#ZAP zinfandel

[wine-porn]

No Bling-Jeans

Well, it’s definitely Zin. An over-simplified statement, perhaps, but with Zin, that’s the first–and most important–qualifier…considering the sins committed against the grape in the past 30 years. Sure, we like pinot to act like pinot and grenache to smell like grenache and chard to taste like chard, but as someone who regularly gets accused of wanting my zins to taste like cab, it’s an important…

[rabbitcruiser]

Zinfandel Day

Zinfandel Day is celebrated on November 17 every year, and we’re going to show you how you can indulge in the excitement. Zinfandel is a type of black-skinned grape that is typically used for making wines. The grapes are known for their high sugar content, which is useful for making wines with an alcohol percentage of more than 15%. The Zinfandel, also known as Primitivo, grows best in a warm but not too hot climate. Its taste varies, depending on the ripeness of the grapes. Zinfandel Day was created in the United Kingdom to give recognition to this exquisite variety of grapes.

History of Zinfandel Day

It is said that the Zinfandel grapes were discovered in the Mediterranean region around 6000 B.C. Shortly after that period, winemaking became prevalent. Zinfandel was found in parts of Croatia, but a lot of the plantation was wiped out by the phylloxera epidemic. The Zinfandel’s genetic structure closely resembles that of Primitivo, which was found in Italy in the 1800s. It was first recognized by the European Union that Primitivo would be a synonym for Zinfandel in 1990. Today both Zinfandel and Primitivo are used interchangeably.

In 1930, Zinfandel agriculture was affected greatly, first by the Great Depression and then by the Prohibition that followed. By the 1960s, Zinfandel was already being referred to as the “lost vine and wine.” In 2002, the Crljenak Kaštelanski variety was discovered in Croatia, and winemakers started mixing Zinfandel and Crljenak Kaštelanski. Soon after, the wine production again rose to prominence. The wines were made mostly in parts of Puglia or Lodi (Croatia).

The Zinfandel Advocates and Producers were formed in the United States for “the preservation, education, and appreciation” of the Zinfandel grapes. Zinfandel Day was created to show love and appreciation toward the Zinfandel grape and the wines produced from it, namely Rombauer, Artezin, Pedroncelli, and Robert Biale. Wine lovers also held Zinfandel tasting days in San Francisco. Zinfandel Day quickly spread to Europe, especially the United Kingdom. It became a day of celebrating one of the world’s most favorite vines and wines.

Zinfandel Day timeline

6000 B.C. Zinfandel Grapes are Discovered

Zinfandel grapes are discovered in the Mediterranean region.

1880 Primitivo is Born

Primitivo, a close relative of the Zinfandel grapes, is found in Italy.

1930 Zinfandel is Almost Extinct

Zinfandel production suffers greatly because of the Great Depression and Prohibition.

1990s Zinfandel Day

Zinfandel Day is created by the Zinfandel Advocates and Producers (ZAP), to honor Zinfandel grapes and the wines made from them.

Zinfandel Day FAQs

How many wine days are celebrated?

There are about 17 national wine day celebrations — from simple wine-drinking days to more specific wine celebrations such as Mulled Wine Day, Zinfandel Day, and Sauvignon Blanc Day.

What does Zinfandel wine taste like?

The taste of the Zinfandel wines depends on the ripeness of the grapes. It might be sweet, semi-sweet, or dry.

What is the difference between Merlot and Zinfandel?

Merlot adds a plummy flavor to the wine. Zinfandel has a rich blackberry/raspberry or pepper flavor and is less bitter compared with the Merlot.

Zinfandel Day Activities

Drink Zinfandel wines

Share it on social media

Read more about Zinfandel grape history

What better way to celebrate Zinfandel Day than to taste some exotic Zinfandel wines? Pour yourself a glass of Zinfandel wines such as Rombauer or Artezin and enjoy the juicy, sweet taste of Zinfandel grapes. Enjoy your drink with friends and family.

Let everyone know that you're celebrating this day. Take pictures of you enjoying some Zinfandel wine with friends and share them on social media. You can also write articles on the origins of Zinfandel grapes and post them online.

Use this day to improve your knowledge. Read more about the historical origins of the Zinfandel grapes — how they were discovered, and how they became one of the most loved grape varieties among wine lovers.

5 Facts About Zinfandel That Will Blow Your Mind

It is used in cranberry sauce

It is a heritage grape

It has wings

White Zin was created in 1972

Austria brought Zinfandel to the U.S.

Zinfandel grapes are sometimes used to give the cranberry sauce a spicy flavor.

The Zinfandel grape is considered by the people of California to be their heritage grape.

The Zinfandel grapevine always has a side branch growing outwards that gives an appearance of a wing.

White Zin was created by the Sutter Home in 1972.

It is said that the Zinfandel was brought to the U.S. by Croatia, under Austrian rule.

Why We Love Zinfandel Day

We appreciate Zinfandel grapes and wines

It gives us an occasion to come together as a family

We improve our knowledge

Zinfandel grapes are some of the most popular grape varieties on the planet. Yet, we feel as though they do not get the recognition they deserve. Zinfandel allows us to appreciate this magnificent variety of grapes and the tasty, high-quality wines produced from them.

This day is to be celebrated with friends and family. Zinfandel Day gives us the chance to invite neighbors or family members over for a few glasses of Zinfandel wines, and a chance to bond with each other.

This is also a day of learning. This day allows us to learn more about the origins of Zinfandel grapes and wines. We learn about how the zinfandel grape almost went to extinction but survived and became one of the most popular red wine grapes on the planet.

