The wine tasting we did earlier in the month was a grand experiment and we’re pleased to report, it was a wonderful evening. We had a full house of 13 writers, one wine expert and me, the official “pourer” and “writing exercise leader.” It was a Thursday night in July so outside it was a little steamy, but inside, we were cool, watching the shifting colors in our glasses, swishing the fruit in our mouths, and munching on cheese and crackers while we debated the merits of Pinots or if they’re really just overblown.
We tasted groups of wine and wrote in between, using our senses and imaginations. For each exercise, everyone around the table read what they had written. It never ceases to amaze me what fantastic language and even complete flash fiction comes out of these moments. One minute we were laughing at a funny piece about a bottle of wine not feeling it was getting the respect it was due. The next minute, we had to sit silent for a minute to absorb the intensity of emotion. Great night.
Here’s a few tastings:
The fire wouldn’t last much longer and I was still early. But late, of course, because he wasn’t home yet with the roads and all. The thick veil of snow blinded her view of how much was piling up on the sidewalks. The steaks were well marinated, she’d pulled them in and out of the fridge two times already, was it three?, thinking he’d be right in, right up the steps joking about being a snowman as he hung his water-heavy coat on the hook and let it drip all over the hardwood floors. “I won’t yell at him this time,” she silently promised, taking too big a sip of the fancy Pinot they were saving. It had been breathing nicely until she noticed the time, how much past time it was and the unending snow played sad, slow songs in her mind. This wasn’t packing, playful snow. It was something darker. Like the wine. She shook her head, trying to erase the image there of something spilled. Something wasted. Something staining the pristine, crisp evening that was supposed to be.
--by Barbara Govednik
At the end of the day…
The heat of the day was punctuated with a fiery sunset and the cab
franc became invisible against the sky as it deepend into a garnet,
then aubergine twilight. A hint of desert night sent a chill curling
around candlelight, the cab and the couple at the table. Warmth
drained from the bottle as Rachel and Joe sipped silently on memories
without sharing their separate, secret longings.
--Jenene Francis
