon and I are eager to take a peek inside the oven. To distract myself I practice the language of my new country, and Richard brings wood up from the basement and arranges the logs. I anticipate the warmth of the fire and reflect that I never had a working fireplace in New York. In the city, it wasn't practical I guess. I also didn't have Reblochon cheese, and a butcher never once offered to dice the lardons, had I been able to find them. I'm also quite sure that a bottle of Morgon would cost more than six dollars there, and wouldn't be available at the little market down the street.

Yes, things are certainly different here. What is the same is the passage of time, though I am less aware of it. I know we have a Fall with golden leaves, a pharmacy on every corner, and 365 kinds of cheese to choose from. And when I sit by the fire and try to remember all of their names, and smell the Reblochon bubbling in the kitchen, I can't say I miss New York at all.

The Old Vines Spoke of Home

On the eve of my thirtieth birthday, a few short weeks ago, I dreamt that the world was enclosed by infinite darkness. I wept because I knew I would not see the sun again, and because now nothing would be able to grow. The soil, the essence of life, would no longer bear trees and fruit, but serve only as a vast grave. Then, the moon came out and tried to take the place of the sun, to light my corner of the world. I explained to the moon that it wouldn't work, because it was the sun that lights the world, and things must be as they always have been. When I awoke, none of this made sense and I found myself safely in bed, the sun I've always known peeking through the bamboo shades.

Looking back, I believe my dream revealed my fear of change at entering a new decade of living. I know that change is inevitable and essential, and life is constantly reinventing itself. Yet, people need constants; something eternal as the sun. I am excited at the prospect of my next thirty years-the experiences, new friends, wines, the uncertainty that is as exciting as it is terrifying. But along with these new years, these unknowns, I must also have some sound things to depend on.

Just as burgeoning possibilities will undoubtedly hold a future of happiness and exaltation, it will also unavoidably hold despair, anger,grief, chaos. There cannot be light without darkness. My husband is forever reminding me that beauty cannot be perceived unless it is contrasted by ugliness, as joy is more profound when we have known misery. These opposing forces are always in a state of flux. Beauty then, for me, often lies in what is constant. By constant I don't mean the monotonous, I mean the perseverance of the universe; the continuation of a lifelong dream; a fifty year marriage; a thirty year old vine, twisting it's way toward the sun. These are fundamental, and I am enamored by the faithful endurance of it all. I depend on and long for this kind of beauty.

This year, turning thirty, I wanted a wine that would somehow encompass all of these things. It needed to be complex because life is complex, but it also needed to be straightforward and unpretentious. It needed to show maturity, a sense of place, and have great depth. Most of all, it should show resilience and speak of the earth in which it grew.

As always, I needn't have searched long, since the wine I was looking for I found right under my own nose, harvested in local soil. The wine was Lenz Old Vines Merlot, 2001 vintage. I learned that the winery was founded the year I was born, in 1978, and the vines that produced the beautiful Merlot were as old as I am. So it was meant to be. And what have we to show for all these years, those vines and I? I have spent many days contemplating my faults, my achievements. The old vines, though, have been quite prosperous, and the wine showed every nuance of character I had been searching for. When I tasted it for the first time, I felt at home. Just as home feels, it didn't confront me with strange new tastes, or speak of exotic places. There was in its flavor more earth than fruit, and an elegance that demanded respect. It had weathered time, and now, lovely and graceful and mellow, it would tell me all about life on the North Fork. A beautiful journey under the sun and the moon and the rain.

Some people tasted the wine and were equally enchanted, while others didn't seem to notice it at all. This is the nature of quiet beauty; a whisper rather than a loud voice. I don't claim to be wise at thirty, far from it. What I know is this. There will be occasions when I will be titillated by the aroma of new oak and young, bright fruit. It is like being romanced by the moon, which has its time and place, if only to contrast the brilliance of the sun. For most of the days that remain for me, though, I will continue to seek out the beauty of tradition, here among these legends, these old vines.

DRINK LOCAL, NEW YORK!

I have spent years supporting the concept of eating locally, so it is with heartfelt passion that I can now say, without a shadow of a doubt, that I support drinking locally, too. New York wines have officially earned my respect, my devotion, and my palate. From here on out, my focus and my consuming habits will mostly consist of grapes grown near home, just as it was meant to be (though the occasional French, Italian, and Chilean wines will be imbibed from time to time).

I have tasted, I have studied, I have compared, and I have read the writing on the wall. It said, "Great wines are growing right in your own state, dummy. Drink more of them, and tell people!" Why did it take me so long to realize this?

To be fair, it wasn't all my fault. I simply didn't have easy access to these NY gems. I read about them from time to time, but when I looked for them in stores all I ever found in the way of NY wines was Manischewitz. So, needless to say, I stuck to the French aisles. But I knew I was missing out on something, and I decided to dig deeper. Why were there only two or three NY bottles on store shelves? And why all the California stuff, anyway? Sure, there are some superb California wines, but there are also a lot of bad ones, primarily due to the state of mass vinification going on there. New York, by contrast, does not mass produce. Most vineyards and wineries here are small, family owned operations. This explains in part why they aren't showing up everywhere, since the production amount is relatively small. But don't let that fool you into thinking the world doesn't know about them. These wineries can boast of some prestigious international awards, I have recently learned. Fortunately, I have the opportunity to taste many excellent New York wines now, as my curiosity and my desire to drink locally led me to Vintage New York in Soho, where I am now employed. And since April is officially New York wine month, now is a fabulous opportunity to talk about what I think are the some of the best wines in the world.