Source

[myvinespot]

There’s something uniquely Californian about #Zinfandel. Most are generally fruit-driven and robust, underscored by ripe, sun-kissed berries. Pour yourself a glass and learn all about the grape at tomorrow’s (10/25) #ZAP Twitter meetup with @OakFarmVineyard @ThreeWineCo @AVVWinery @Pedroncelli & more! Join the convo at 4PM PST/7PM EST by using hashtag #ZinStories. Cheers! https://www.instagram.com/p/BpVohUXhwuh/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=17zrqnb28f8u1

[eljacobsen]

Project 2- Stage 1

Part 1-

Across the board the reading on Lovemarks by Kevin Roberts, How to Find Your Brand Heart by Josh Ritchie, and the video How Symbols and Brands Shape our Humanity by Debbie Milman all seem to touch on the idea that we as humans are in charge of both creating and forming meaning around symbols that would be seemly nothing to any other species. This idea that Debbie touches on in her video was so interesting that humans of many different origins and languages can come together and unanimously decide on a meaning for these otherwise meaningless symbols. The ways design can reach across language and distance barriers to create and understanding is one of the many reasons to not only continue to create, but to be passionate about it. Creating with a purpose is something that makes the work more enjoyable for all.

The article on Love marks gave a warm take on branding and creating brand that can often be viewed in a more monetary focus. Roberts discusses really putting your heart and soul into creating something that is a reflection of how you feel, this was an extremely important idea. Focusing in on this is more important now than ever in an age where we see brands and logos pop up on the daily. Creating something that not only is unique and memorable but something that reflects a quality of care when crafted. Similarly the article by Ritchie also keys into this intuitive side of creating and loving what you create. This idea is not only producing better design work but also creating something that one enjoys creating. I think we’ve all had assignments/projects we felt stuck and not exactly in love with what we were creating and the whole thing seems to drag, comparing this to a time where you felt really connected to the piece you were creating is when the design process is something wonderful.

Part 2-

While I haven’t quite narrowed down the intended idea I would like this logo to describe a free space of expression and creativity. I’m leaning towards the idea of marketing for a play-space for children, possibly a craft center or creative daycare. This would be different from the typical daycares and the immediate focus would be of a creative side and the kids would have access to many different mediums and have art be infused with many other learning aspects. The intended platform for this while involving children is to grab the parents eye that would chose to send their child to this day care over others. This is an inclusive organization that is driven to give children from all income levels ample creative options from a young age. Visual attributes that come to mind are energetic but modern in take with lots of color.

Another possible direction was creating a logo for a fresh restaurant or smoothie bar. This would tie in with an energetic feel. The idea that would make this different from mainstream smoothie bars is that all of the ingredients would come locally and would possibly be meshed with a yoga studio. The intended platform for this would be young to middle aged adults that are invested in health. This is a business that is passionate about supporting its community while focus on their health. Some visual attributes that would come to mind is berry colored palettes, organic shapes, and a calm energy.

Part 3-

Revolve

Ritual

Juicebox

Electricity

Zap

Angle

Four

Zen

Lovely’s

Zinfandel

Daffodils

Simply

Delight

Fluid

Mellow

Zeal

Zest

Ardor

Vision

Paisley

In Toto

Panoramic

Lotus

Buttercup

Sweet Pea

Dahlia

Cosmos

Cherry Blossom

[sonomaoak]

Repost from @drycreekvalleywines Holiday weekends feel and look a little bit different in 2020. But from all of us in Dry Creek Valley, we're wishing you a safe 4th of July holiday full of conversation, good food, great wine, and sunshine 🇺🇸 ! #fourthofjuly #patriotic #equalrightsforall #drycreekvalley #winetasting #wineaboutit #winecountry #wineevents #wfh #summertime #zinfandel #sauvignonblanc #familywinery #winetour #winefromhome #wine #winedrinker #mothernaturerocks #sustainableliving #dreamingofwinecountry #budbreak #newvintage #zin #zap #vineyards #getouside #getgrilling https://www.instagram.com/p/CCRhIATl1Ut/?igshid=10l342j8hqlrw

[wine-porn]

Firebird

I’m very picky about my Paso Zin–for reasons *most* of you understand, but manages to cause a lot of head-scratching for the un-initiated. It’s going to be ripe–that’s just a given–but it needs to pull distinct varietal characteristics out without singing to the syrup-gods the *Drink What You Like* crowd fawns over. This one is pale garnet in the glass, and headed into 4 years, it feels like age…

[rabbitcruiser]

National Zinfandel Day

The third Wednesday of November is the perfect day to sit back and relax with a glass of wine since it is National Zinfandel Day. This amazing holiday was created to celebrate one of the most popular wine grape varieties grown in California vineyards.

Zinfandel, also known as Primitivo in Italy and Crljenak Kaštelanski in Croatia, is a black-skin wine grape used to produce robust red wines and blush-style rosé wines. Red Zinfandel wines produced in cooler areas are characterized by red berry flavors, while warmer climate results in anise, blackberry, and pepper notes.

Primitivo is believed to have originated in Croatia. The grape found its way to Italy and Montenegro in the 18th century and was brought to the United States in the mid-19th century. There are records mentioning “Zinfardel”, “Zenfendal”, and “Zinfindal” that date to the late 1820s and early 1830s. These names were probably derived from “Zierfandler”, a white wine grape variety native to Austria.

Zinfandel was introduced to California during the California Gold Rush. The first Californian wine from Zinfandel was made by Joseph W. Osborn in the 1850s. By the end of the century, it became the most widespread grape variety in California. Sadly, most Zinfandel vines were ripped up during the Prohibition era, not as much due to Prohibition itself (homemade wines were allowed), but because of their vulnerability to rot during shipment to the East Coast. Following the end of Prohibition, Zinfandel fell into obscurity.

Zinfandel was rediscovered in the 1970s and became popular again when Bob Trinchero at Sutter Home Winery began to use it to produce White Zinfandel, a blush rosé wine. The success of Trinchero’s White Zinfandel eventually led to the revival of red Zinfandel wines. For several decades, Zinfandel was regarded as “America’s vine and wine”, but genetic research showed that it was identical to Primitivo.

Today, Zinfandel is grown in most of the continental United States, with the largest proportion being grown in California, where Zinfandel covers over 10% of vineyard land area. This versatile grape is used to produce an impressive variety of wine styles, ranging from blush rosés to robust red wines and port-style fortified wines.

