Savignon Blanc

There's something about warm weather that turns me away from red wine. I didn't always feel this way. It just happened. Maybe my palette is becoming more refined. Maybe I'm more open to trying new things. Maybe it's just too hot to drink warm liquid. Whatever the case may be, I'm in love with this little grape. Sweet, not sugary. Crisp, not buttery. Apples and grass. at least that's what the critics say I should taste.

Here's the thing about wine for me. It's emotional. I remember taking sips of my grandfather's homemade wine as a child. I remember the big, glass bottles covered up with towels in his office. I remember the cool, green concrete floor of that office and the dicotamy of the wooden desk on one end of the room and the hammers, nails, and saws at the other. I remember the saw dust smell of that room. I believe he made fruity wine. Strawberry and peach wine. Homemade Boones Farm. I can't remember exactly, though. He's been gone for so long. I should ask my mother. But, I destinctly remember walking up to their dining room table and asking my mother what she was drinking. She would hand me her glass. It was a juice glass. No snotty wine glasses. Just a small juice glass of something I wasn't supposed to consume. She would push it towards me. I would take a tenative sip. Alcohol burns especially hard when you are not old enough to drink. And that would satisfy and repulse me.