I was informally educated and ordained into the world of New York wines by way of my job, where we sell New York wines exclusively (the first store to do so in the city). Initially, I suspected that half the wines would be very good, with the others being mediocre. Well I, like so many others, had a lot to learn. New York is the third largest wine producer in the country, and home to some of the world's award winning and legendary wineries such as the Lenz estate, Vinifera Wine Cellars, and America's oldest winery, Brotherhood. I have encountered very few bad wines so far, and dozens of outstanding ones. In fact, having enjoyed mostly French wines in my lifetime and having a palate that prefers Burgundy, the Finger Lakes wines are a perfect match for me. Generally, in both style and climate, New York wines are similar to French wines. So, if you prefer big oaky California Chardonnays and overtly fruity Cabernet Sauvignons, then NY wines may not be for you. However, if you tend toward the elegant, well, then you've come to the right place. I have much to say about my beloved state's terroir, too. Each region is unique, so just as a Riesling from the Keuka Lake area will tell of the shale that made up the sandy soil, a North Fork Cabernet Franc will whisper notes of herbs and spice and cool gulf stream breezes.

The Finger Lakes region, where award winning Rieslings and Pinot Noirs abound, boasts terroir comparable to Burgundy. The area's steep slopes provide excellent soil drainage, while the large bodies of water serve to moderate harsh temperatures. The often cool and damp conditions inspire grapes to produce more resveratrol, with the end result being wines more concentrated in the antioxidant. I am particularly fond of Dr. Frank's Rkatsiteli and Fleur de Pinot Noir.

On Long Island, the temperatures are warmer in summer, and there Bordeaux grapes dominate under a longer growing season. I am in love with the earthy, luscious Long Island Merlots as much as I am the dry, smoky Cabernet Francs. Long Island is known for its likeness to the Bordeaux region of France, both in the grapes planted there as well as the climate and terrain. I'll let you read more about that area from expert Lenn Thompson, whose blog, Lenndevours, is devoted to New York wines, and particularly the North Fork of Long Island. (Thank you, Lenn, for all the information and great reading you provide about NY wines)

Despite being written about in numerous publications including Wine Spectator, Food and Wine, The New York Times and others, I still think more needs to be done to promote NY wines on the east coast. We are in an era where consuming locally is more important than ever, and New York wines should be filling east coast shelves. It's the sustainable way, it's the logical and ecological way, and what's more, it's the most pleasurable way. If you're in the city or close by, don't take my word for it. Come by and taste for yourself.

Wines for the Equinox

I never did get around to showing you what was in my Easter basket. Suffice it to say I was quite pleased, and even though we missed Easter vigil and mass (I was working) I did get to celebrate the holiday with a few Spring surprises that were much more fun than dyed eggs. Does a case of Dr. Frank's finest selections convince you that the Easter bunny was very, very good to me this year?

Admittedly, I have never been much of a lover of white wines. But if there is going to be a time to indulge in something different, the Vernal Equinox and the transition from snow to daffodils are pleasant reminders that Spring is a time for change and new beginnings. I began with a rarity-a Ukrainian grape that I wasn't familiar with before, and have Dr. Frank to thank for the introduction. You may remember from my previous post that Dr. Frank emigrated from the Ukraine, so the planting of Rkatsiteli was a natural selection. It makes a unique wine that is loaded with tropical fruit and a hint of spice. It is ever so slightly sweet, with a pleasing, snappy finish that rounds it all out. A stand out wine that also makes a very special gift for a wine collector.

I was a bit stand-offish at first when it came time for the Riesling, as I am not a fan of sweet. Well, my hesitation was all for naught. This Riesling isn't sweet at all, and due to the unique terroir of the region it is packed with minerals and slate. Crisp fruit, refreshing acidity, and subtle floral notes make it a delightful accompaniment to Easter dinner (which should include a leg of lamb, by the way). And speaking of lamb, I find that the relatively low alcohol content (usually 12%) in Dr. Frank's portfolio make them excellent food wines. They compliment, but they never overwhelm. Even the dry rosé, which is rather tart, paired quite well with a vanilla custard. In fact, all of the wines paired well with all of the food I tried them with. But, if I had to pick an aperitif wine from the bunch (oh, how my arm hurts when it's twisted this way) I would choose the Gewurztraminer. It marries perfectly well with many dishes, and is often paired with spicy foods, but I prefer to enjoy it all by itself. Call it a time to stop and smell the roses, as this Gewurtz is elegantly abundant in rose, with characteristic flecks of minerals and spice. It is a sensual wine with a long beautiful finish that lasts all the way to April - though I doubt my case of Chateau Frank wines will last that long. I can always renew my supply, and so can you, by ordering from Vinifera Wine Cellars. Or, if you're in Manhattan, simply stop by and fill your basket at Vintage New York.