National Zinfandel Day was launched in 2012 by Zinfandel Advocates and Producers (ZAP), a membership-based organization that focuses on advancing knowledge and appreciation for American Zinfandel, promoting its preservation, and celebrating the unique place of this popular wine grape in America’s history and culture.

What are the ways to celebrate National Zinfandel Day? If you live nearby a vineyard that grows Zinfandel or can make a trip to California in mid-November, the best way to celebrate is to schedule a vineyard or winery tour on or around the holiday. More accessible ways to celebrate include stopping by your local wine bar and enjoying a glass of Zinfandel, sharing a bottle of Zinfandel with friends.

Source

[creativitytoexplore]

Swim by Christopher K. Miller https://ift.tt/3757ycN Christopher K. Miller's character is tired of ageing and called by the sea.

Every February, for the past nine years, you and your second husband, Jack, drive down from Ottawa to Anna Maria Island. Official snowbirds now. Always stay at the same rental semi on the beach: a well-appointed cabin, really, with cable TV and high-speed internet. Central heat and air - most days you need both. Shared cedar deck with a big gas barbecue, saltwater pool, and hot tub, too, of course. Mornings you drink coffee with whipped cream and watch pelicans dive-bomb for fish. Last year, a woman you met on an island boat tour said she'd heard they eventually go blind from all those eyes-wide-open impacts, and starve. So no pelican ever dies of old age. Afternoons, it's burgers and beer at Skinny's. A snack shack with a bar. Close enough to walk. Decorated totally with dollar bills. Thousands of them. Like the owner tacked up the first one he made, but then couldn't stop. Then, after a nap, dinner someplace nice. Evenings, unless it's cloudy, you watch the big orange blob of a sun sink into the Gulf. Drink pink Zinfandel you buy at the local Publix for twelve dollars a gallon. Lean on the railing. Talk to the couple next door. Last year, dairy farmers from Wisconsin. From the moment the sun's orb touches the horizon until it's completely gone takes only a few minutes. You can stare without hurting your eyes. Second time you watched, you took a cell phone video and posted it on YouTube. You don't want to die of old age, either. You've given this some thought. Every day on the road is one less day in Florida. Plus you and Jack both hate motels. Always seem to have this musty smell, even the non-smoking units. Noisy heaters mounted beneath dirty windows overlooking parking lots. Crappy TVs, usually bolted onto something. Flimsy doors that either stick or refuse to latch. Shallow tubs with gritty anti-slip tread strips. Leaky toilets. A waste of time and money. So you just drive straight through. Easy in the Caddy. GPS. Cruise. OnStar. Jack, who used to work for QNX, says it's just a matter of time until the car'll drive itself. Still, it's a long haul. Twenty, maybe twenty-two, hours speeding down I-79. Depends on pit stops. Between Jack's prostate and Sheetz's bottled cappuccinos, you take almost as many exits as you pass. The first Waffle House is in Philadelphia: Welcome to Waffle House! Tim Hortons as far south as Georgia now. Not as busy as the Canadian franchises, though. Last year, driving back through Summersville, West Virginia, you thought your headlights weren't working. It was raining and, between the slick and the glare, you couldn't see the center line. Jack does all the driving now. Says he doesn't mind a bit. The trick's to not eat too much. And pacing the caffeine. This year's neighbor's a financial planner, also from Ontario. Works for one of the big banks. Maybe CIBC... or could be the Royal. Hands Jack his card. Tells him he oughta consider moving some of those GICs when they mature into oil and precious metals, maybe even cash out early if that's an option, pay the penalty. The mighty "petrodollar" is gonna crash soon. He uses his fingers to indicate quotes. Like didja see where Germany wants its gold "repatriated." Again with the fingers. But The Fed don't have it. Can't produce it. Prolly sold it to the Asians. No wonder they refused the Germans' request for an audit. Been wallpapering the Globex with naked shorts, unredeemable gold warrants, since Christ knows when, trying to drive the price down. Quash interest rates. Desperate to sweep Obama's latest QE clusterfuck under the rug. To mask inflation. Prop up the nation's credit rating. His wife, who looks maybe half his age, hasn't said a word. Probably heard it all a million times. Appears stoned in some asocial way, or maybe just super bored, as she watches the sun set, dusk fade. No breeze. The ocean looks coated in orange plastic. Like a giant sheet of Canadian fifties. You've heard that a good way to die is to swim out as far as you can. At first, you'd turn on the car's defrost. Then you blamed cataracts for the fog. Jack had them a few years back. Half your friends already, too. Really, nowadays, almost everyone gets them. Even babies. Jack thinks it has to do with all the cell towers and microwave radiation around. A million texts a minute zapping through your body. Fortunately, an easy fix. You researched it on Wikipedia. How they used to slice open the eye. Replace the lens. Stitch it shut. How you'd spend three days flat on your back in a halo hoping your retina didn't detach. Now it's a topical anesthetic. In-and-out with a needle. A simple ten-minute procedure. OHIP's rates lag the technology. A good ophthalmologist can do thirty a day, make three million a year easy. After dark the neighbors join you in the hot tub. Dip their toes in. Ask if you mind. She's fit enough for a two-piece. But he's too big for a speedo. How is it men are oblivious to their fat? The water rises with his entry. There's a restaurant/bar with an outdoor patio maybe half a kilometer down the beach. Semi-live music. Just a guy singing karaoke, really. Maybe a guitar. Everly Brothers. Simon & Garfunkel. Beach Boys for the younger set. Drowned out when Jack turns on the jets. He and the financial planner are working on a happy drunk. A loving drunk. Guy's explaining derivatives trading. How today, thanks to computers, that's where ninety-eight percent of the market is, and how a wise money manager uses 'em to hedge, not leverage. His foot keeps touching yours. The stars look out of focus. The moon's full and low, but murky. As if shrouded in smog. You point to where you think a city-sized cruise ship's lights decorate the horizon. But no one confirms. Jack says the stock market's always frightened him the way casinos should compulsive gamblers. Even after RIM bought QNX and handed out call options like Halloween candy and made him and everyone he worked with rich, he never cared for it. You wonder if he's playing footsie, too. Surprised that you don't care. What at first you think's a falling star turns out to be either a satellite or some high-altitude plane. Or maybe the space station. Even looking at it out of the corner of your eye, where objects are at their clearest, it's impossible to tell. Might just be something floating across your cornea. You were a pretty decent swimmer back in high school. Swam men's varsity your