Chapter 27.

The Colors Purple

Authors note:

As noted previously, MHO is a work of fiction. While some of the

incidents that occur in the story and many the characters in it are
based in part upon my life, the vast majority of MHO resides in my
ever-active imagination. I (and those around me) are thankful for that.

(It’s all in the pour.)

With the onion and burger meditations successfully

behind me it was undeniable that the past few weeks
had been good for my spirit. The daily structure
(walk/yoga/manful meds) was something to look
forward to, especially rewarding during those
typically dead moments between Thanksgiving and
Christmas when things slowed down even in the best
of times. Creating a calendar, even though it seemed
a bit artificial, turned out to be a great source of
stability to build upon. Who would have thought that
structure, an aspect of life that I habitually
distrusted, could help me move to forward? What a
surprise.

Then Monday arrived. Fresh out of ideas, I decided to

use the day’s meditation to choose a subject that
would be fun to meditate about. As that thought
crossed my mind I laughed out loud, I never thought I
would use the words meditation and fun in the same
sentence.

Sticking to the daily prescription, I did a cursory set

of yoga stretches, noticing a strange burning
sensation in my palms during downward dogs, and
headed home after cutting my walk in half. I was
eager to get back to the mancave, close the door
and sit down to ponder manful subjects to meditate
about. Closing my eyes I opened my heart and soul
to find further inspiration in the manful meditation
journey. I left a paper and pad out just in case I did.

Starting the search for subjects at the highest levels,

I thought about those things that mean the most. I
could hang with food forever but that would be too
easy. Even I knew that there was more to life than
food although I often lost track of that.

I began to meditate about things that meant the

most to me. Family came first but I didn’t really feel
like dwelling on them, at least not yet. Just too
complicated. Friends were a close second and then I
could not forget big foot white dog faithful walking
companion and the world’s most unaffectionate
canine. No, too weird. Bike? Music? Literature?
Sports? All had loads of promise but none were
attractive that morning. I searched for something a
little easier to handle or more artistic, or well, maybe
I should admit that I didn’t know what the hell I was
doing and just wandering around an imaginary
mental field aimlessly without a fucking clue.

As the thoughts ebbed and flowed without reason, an

image finally began to materialize in my mind’s eye.
Seconds later it popped up bright and clear, the third
vision of wondrous manful meditation as beautiful as
the burger and onion that preceded it.
There, in my mind’s eye, was a shining clear wine
glass. Examining at the wine glass in my mind I
grasped several messages. First, it was empty. I
knew it would not be the case for long. Second it
was large, with a grand broad bowl, long stem and
wide base. Yes, this manful meditation carried a
prohibition revealed in the shape of the wine glass.
You cannot have a manful meditation that is focused
on a glass of white wine. Now some of you may not
agree but this guy can’t see it as hard as he tries to
peer within. Can’t do it. Just can’t.

I knew from the beginning that wine would be a very

long meditation. From start to finish it could take
days just to catalog red wines in California north of
the bay choosing one grape. So rather than get
specific on this first attempt I took time to reflect on
the pleasure that red wine has given me through the
years and the social bounty I have shared with so
many others. Not to mention the health benefits (we
can’t get that benefit from manful meditation
although studies have shown that meditation does
lower your blood pressure). It was a warm easy
comfortable feeling as I drifted from dinner to dinner
and tasting to tasting.

I thought about history. Wine has been around for

thousands of years discovered well before the birth
of Christ. I wondered, who was the brave first man
who raised a ceramic cup to his lips and figured out
that this spoiled grape juice tasted good. And better
yet that it gave you a buzz as well. What compelled
him to go for it? Was it some ancient game of
chicken, (“come on Essau, drink it, I dare you’) or
was he trying to impress a babe? That was a manful
moment to ponder.

Who was the first guy who created the amphoras

crafted thousands of years ago to store their liters
and liters of precious juices? Who took the time to
domesticate the grapes and learn to ferment in a
time when stones were still tools? The facts are
there, man loves wine.

Then my contemplation moved to wine on the stage

of our religions, whether in communion (taking on
the role of blood no less) or the fourth cup at
Passovers past, images of my family gathered
around a table in the house where I grew up.

Later, I awoke gently awakened from this mental

relaxation exercise. I felt refreshed. I was also hungry
and thirsty. It was a cold and clear early winter
afternoon, plenty of time to throw on a sweatshirt,
fire up the Weber and grill something for lunch. The
decision of what to cook was easy. As the burgers
sizzled (and of course the onions sautéed) it didn’t
take long for me to decide they needed support, a
hearty red to help them and the afternoon along.
Poking at the bottles in the mock cellar at the back of
the garage I came upon a 2005 Rafanelli Zin. That
would do just fine. And it did. Lunch was a pleasure.

