My husband is the opposite of a wine snob. We just watched “Drops of God,” a TV series on Netflix. Wine is at the center of it, but it isn’t only about wine. It’s a great story, written well and filmed out-of-this-world gorrrgeous! I loved it.
But when characters would swish the wine around their glasses (and there was a lot of swishing) and talk about the legs in slow motion, and oak barrels versus cherry, and these tannins are too complex, my husband, if there were a championship eye-rolling contest, would win.
He doesn’t understand the whole wine world. He just doesn’t get it. There’s a Zen poem that begins, “The great way is not difficult for those who have no preferences.” That’s him. He is pleased with anything you put in front of him. He’s not a foodie. My mother-in-law (whom I loved, and who had a million other talents) was the worst cook on the planet. She would serve something unrecognizable, and all four sons and my father-in-law would say, almost in unison, “Mum, this is delicious.” And they meant it. I would add, “It’s unbelievable.” I also meant it.
My husband has tasted $7 wine and $200 wine, and I witnessed him shrugging his shoulders and saying, “I see no difference.” The guy with the $200 bottle of wine shook his head back and forth and said, “I give up.”
When people bring wine to us, when the dinner is over and the guests have gone home, Joel takes the leftover wine from the two or three bottles and combines them. He calls it Chilmark Wine. To date, I have never let him actually serve it, and ultimately, it either becomes an interesting vinegar or out she goes.
Over the years, if friends started talking about which vineyard and which year and mention the nice, velvety mouthfeel, I knew to expect the kick under the table. Translation: Where did you find these people? And God forbid anyone would ever send their wine back — he would probably either leave the restaurant or end the friendship, or both.
OK, that’s an exaggeration, but he has always had a disdain for folks who spend an inordinate amount of time discussing wine. (Remember, this is the guy who would rather debate thorium molten salt reactors versus wind and solar. This is the guy who worries constantly about the Doomsday Clock, and these days, what the obsession going to Mars is all about. And I might insert here, the wine people may be eyerolling at his obsessions.) And why not?
Last week, while reading the New York Times Style Magazine, he stopped as he began reading the title: “How to Be Cultured.” It was one of those quiet Sunday mornings, reading our separate chosen sections (him with “Opinion” and me with “Book Review”), and out of the silence, suddenly I hear the following: ”How to be cultured while we bomb the shit out of people. And what does that even mean, how to be cultured?” I started to answer, “Ya’ know, wearing the right thing, saying the right thing, knowing which spoon to use,” but I realized it was just a rhetorical question, and his bombing line started to sink in.
Getting an answer was the last thing he wanted. What he wanted — and what he’s always wanted since I met him in 1965 — is for people to care about the environment and to get along with each other and have peace, rather than all the distractions that keep us from feeling compassion and empathy.
He has always been straddling the fence between enjoying his life while being fully aware of people who are suffering. Often before we eat, when I have already glommed my first five bites, he’ll say, “We are so lucky to eat when we’re hungry.” Or, “Isn’t it amazing that when we turn on a light switch, we get light?” He helps me have gratitude and reminds me to be amazed.
But now with the war and the possible annihilation of the whole of humanity, even the “All the News that’s Fit to Print” New York Times is a trigger for my poor energy czar.
His straddle has always had enough balance that he could enjoy much of his life. But now I think his worry is getting worse.
What can I do? I swear he’s going to drive me to drink some of that famous Chilmark Wine.
And if you become a fly on my wall, you might just see me swish my glass, and if you listen hard, you might just hear me say, “There’s a plush texture to this wine, sort of a crisp savory taste — and these tannins? They’re not complex at all.”