grape to glass

Wine tastings are a unique and indulgent experience. They are all about drinking one glass of wine after another, hunting for essences and aromas within each glass. I can honestly say that I tasted cherries in one red wine while using the recommended tasting method of "gargling" the wine, i.e. taking in air along with the wine while drinking from the glass. The first time I found a wafting wisp of cherries, the second I nearly choked a mouthful of red wine onto the tablecloth. Apparently the suave combining of air and wine, while drinking, is not a skill I've developed just yet.

I tasted peach highlights in the white wines and found them to be lighter than the reds. And that's about as deep as my wine knowledge goes. I do know that before drinking you need to swirl the wine in the glass to introduce oxygen which then enlivens the wine's bouquet, or scent. This works for about the first four glasses and then you start to worry that your swirling might be a little too vigorous. At that point you start focusing on the crackers instead of the wine and all goes well.



We were on a visit to the Zonin vineyard in Gambarella that was organized through work. It's about two hours out of Milan and is a beautiful site full of family history and wine making expertise. We were given a very special personal tour by one of the owners, a nephew of the founder. He walked us through the winery's museum sharing with us the history of the winery, the family, and the various aspects of winemaking.

One of the things that often gets lost in the wine experience is the cork. It blocks access to the wine, sometimes falls apart, and is generally a pain to remove. Everyone is happy when it is finally gotten rid of and dropped into a corner. But a lot of work has gone into the cork itself. Cork trees grow for over a decade before they can be shorn of their cork and the cork then must dry for over a year before it can be used.



Cork varies in quality and fine cork is prized. The finest pieces are often used in round coins at the top and bottom of corks, with lesser quality cork comprising the majority length of the cork. The ends must be high quality because they must make a strong seal between the wine and the outside world. Lesser cork is also crumbled into bits, a la blue cheese, and then recombined to form a whole cork. And of course, the absolute finest corks are through and through the highest grade. It's a shame that such a finely crafted piece is so quickly and unceremoniously discarded.

The giant wooden barrels in which wine ferments are kept at a very specific humidity level in the cantina, or cellar. Too high humidity and fungus will begin to grow on the wood. Too low humidity and the wood will begin to absorb the wine it contains. The science of winemaking is a calculation that is currently beyond me. But I will say that I love the smell of the cantina, that moist grape scent hovering in the humidity, and the coolness of the space. It's no wonder that caves were often used as natural wine cellars.



We were not only treated to a wine tasting and a tour, but also an incredible meal set in a wonderfully sumptuous room surrounded by books, art and fresh flowers. With each course arrived a new wine to try - perfectly complementing the food we were enjoying. The courses were delicious and served quite elegantly, and the expertise behind every aspect of the meal was evident. When one of the owners of the winery is not only hosting you to lunch but is pouring and introducing you to a glass of wine, you not only feel very lucky, you feel as if you have fallen into the chair of a king. Your senses are heightened and you pinch yourself under the table to see whether this is really happening.



There were white wines, red wines, dessert wines, a fine grappa reserved for friends... We tried it all. And we left with a fair amount to share with friends and family at our own table. If we can make people feel half as welcome and indulged as we felt at that meal, and throughout the entire day, we'll be happy.

a little game we like to call punch pants

Do you remember that game you played in the car when you were little? It was called "Punch Buggy" or something like that? And every time you saw a VW Bug go by you had to yell "Punch Buggy!" and then attach the color of the Bug to the end of your declaration and punch the person nearest you. So if a yellow VW Bug scooted past, you'd turn to your sister in the backseat of the car, punch her in the shoulder as hard as you could, and then yell "Punch Buggy Yellow!" And that meant you won.

It's a game that's easy to play and is really quite inclusive. No special rules, no age limits. And it's such a great concept -- you all agree on something that's obvious yet unique and then beat each other to the punch, literally, trying to notice it first.



It is now time for me to add that Milan has fallen prey to a male fashion trend that is calm and demure and very, very subtle: pants in colors meant really only for citrus fruit and tropical dancers. Welcome to the world of red, orange and lime green trousers. It's a very vibrant world and one that's begging for a little game we like to call "Punch Pants."



We had friends in town several weeks ago and without much fanfare or hoopla the game of Punch Pants came to be. I don't remember exactly who I should give credit to, although I know it wasn't me, but it was a glorious invention and one that lives on today.

When a man wearing vividly colored (read: tropical) trousers strolls past, a Punch Pants competitor must turn, whack the person closest to them, and declare as loudly as suits the situation, "Punch Pants Red!" Or "Punch Pants Lime!" or whatever color is currently singeing your retinas.