freshman year, only girl on the team. Still remember your times. Fifty yard freestyle: twenty-three seconds flat. Two-oh-nine-seven once in the two-hundred individual medley. Coach Burton's face in yours every time you breathed: Swim! Last year, at your eye appointment, you wondered if all the chlorine might've caused your condition. Dr. Hopfner, the optometrist, thought not. Anything's possible. But AMD's a genetic thing. More common in women, eh? Your mom died in a car crash when you were sixteen. On her way home from a Christmas party. Drunk. But you remember her mother as seeming kind of blind, always trying to see you better, always pulling you a little too close but never looking straight at you. Back then you figured it was just an old person thing. Like wrinkles. Like bad hair and teeth. Dr. Hopfner advised you not lose hope. Leafy green vegetables. Intravitreal injections. An SSRI if necessary. Though you were right about the cataracts. Just not mature enough to be operative yet. Better to take a wait-see approach. Weigh the risks down the road. The financial planner's wife steps into the pool. Says she needs to cool down. Her breasts are too big for the rest of her. Her swimming looks like some combination of doggie paddle and sidestroke. And drowning. The way she rolls and gulps. Appendages flailing. All working against each other. You almost want to rescue her. Takes forever to swim two laps. You can tell she's proud of her aquatic prowess, though. The way she leans over the shallow end's gutter drawing deep, even breaths. Like hyperventilating. Like she's just crossed the English Channel. Jack asks the financial planner why he thinks it is the US still hasn't gone with plastic money or chip cards, and why you gotta pay cash in advance at the pumps, which is a total pain the ass. This causes the guy to launch into a diatribe about the US economy being so bust now that it actually relies on a certain "manageable" level of forgery and identity theft. He puts his drink down to do the quotes. No one could even begin to counterfeit a fraction of what The Fed does each and every day. Not even close. So who cares, right? And did you know they get most of their oil from us? So how come gas is so much cheaper here? He advises Jack terminate any exposure his portfolio might have to US currency. Not just cash, but any mutual funds containing US bonds or equities he might have kicking around in RSPs and whatnot, too. He places his hand on Jack's shoulder. Giving free advice seems to evoke in him a sense of largesse. The ocean is black and smooth. Like an oil slick. Swells and ripples instead of waves. You wonder if dolphins sleep at night. Sometimes, in the morning, a pod will swim by, surfacing and diving. Up and down, up and down. Like swimming the butterfly. As if stitching invisible seams. You used to rush out to see. Peer through the binoculars. Though not anymore. It's funny how the amazing blurs into the commonplace. How you can become inured to anything. Like the sun. The good life. The whole universe. But probably not blindness, despite Jack's theories about its leading to enhanced spatial and eidetic memory, better hearing, and probably better sex. At first you thought they were sharks. You climb out of the hot tub's fever-temperatured water. Say you think you'll try a swim, too. But in the ocean. The financial planner seems actually impressed. Are you nuts? What about undertows? What about sharks? You tell him there's no such thing as an "undertow." Only rip currents. They'll drag you out, but never down. And that you're more afraid of jellyfish. Jack brags you're an unbelievable swimmer. A regular fucking dolphin. Sounds a little inebriated. Glances at the woman, again floundering in the pool. Looks a little worried. What about cramps, though? You take off your ring. Wouldn't want to lose it. Four flawless carats. Wouldn't want to attract barracuda, either. Jack's glad to hang onto it till you get back. No worries. Your muscles are limber. You haven't eaten in hours. Your fingers graze his palm. A kiss might seem too final. There's a gate, then a path leading down to the sand. Scrub grass on either side. You close it behind you. South on the beach, the entertainer's singing an old Lou Christie hit. Faraway voices blend with the nearby lapping of water. Two Faces Have I, but not quite Christie's keening falsetto. High tide. Probably headed out soon. The ocean's cool, but not much cooler than the air. You're still hot from the tub. The sand's soft and smooth. Early every morning a grader truck rakes up all the stones and shells. Someone said they use them on driveways. It seems to take forever until the water reaches your knees. The moon is almost straight ahead. You recall reading somewhere that its orbital period and women's menstrual cycles are identical in length. When the ocean tickles your thighs, you dive, and swim for it. But after only a dozen strokes your hands grab sandbar. Standing makes you feel heavy. Unwieldy. Removing your suit helps. You surrender it to the tide. Now the air seems cooler than the water. After the sandbar, the bottom drops away quickly. As if on the edge of a steep underwater hill. Or cliff. You raise your arms up over your head and perform a standing surface dive. The deep water's colder. But your feet don't touch bottom. So you kick back up. Swim for the moon. Effortlessly. Like flying in a dream. You wonder if you should pace yourself. And, if so, how? For the mile? Your personal best was 17:59. But that was in a twenty-five yard pool. A long time ago. Sixty-five flip-turns. Coach Burton screaming himself hoarse the entire final hundred yards. Bringing you home. Every breath to poolside, screaming in your face: Swim! Both Jack's sons are visiting next week with their daughters. No wives, though. Separated. The three girls call you Gamma. Like the radiation. Your step-sons call you Jeanne. Always have. You're glad they don't call you Mom. Even though you've known them since they were little. Kissed their owies. Helped with their homework. And, later, their finances. Even though you love them, and you're pretty sure they love you, you suspect it's not the same. Sometimes you wish you'd had children of your own. Though not right now. Stroke stroke stroke, breathe. Steady flutter-kick. Goddamn your feet are big. First thing Coach Burton ever said to you. Regular flippers. Mermaid feet. Huge smile on his face. Stroke stroke stroke. Your armpit forms an air pocket. Breathe. Stroke stroke stroke. You skip a breath, laughing. Never paced yourself for maximum distance. Stroke stroke stroke, breathe. Guessing eighty-second hundreds. Pulse maybe picking up a little. Sixty-eight or so. More from exhilaration than effort. The current seems to carry you. Even when you stop and tread water. Your longest competitive open-water swim was five kilometers. Organized by Swim Ontario. Then there were boats and buoys and other swimmers to guide you. You seem to have drifted south a little. Toward the open Atlantic. Toward the restaurant, which is almost directly behind you now. The singer sounds tinny. Lost in the tide. Strings of red, white and blue bulbs outlining the patio look like violet webbing. To the north, past your rental, past