#Argyglewinery

[mylifeinwine]

Til' death do us part

March 23, 2012

I treasure celebrating my grandmother because she is normal to me. I moved so many times as a child, tossed between two divorced parents, that she represents staid, solid, buttoned-up comfort. She is a graceful, earthy, large, no-nonsense and opinionated woman. Raised on a tiny rural farm in Bedford County, VA, she worked hard and spent the seventh day of the week praising our lord and savior, Jesus Christ. She married my grandfather young, had a family, and settled in the housewife of the mid-1900s, perfectly. Being Southern Baptist, she eschewed alcoholic beverages and all things heathen, including dancing, partying and, especially, lying. As such, she taught me honesty, integrity and patience. Which makes it interesting that on this day, when I was due in Harrisonburg, to celebrate her birthday, my betrothed and I decided to run off that morning and get married. and not tell anyone.

Lying and deceiving aside, our early morning courthouse nuptials were not complete without a toast with a pinot from Argygle winery, provided by a small, yet celebration-worthy Alexandria restaurant. We knew it wasn’t truly honest, but while driving to mom’s house in Harrisonburg, we agreed that what we did was acceptable, explainable, later… maybe in a few years. In true wedded bliss, we kept our rings on, until we pulled into the driveway, our nerves suddenly calmed. I think we assumed that the three weeks would give us time to breathe, to reflect and develop into something substantial so that come “real wedding night”, we would be able to stand up to the occasion, with its pressures and not disappoint our families.

So it seem only fitting that we had the Argyle 2008 Nuthouse Pinot Noir. We have never had it since. It’s beautifully structured and intentional, fashioned by luck and exactly what a new world pinot should be, PROVIDED THE YEAR AND WINE ARE JUST RIGHT. If we needed breathing time, the wine did not. It was the most perfect glass of Pinot, at the most imperfect moment, matched with odd food choices, which sounds odd but if you’ve had a bad year from Oregon (which is not uncommon) at a restaurant eating off-handle food, you’ll know what I mean. Pinot Noir is a very fussy grape and is often picked when part of the bunch is unripe and unready. If luck and winemaking techniques are on the side of the vintner, he can still make something passable, essentially pressing the rest of the grapes into a subdued submission. It’s a fussy, pretentious and demanding varietal, not bold enough to be a big red, not light enough to be a rosè. In short, its eclectic and it has baggage, like me. Commonly paired with the wrong dish, it becomes a beautiful mess. Also, like me. So the waiter stands, waiting… silently imploring. He’s thinking we can’t afford this, we are too young, why are we even here? But he smiles and recommends the Jannisen-Thiebalt, a Virginia sparkling. My new husband defers to me to make the call. I see an expensive pinot noir and I pretend to know what I’m doing. So we order it. “Ah, it’s such a beautiful wine. I really like it”, I say. And I do. I don’t know how perfect it will be but I have faith that it will hold up, mismatched to our meal of steak salad and shrimp and grits. I want to believe, to celebrate, to start life with this new guy, even if its not the perfect “book” match. So we do.

Which is why on this day, after I have pleaded, whined and flat out threatened my now husband, that I must get married RIGHT NOW RIGHT THIS VERY GODDAMN MOMENT OR I’LL JUST LOSE IT, he agrees to appease me, like most love-struck men, provided we do not tell his mother. We had just exchanged a short “I do”, paid a judge 50$ and slipped off to lunch at 11 am where we drank a glass of perfectly mismatched and moody Pinot noir and vowed to keep this day as sacred as our “real” wedding day.

We show up at mom’s that night for grandma’s birthday, the only glow emanating from the dining room candles and our faces. Grandma takes my hand, admiring the beautiful engagement ring (thankfully, no longer flanked by the slender platinum band which is now in the coin cup of my car) smiles so beautifully at me, and in the low glow says “such a beautiful ring. I really like him” and I know that she approves. And I know that she probably knows. And I think that it’s ok. Because it is such a beautiful day, a beautiful love, a beautiful pairing and ah, yes, I really like it.