During the first months at home, lunch was a

challenge. As dysfunctional as my business life was,
we enjoyed years of great lunches together, it was
the place we could relax and get a surprising amount
of business done. We loved the small ethnic
restaurants throughout the Mission and Portrero Hill
enjoying countless delicious bowls of Pho or Udon as
well as plates of Pupusas rice and beans or enormous
burritos on 24th street. As a result, eating home
alone had been very difficult at first. Not only was I
bored, I got hungry early ate quickly to get it over in
under 5 minutes and moved on as fast as I could.
Bad for my digestion and spirit.

On that winter day I saw the difference that manful

mediation made. I took my time during lunch,(why
not, there was little else to do), enjoyed several
glasses of red wine and read the New York Times
from the Sunday before I became exhausted by the
continuing decline of the planet.

While I would suffer plenty of angst and setbacks in

the next months, I would not wear them as a badge
of courage as I had in the past. Instead of worrying
about what had happened to me and why, I thought
about how lucky I was, what I had to be thankful for
and how I could do better. Imagine that, me on the
border of becoming an optimist. Manful Mediation
would teach me how to absorb the speed bumps,
learn as much as I could from them and then move
on. This just wouldn’t have happened in the same
way in days gone by.

The next few weeks were, dare I say, really good

ones. I enjoyed series of self-guided daily journeys
into the world of wine that put me in a great mood.
These journeys gave me great pleasure and no, while
I didn’t start drinking every day at lunch I certainly
did think about it and more often than not, I did.

I wanted to begin the next meditation with a

vineyard but first I settled on a geographic tour. I
narrowed it down to the US and then California
(where else for this native son?) and then thought
about wine growing regions known and loved one by
one. Started up north in the morning fog shrouded
rolling hills of Mendocino and the Sonoma coast, let
those thoughts trail inland up the Russian River to
the Dry Creek Valley west of Healdsburg, an easy
point to stop for a while and enjoy the sun. My
visions flowed down the curved roads of the
Alexander Valley into Calistoga and then up to
Napa’s Pope valley doubling back to the long stretch
of Highway 29 winding north across and through the
hills to Lake County. Without a hesitation I jumped to
101 heading south through Paso Robles, turned off to
enjoy the lush hills of Edna Valley. I finished outside
of Lodi, wine grapes stretching as far as the eyes
good see surrounded by huge gleaming stainless
steel storage tanks.

As those weeks passed I thought about wine in so

many different ways. There was an inspiring
meditation on the grape vines. I saw them bare in
winter and then just blooming in spring first tiny
green leaves breaking through the brown leathery
vine skin of last winter’s growth. Watched the fruit
set and then grow full of flavor and sugar content.
Just as suddenly, wham, the leaves turned orange
and brown in autumn and fell. I picked up the dirt,
crumbled it in my hands bringing it to my nose to
smell its richness. I stepped up to a grapevine,
picked a ripe cabernet grape and ate it. Felt the
acidity of a young grape in my mouth, the crunch of
the seeds between my teeth.

Other days found me wandering vineyards I recalled.

I was lost in the pinot noir fields in Willamette Valley
on a spring morning south of Portland. Then I was
cruising Chianti country in Tuscany in a rented Alfa, a
manicured vineyard around every curve, the black
rooster crowing and a perfect bowl of al dente
tagliatelle with sugo waiting in the next town. My
mind flew across borders to the Hospices De Beaune
looking at barrel after barrel of perfectly aging Pinot
Noirs. I remember the smell room and the strange
pewter “tastevin” that they gave us to drink with. I
strolled between racks of oak barrels inhaling the
dank, moist and musty atmosphere of the caves.

One of the final meditations was on the wines

themselves. I mean who in their right mind would
keep a Grange Hermitage or a first growth Bordeaux
out of a perfect manful mediation moment? I could
feel my mouth explode with their powerful rich
flavors. I imagined them aging, how their profiles
would change and the nuanced dry flavors would
emerge. I thought of all of the wines that had
expired in my faux cellar, waiting to long to enjoy
them as they approached a vinegary brown off end.