your husband and the financial planner bonding in the hot tub, a hotel's pool lights leer aquamarine. Ahead, the moon seems to have drifted to your left. Surely an unreliable guide. You've never heard of sailors navigating by it. Only the stars. Fuzzy and faraway. You wonder if it's really true that if all the stars visible to the naked eye were grains of salt, they'd only fill a teaspoon, whereas all the stars you can't see would fill a lake. The sun's amber glow still lingers on the horizon. Like a tease. You swim for it. Coach Burton always thought you had a shot at Lake Ontario. Would've gladly helped you train. You wonder if he's still alive. He was about the age you are now. So how old would that make him? Probably too old. It occurs to you, and for the first time, that maybe it wasn't all about mentorship. Maybe his will to your athletic success was mired in something more. Stroke stroke stroke, breathe. Of course. He had a crush on you. You with your big feet, flat chest and pimples. He just wanted to be with you. Even if it meant sitting for days in a small boat, gripping a sputtering outboard's steering arm. Tossed about. Hour after hour. Occasionally vomiting into Lake Ontario's rough, cold water. Just to watch you swim. He also taught Health Ed. Breathe. Stroke, stroke. Breathe. Only to the left now. One reason you never took on Lake Ontario was all its lamprey eel. Maybe the ugliest creatures on earth. Long, slimy suction cups with needles for teeth. Love to attach to swimmers. But the real reason, the main reason, was those who'd gone before. You wouldn't have been the first, the youngest or the fastest. Though now, it occurs to you, you could be the oldest. Something slick and firm bumps, really more like nudges, you on the thigh. As if to remind you that you're not alone. Maybe a manatee. You pause for a rest. Look around. Pee. That last glass of Zinfandel. The air's much cooler than the water now, which is cooler than your body. Your urine. You relax. Float. Easy. Seawater's buoyant. You settle into it, only your nose and mouth exposed to the chill air. Feel the ocean's rise and fall. As if breathing. As if in a deep sleep. You listen for the eerie howling moan of whale song. Hear only the drone of some faraway ship's engines. Then surface. Look around. Ears and cheeks cooling. All horizon now. Everywhere you look. You wonder if it's true that sailing ships of old always carried swine. That a pig, thrown overboard, will always swim for the nearest land. You feel a little dizzy. A mild vertigo. Disoriented. Faraway lights could be a ship, or a pier. Or an illusion. But the moon seems real. And about where you remember it. You've always had a good sense of direction. You consult your inner swine. Then do the opposite. Swim for the farthest shore. You're in the Gulf. So somewhere on the coast of Mexico. Or Texas. Or even Louisiana. Cuba, if you're way off course, would be much closer. But still far enough. Switching to backstroke works a different set of muscles. Gazing up into the night sky is not unlike gazing down into the deep. Both are unfathomable in their way. You imagine Jack has lost interest in matters of national economic import by now. Whatever buzz he's managed to tie on, you've probably killed. But surely the other couple hasn't gone to bed. Left him standing alone on the beach. You wonder how long he'll shout your name before he breaks down. Calls 911. The coast guard. No. It'll be someone else who does. Maybe someone from the restaurant. Americans are way friendlier than Canadians. Especially in the South. What's the problem, buddy? What? How long did you say? Oh man! Jack might even argue a little. A few hours in the water ain't diddly. Not for you. Hell, there've been Lake Ontario crossings took over forty. Some who've swum across and back. Even after the call is made, he'll keep trying to find you. Run up and down the beach all night. Screaming like Coach Burton. Like you're not the one who's lost. You stay on your back, but switch to a frog kick, with a lazy underwater double-arm sweep. Not a competitive stroke. Well maybe in synchronized swimming. Super easy. Have to be careful not to kick too hard, though. Don't need a calf cramp. But you have to keep moving. You've heard sharks have to swim to breathe. If you stop swimming, you could freeze. Seems funny someone could freeze to death at room temperature. Because that's what the water is. There's a kind of tension, a clenching, that precedes shivering. The air seems colder now. You push a little harder. Just enough to get warm. You don't want to sweat. You don't want to cry, either. The ocean is big enough. So you stop thinking about Jack and the kids. Roll over. Get back to some serious swimming. Count your strokes. In a pool it's about fifteen hundred per mile. In open water, usually more. Depends on waves and current. There are no waves out here. Not the breaking kind. Only swells. You rise and fall. Rise and fall. It's made you a little queasy. You also have a niggling headache. Like someone's squeezing your eyeballs. Dr. Hopfner mentioned glaucoma. Not to worry. You don't have it. But your IOP's at the high end of normal. Both eyes. Could complicate things down the road. Something to keep on top of. Did you know swimming goggles have been shown to raise intraocular pressure? Do you still swim? Goodness! No wonder you're so trim! You start over every thousand strokes. But was it nine or ten? Your arms are heavy. Burning. And, at the same time, a little numb. Breaststroke's just as hard on your lats, but easier on your shoulders, and better for looking around. Not a lot to see, though. Water. Sky. Stars. The spoonful that are visible, anyway. Tough on the knees. For about a hundred strokes, whenever you pull up to breathe, you think you hear a helicopter. Far away. And getting farther. Till it's just your heart thumping in your ears. Seems a waste of energy to try to shake or knock the water out of them. Should've worn earplugs. Sustained, breaststroke's hard on the neck. It's made your headache worse. Rolling to your back turns your stomach. Turns your queasiness into full blown nausea. Thinking about Skinny's onion rings doesn't help. What goes in a veggie burger? Do meats ever masquerade as vegetables? You need to shit. On the road, you're at the mercy of public washrooms. Restaurants, gas stations and service centers. You can usually hold out longer than Jack. But you get less warning. Still, you both try to sync washroom breaks with refueling. If you don't need gas, you buy an Almond Joy and something to drink. You feel like you should pay something. You wonder if whales ever hold it in, either as an exercise or out of some sort of marine etiquette. But you're just visiting. No holding back for you. You push. Sync it with your whip kicks. No wiping after. Nice thing about being naked in the middle of the ocean. Cleans you right up. Like a giant bidet. It helped. You feel less nauseated. Less bloated. But your head still hurts. All the way down your neck and back, really. Whoever said swimming out into the ocean as far as you can was a good way to die probably never tried it. Or wasn't a very good swimmer. Think about something else. You don't believe Coach