And what's so great about this game is that everyone is wearing these pants. Young men, old men, fathers, sons... Men who love lime green sweaters tied around their necks. There is no limit to the fashion magic of these pants.

So if you should come to visit us, be ready. Because it seems that Punch Pants isn't going away anytime soon.

guten giorno

In dwelling on the hike we took last weekend I neglected to dwell on the uniqueness of the area of Italy in which we were traveling. First, I would like to clarify that Alto Adige / Sudtirol is indeed in Italy. But you wouldn't know it. The people here speak German. They eat German. And they look German.

They are Italian because after World War I this area of Austria became a part of Italy and today the cities here have two names; one in German and one in Italian. Children here learn both languages in school. People in restaurants and on the street are likely to speak to you first in German but can drop to English or Italian easily.



But the chatter you hear on the streets and the music you hear in the establishments is most decidely German. After acclimating to a new place over a period of months and attaining a certain degree of comfort with the language and the culture it is quite surreal to plop yourself in what is technically the same country but feels very, very different.

The architecture and the wardrobe is what one might call "alpine." Envision those three quarter pants that Heidi's father certainly wore in the famous fairy tale... people here are still wearing them. And everyone wears blue work aprons, even on the streets. There are wool sweaters and bib dresses, and lots and lots of hats. Which, of course, they remove before entering church mass on Sundays.



This is, after all, where you'll find the Alpe di Suisi (Seiser Alm), Europe's largest alpine plateau. The grasslands are gorgeous, dotted with small wooden cottages and carpeted with wildflowers. The cottages have rocks piled on the roof for reasons unknown to us and the grasslands edging our trails were springy with peat. A shock to feet used to Milan's paved expanses. The air was crisp and ought to be -- we had to ride a gondola-style ski lift to ear-popping heights to arrive at this place.



We had strudel in our back packs. Large hunks of it. It was wonderful and we found it in a grocery store that had far more choices and a fair bit more heartiness than the Italian grocery stores we frequent three hours south-west. Say what you will about Italian's enjoying their food, those that speak German seem to enjoy it a whole lot more.

Our last dinner in town, celebrated after a healthy round of steam room and sauna, was eaten in a room supported by thick wood beam timbers and filled with hearty laughter and beer steins. The people around us were speaking a language we couldn't understand, and the music carried on without telling its story to us. Trust me when I say that our Italian is not so bad that we can't keep up with Italian chatter... It's just that in this part of Italy, the Italians speak another language.

june snow and hiking poles

Where we went for the long weekend is one of those places that is impossible to capture in a camera. It doesn't resonate, doesn't stretch into infinite space, doesn't quite have that sharp beauty that in life is impossible to take for granted. We went to the Dolomites in the North of Italy and they are stunning, daunting, and incredible. You can't feel it in photos but these will have to do.

By the time we were through with our hike we were at well over 6000 feet and we were above heights that had seemed impossibly high before. Yes, we'd come a long way. And yes, we couldn't feel our fingers anymore. Because despite it being June in most other areas of Italy, up in the Dolemites it was still winter - complete with snow falling and wind whipping.



Luckily we'd brought some warm clothing but would find out that it was simply not warm enough. We also found out that hiking poles are not a joke created by the Germans to make the rest of us feel inferior as hikers. Or a fashion accessory created by the Italians just to look a tad more stylish on hiking paths around the world. (Ok, maybe they are but...) They are a tool that could come in really handy when you are hiking through snow, straight up a mountain, and you would like to have just a little more contact with the earth as you go.



In the first three photos contained in this section you will notice a small red "X." This is the point at which we got to and gave up. Turned around. Caved in to the fear of the climate, the path, and what a few more hours of cold, steep climbing can do to a person who just wanted to do some hiking on the long weekend. As you'll notice, we got pretty far. We got really far. What had started as a peak in the panorama of our landscape, became a peak we nearly crested.



It was a good feeling to come that far. To feel the springy peat beneath our feet in the green beginning turn into cold hard snow as we got towards the end. It was scary too. It was scary to not know how much farther we could and should go, and scary to know that when you hear running water under ice you're standing on it's because the ice you're standing on is melting.

We ate some trail mix along the way but had to keep moving because it really was too cold to stop and eat. It was too cold to stop, period. So we kept moving. Kept climbing. Kept following the path up and away and into the distance.

We both wanted to make it to the top but we both knew we had to turn around. Because when it is that difficult to go up, it certainly will not be easy to come down. So we stopped. We turned around. And we saw how far we'd come.



It was beautiful. Stunning. And we were rewarded with visions of mountain goats and woodchucks for our troubles. But only after we made our way down and back to the small town where we were staying did we really think about how far away that place is - and how badly we both want a pair of hiking poles.