One what I knew would be the last day thinking

about wine I picked an imaginary bottle from my
cellar and thought about the perfect pour. What
followed was a mental ballet that went like this.
‘I get a corkscrew and open the bottle slowly, watch
the cork slide out of the bottle. No dry cork here no
rot; just the purple crystals at the bottom of the cork
and the smell of earth and grapes. I wipe the top of
the bottle clean.

Now find a simple but elegant clear glass decanter

then slowly and carefully pour the bottle in. Now I
pause. Just like that ½ an hour has already passed
and it is ready to drink!

Pick a wine glass. Take time to admire its shape, the

narrow shape of the stem, the clean crystal
reflection. Pour the wine into the glass slowly and
evenly until just over 1/3 full.

I give the wine a small swirl to bring out the

character and put my manly schnog deep into the
glass and do what I have been practicing since I
started this adventure. I breathe! At no other point
in this practice until now has this point been simpler.
I go back to your breathing training and refresh
myself. Eyes closed? Mind calm? Yes! Now breathe
in and take in the smell of this perfect glass of wine.
What do I smell? Bell Peppers? Tobacco?
Cinnamon? Leather? What smells attract me most in
that red wine ambrosia? The list goes on and on.
Each smell lingers as I breathe in and breathe out,
nice and slow easy and calm.

I look at the wine, from the top of the glass and then
from the side. Look at its color. Is it dense or light,
do the reds run to purple or even hints of dark blue?
I raise the glass and take a deep but not
overwhelming pull and fill my mouth. My mind tastes
the wine from the perspective of pleasure not a
contest of snobbery or predetermined results. There
are no hidden labels or agendas, no score sheets, no
one to impress. This is all about the grape.

Now I pull a bit of the juice through the mouth by

sipping a bit of air to help the imaginary flavors to
explode. Let the tastes fill my mouth. I think about
the full body and take the time to focus on the
flavors that matter. I let the flavors linger.’

That was it. The moment was perfect I could go no

further.

Then the next day I realized there was a one more

left. A final meditation that defied the rules I had set
at the beginning of the process. There was a white
wine worth meditation upon. Sauternes.

This one was all about flavor and body. They roared.
Apricots honey pineapples botrytis fruit smoke all in
one golden sticky gooey taste thick yet not syrupy it
gives the word nectar meaning. That was a mantra.

As the wine meditations ended I was sad but realized

it was time to move on. I thought back to wine glass
and where it had come from. I thanked my spirits for
that elusive character called inspiration. Where does
this reserve come from? I had no easy answer, but
Thank goodness that it is there, otherwise where
would life be.
That afternoon I hit the kitchen inspired by the red
wine visions of the past weeks, there was only one
dish to make.

A Simple Boeuf Bourginon with music heard in the

kitchen courtesy of the Ipod.

Ingredients:

3 pounds red stew meat, I like chuck.

1 pound bacon.
2 pounds mushrooms. Your choice.
1 bottle red wine.
2 cups beef stock.
Flour, salt, pepper.
Olive Oil.
1 head garlic
1 bunch carrots
1 large onion.
Spices: Bay leaf, thyme.

Technique.

Brown the bacon. Pour off the fat.

Add oil and brown peeled onion and garlic until
translucent.
Dredge the stew meat salt, pepper and flour. In a
large cast iron pan add olive oil and brown. Remove
from pan.
Add the beef back and stir.
Slice carrots to ¼ to ½ inch depending upon desired.
Same for the mushrooms. Add to pot along with
spices.
Stir. Add the red wine, beef stock and finely
chopped spices. Simmer for 3 to 4 hours on
low/medium heat.

Today’s Ipod shuffle top 10 to cook by

Mozart Rondo in D, Vladimir Horowitz, Horowitz at

Home. No comment needed smooth a cognac.
Tramp, Otis Redding & Carla Thomas, The Complete
Stax Sessions. Uh. Uh uh.
Water, Fela Kuti. It has no enemies.
Sneaking Sally through The Alley, Robert Palmer.
The guy was just too handsome. Trying to get her
out of sight indeed.
Going Out Walking, Muddy Waters. He is the man.
He knows it.
Ooh La La, Ronnie Lane. The chorus says it all. I
wish that I knew what I know now when I was
younger.
On Broadway, George Benson. All that hope.
Celos. Gotan Project, Lunatico. Eerie Argentine
tangos meet French accordions. Yet so very
listenable.
Midnight Confession, the Grass Roots. South Africa’s
only pop hit band of the 60’s in a state of guilt.
I’ll Probably Feel A Whole Lot Better When You’re
Gone, The Byrds. No message that means anything
to me of relevance, just a great song.