Burton had a wife. A family. You remember how obsessively he bit his nails. Probably from being responsible for things over which he had no control. Like your times. Gnawed them till they bled. Right down to the quick. Right into the meat even. Had to have hurt. Probably be prescribed an anticompulsive today. Except when screaming, always had a finger in his mouth. Angry scabs oozing yellow pus. Especially his thumbs. You wonder if they ever got infected. Seemed to infect his breath a little. Your own, too, when blown back into your face. Bile rises up into your throat so, instead of air, you inhale that. And cough. And cough. Makes your head pound. Once, at the YWCA, you took a lifesaving class. Got your certificate. What you're doing now is called a jellyfish float. Tucked into the fetal position, curled like a question mark, you cough into the ocean. Gulp your own saliva and stomach acids. And seawater. Brackish and warm. Like blood. Like urine. Underwater, you vomit. Heave. Bits of veggie burger and deep fried onion and whatever it was you had for dinner... spinach salad and blackened ahi tuna... it all spews from your mouth and nose. Swirls around you. Like chum. But again, you feel better. Cleansed. Lighter. And thirsty. In lake crossings there's juice and pop. In country crossings there's bottled waters. Sweetened teas. Flavored coffees. Whatever you want. Everywhere you stop. But here there's only your saliva. You swallow. Roll to your back. The stars are gone now. The moon, too. You forge ahead, nonetheless. Feel for the farthest shore. Trust your inner pig. Ignore your thirst. The ache in your shoulders and back. Think about something else. Maybe Coach Burton's eating his fingertips was just his way of sharing your pain. How can you expect to push others to maximum endurance if you aren't willing to suffer yourself? Bleed yourself? That reminds you. He had a scalp condition, too. Maybe eczema. A wreath of scratches and pricks. Always a few tiny flakes of skin sprinkled on his glasses. Thick bifocals that made his eyes look as if they were floating in water. Try sidestroke. A lifesaving stroke. But, unless you're carrying someone, an inefficient stroke. Asymmetric and slow. Or maybe you just never practiced it enough. Butterfly is almost as fast as the crawl. But more demanding. A woman did once swim Lake Ontario using it, though. Land mammals all instinctively swim doggie paddle. But you wouldn't. Not if your life depended on it. Switch back to breaststroke. Then freestyle crawl some more. Then just lie on your back and kick those big feet without using your arms. Your mouth is dry. A kickboard would be nice. All the salt you've gulped. You feel weak in a way that transcends mere muscle fatigue. Drained at the core. Your headache is back. But you're almost there. Once, in a psychology class you took back in university, they showed a video of an experiment some psychologists had performed to determine how long rats would tread water before drowning. Some lasted as long as ninety-six hours. Four days. How this knowledge could possibly ever benefit anyone was a complete mystery to you then. You stop. Tread water. Ahead in the distance, you think you see the lights of that city-sized cruise ship again. But then it's gone. The sky and the ocean are black. But with different textures. Seem to reflect one another. Each distorting the other's image. Again and again. Over and over. Like floating between two vast funhouse mirrors. An assistant coach, whose name you forget, once told you Coach Burton had swum for the University of Michigan. On scholarship. Even qualified for Olympic trials. Made it all the way to the finals despite a very tough field that year. Then missed the two-hundred meter freestyle cut by less than a tenth of a second. Tragic in a way. The relay team took gold that year. All that hard, hard work. You think high school workouts are tough? You have no clue what tough is. Heat after heat, with only a few breaths to recoup. Then, after all that hardship and pain, to lose by a fraction of a second. Difference between a six-figure Wheaties endorsement and coaching high school. So maybe Coach Burton just wanted for you what he couldn't give himself. You wonder if he chewed his nails off to keep from scratching his head. Funny how a man can come into focus after so many years. Be seen clearer at a distance. You always wondered why you never saw him in the pool. Never saw him swim. Maybe the chemicals. You try a few more strokes. But, no. Nothing left. And so here you are. Finished. You made it. As far as you can go. So thirsty now. You look up at the starless sky. Feel like you should say goodbye or something. But instead say, Help. Not loud. Not to attract attention. Not even as a prayer. You don't pray. Wouldn't to save your life. You say it only as a kind of joke. Between yourself and the universe: Help. Still you can laugh. A hissing sweeps across the water. You hear the rain before you feel it. Then splashing all around you. Mottling the ocean's smooth surface. At first you think it's a bad thing. Just more water. You feel hope sink. Yourself, too. From below the surface, the rain sounds like it's shushing you. Telling you to listen. Then you realize: it's a gift. And rise up as from the dead. As if reborn. Lie on your back. Feel it pelt your eyes and face. Open your mouth and drink. And drink. Drink until all is quiet. Until the stars return. Again you try to swim. To forge ahead with your plan. Again your limbs refuse to obey. Your arms are numb. Legs, too. Only your lungs still burn. Only your heart still aches. Everything else feels like rubber. So this is it. This really is as far as you can go. Behind you, as if to agree, and to confirm the correctness of your course, dawn shimmers on the horizon. Offering guidance. Promising warmth. In a few minutes the entire sun will peer up over the edge of the world. Rising as it fell. You wonder when humans stopped worshiping it, and why. You feel a warm gust of wind in your face. Like Coach Burton's breath. Feeling has returned, accompanied by a prickling in your extremities. Still, you cannot swim any farther. Not another stroke. Not ahead. And so there you are. Two directions remaining. Down into the unfathomable. The inevitable. Or back into the morning's light. And whatever else awaits. All or nothing, now. Nothing, or all... And so you pirouette. Turn. Reverse course. Breathe. Stroke. Roll. Breathe. You probably look like the financial planner's wife. The way she does her laps. Stroke. Roll. Breathe. Still, progress is progress. Pain a blessing. Endurance unfathomable. This you have learned. This he has taught you well. Crab-walking along beside you. With that awkward crouching stride that must've killed his knees. At times, stooped almost as in prayer. Keeping pace. Bringing you home. Just as you remember. Bent down with that thorny crown. Those drowning eyes. Leaning right out over the water. One hand on the deck for support, and, in the other, holding forth, clenched in bloody fingers - not for you to read, but only to emphasize the importance of time remaining - his silver stopwatch. Screaming, blowing your breath back into your face. Every time you breathe: Swim goddammit! Swim!

[alifewelldrunk]

Starting ZAP Ex 2019 with @raven1947zsxs and some library #zinfandel . . . . #alifewelldrunk #alwd #alifewelltraveled #alwayslearning #redwine #sanfrancisco #🍷 — view on Instagram http://bit.ly/2RRVvuq

[radicaladventure]

ZAP! by Dan Gildor

Via Flickr

Wine tasting can be romantic; it can also be a blood sport. Enter ZAP! The Zinfandel Advocates and Producers who throw (threw?) a tasting festival in Fort Mason like no other. Taking over two buildings, 200 producers pour out their juice to the waiting throngs looking to get buzzed on the price of admission.

And like any blood sport, its best to try to plan ahead.

Let the games begin!

[honeygcth]

tagged by the lovely @kingscross and @bxnsolos

Rules: Answer each question with the first letter of your name and then tag 10 people! Real answers only, if the person who tagged you has the same initial you must use different answers & you can’t use the same word twice!

i - name: zoey

ii - a four letter word: zoom

iii - a boy’s name: zeus 

iv - an occupation: zoologist 

v - something you can wear: zip-up hoodie

vi - a food: ziti

vii - something you find in a bathroom: zit cream

viii - a place: zürich

ix - a reason for being late: zapped by lightning

x - something you shout: zut!!

xi - a movie title: zathura

xii - something you drink: zinfandel

xiii - an animal: zebra

xiv - a type of car: zagato zele (??)

xv - title of a song: zombie by the cranberries

I tag: @petrichovr @pctter and @softmeliorns

[jamesthewineguy]

Another nice showing of Zinfandel/Primitivo producers from mainly California, one Primitivo from Puglia and one Plavac Mali from Croatia.  The Pier 27 location which serves as an embarking point for cruise passengers to San Francisco is also the City’s wine hall.  I do miss the old Ft. Mason pier where many of the ZAP tastings had been held–an old timey place and it reminds me of positive experiences there.

  ZinEx is a very nice event where unlike many tastings features food from restaurants, food brands, caterers, etc. It is nice to see an even for both media/trade and consumer to have a nice selection of food.

****

Questions I asked at this years tasting:

Is your Zinfandel 100% if not what else is in the wine?

If you use Petite Sirah – why?

Tell me about vinification

I do get why Carignan is utlised as it has to do with long term practice and/or heritage.  I am interested if it is for heritage reasons OR “I use for colour” or I hear often “to add balance or richness” for Petite Sirah.  For the colour reasons, I am not sure why Zinfandel needs to be darker–if I wanted a Petite Sirah–I’ll certainly reach for one.  Petite Sirah over expresses itself in Zinfandel even in a small percentage while I do not think that is the case for Carignane.

I am not a fan of Petite Sirah; you can look at number of acres of Zinfandel* at 40,700 acres and Petite Sirah* at 7,602 acres.  It is interesting online the number of acres for Petite Sirah is all across the map in including one writer who says there are “10,00 acres” which I think this person meant 1,000 but that is far off the current number as documented by the California Department of Agriculture.   I do not think there will ever be a day when the number of acres increases to the level of Zinfandel production–just no where near the complexities of Zinfandel.

I like ZinEx format–a comfortable place–a good experience of food and wine.  I wish I could have tasted everything. I do hope to do more Zinfandel tasting this year in my favourite wine glass.

Here is what I tasted at ZinEx:

Amador County The Native Zinfandel 2015 92 Points Amador Cellars Amador County Zinfandel 2016 93 Points Amador Cellars Family Reserve 2016 92 Points Scott Harvey Amador County Zinfandel 2017 91 Points Bellagrace Vineyard Estate Amador County Zinfandel 2016 – 92 Points Bella Block 10 Russian River Valley Zinfandel 2014 – 91 Points Carol Shelton Monga Zin Old Vine Lopez Vineyard Cucamonga Zinfandel 2017 93 Points Carol Shelton Peaceland Vineyard Fountaingrove District Zinfandel 2016 92 Points Carol Shelton Cox Vineyard Old Vine Mendocino County Zinfandel 2016 92 Points Carol Shelton Wild Thing Old Vine Mendocino County Zinfandel 2016 93 Points Easton Amador County Zinfandel 2015 92 Points Easton Fiddletown Zinfandel 2016 92 Points Easton Old Vine Rinaldi Vineyard Fiddletown Zinfandel 2016 92 Points Easton Shenandoah Valley of California Estate Zinfandel 2016 92 Points Easton Shenandoah Valley of California Estate Zinfandel 2000 93 Points Elyse DCV Zinfandel 2014 92 Points Elyse Korte Ranch Vineyard Zinfandel 2014 92 Points Elyse Morisoli Vineyard Rutherford Zinfandel 2014 92 Points Fields Family Stampede Lodi Zinfandel 2016 – 92 Points Fields Family Stampede Lodi Zinfandel 2015 – 92 Points Fields Family Stampede Lodi Zinfandel 2014 – 91 Points Grgic Plavac Mali 2016 – 93 Points Hartford Family Old Vine Fanucchi-Wood Road Vineyard RRV Zinfandel 2017 93 Points Hartford Family Old Vine Hartford Vineyard RRV Zinfandel 2016 93 Points Hartford Family Old Vine Jolene’s Vineyard RRV Zinfandel 2012 92 Points Hendry Vineyard Napa Valley Primitivo 2017 93 Points Hendry Block 7 & 22 Napa Valley Zinfandel 2016 92 Points Hendry Block 28 Napa Valley Zinfandel 2016 92 Points Hendry Block 28 Napa Valley Zinfandel 2010 93 Points Miraflores El Dorado Estate Yellow Block Zinfandel 2016 92 Points Miraflores El Dorado Estate Zinfandel 2015 92 Points Moss Roxx Lodi Ancient Vine Reserve Zinfandel 2016 – 91 Points Oak Farm Vineyard Block 417 Mohr-Fry Ranches Lodi Zinfandel 2018 91 Points Oak Farm Tievoli Lodi Red Blend Wine 2018 90 Points Oak Farm Lodi Zinfandel 2017 92 Points OZV Old Vine Lodi Zinfandel 2017 92 Points Ridge Oatman DCV Zinfandel 2017 92 Points Ridge Mazzoni Home Ranch Zinfandel 2016 92 Points Ridge Jimsomare Monte Bello Vineyard Santa Cruz Mountains Zinfandel 2017 93 Points Rombauer Fiddletown Zinfandel 2017 92 Points Rombauer Sierra Foothills Zinfandel 2017 92 Points Rombauer El Dorado Zinfandel 2017 92 Points Rombauer Napa Valley Zinfandel 2017 92 Points Accademia dei Racemi Sinfanrosa Manduria Primitivo 2016 93 Points Steele Pacini Vineyard Mendocino County Zinfandel 2017 92 Points Steele Catfish Vineyard Lake County Zinfandel 2016 92 Points Terra d’Oro Amador County Zinfandel 2017 90 Points Terra d’Oro Home Vineyard Amador County Zinfandel 2017 90 Points Terra d’Oro Deaver Vineyard Amador County Zinfandel 2017 91 Points Terra d’Oro SHR Field Blend Amador County Zinfandel 2017 90 Points Tonti Family Russian River Valley Rosé of Zinfandel 2018 91 Points Tonti Family Old Vine Russian River Valley Zinfandel 2017 92 Points Tonti Family Artisan Reserve Russian River Valley 2017 92 Points Tres Sabores Ingrid and Julia Napa Valley Rosé 2019 92 Points Tres Sabores Rutherford Estate Zinfandel 2017- 91 Points Tres Sabores ¿Por Que No? Napa Valley Red Wine 2015 – Napa Valley Red Wine – 92 Points Turley Ueberroth Vineyard Paso Robles 2013 93 Points Turley Hayne Vineyard Napa Valley Zinfandel 2013 92 Points ZO Dry Creek Valley Zinfandel 2017 91 Points

More information from Zinfandel Advocates and Producers can be found here.

* Data source for acres planted in California – California Department of Agriculture

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Salute,

James

James the Wine Guy

Demystifying Wine…One Bottle at a Time from all wine regions around the world.

© 2020 James Melendez / James the Wine Guy— All Rights Reserved – for my original Content, drawings, art work, graphs, photographs, logo, brand name, rating, rating, taxonomy, graphic and award and designs of James the Wine Guy.  James the Wine Guy is also on Facebook, Twitter and most major social medias.

Last photo courtesy of Cantina Enotria.

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ZinEx San Francisco Tasting Scores 2020 – James Melendez Another nice showing of Zinfandel/Primitivo producers from mainly California, one Primitivo from Puglia and one Plavac Mali from Croatia. 

[wineloverstours]

Zinfandel Aroma Wheel

I know there are literally hundreds of aromas you can associate with wine.

There are aromas based on fruits, vegetables and then there are the non-organic aromas. I am intrigued by any widgets that purportedly help a winelover to recognize these aromas, or at least aim you in the right direction.

I recently picked up a laminated Zinfandel Aroma Wheelat a ZAP tasting. ZAP stands for Zinfandel…

[travelwinechick]

She Said, He Said: 2017 ZAP Zinfandel Experience

She Said, He Said: 2017 ZAP Zinfandel Experience

Monthly Wine Writing Challenge #31

*This post is my entry for Wine Writing Challenge #31, Faith, as described at this link.*

Elizabeth (Beth) Smith: She Said

The definition of faith is primarily religious in nature. However these synonyms struck a chord with me – affection, allegiance, commitment, constancy, dedication, devotion – and convey precisely what I feel when I attend Zinfandel Advocates…

[liquidfunk]

C Berry: Hi. Thanks for the messages, I read your TypePad-Tweets and you're also in a funk? Crap happens. Did you go to the ZAP Zinfandel festival? If you went I hope you had a very swell time.

[wine-porn]

Old Hat

This is fun, safe Zinfandel, inexpensive and with just enough sexy charm. See, with any other variety, “safe” from me would be a negative, but with Zin, *safe* is a huge compliment. I detest the all-too-common concoctions shooting for the stars and jamming up the rafters. This does neither, benefiting hugely from the fact it is from Napa Valley: MY favorite source for zin (St. Helena to be…