Love's Labors Found

When I was a child, I delighted in writing poetry. As a matter of fact, I was fairly prolific between the ages of 12 and 17. My poems were short, unrhymed, and – as is generally the case with adolescent poetry – sometimes embarrassingly emotive. I took my cues from Cummings, Pound and Williams, with a bit of Morrisey thrown in for maudlin measure. They were my first lessons in complex language, a way to get my teeth around words and explore their evocative contours. Poetry is a form of inner dialogue made public that allows you to compress time and inhabit wicked thoughts.

I shared these little compositions with everyone – friends, teachers, pen pals; I entered competitions and published in school journals. I was careful, however, to keep them from my parents, who labored to unearth autobiographical subtext in each line.

“What does this mean?” they'd ask, clearly worried.

“Nothing, it’s just an image.”

“Why were you standing so close to a fire? I don't want you going to any parties where there are fires.”

“I’m not standing by any fire. The character is standing by the fire.”

“Where was this party? Was Devi there, too? Does Mrs. Dutta know about this?”

Silent consternation.

I was too young to understand postmodernist theory so couldn’t counter with the death of the author and “I” as a construct. Even if I had, it probably wouldn’t have stopped them from saying things like, “Why can’t you write something happy?” to which I would respond with my usual roll of the eyes.

When you are 15, there are many, many things you do not wish to discuss with your parents. Your personal writing is definitely in the top 5.

My fledgling career as a poet ended long ago, some time between college and adulthood, but a story about modern love poems on NPR inspired me to give it another go.

A Sensible Conclusion

I’m just pragmatic about these things
And I am
But I’d be lying if I said
I didn’t miss you
Sometimes
These things don’t work out
You know
It’s not you
Really, it’s me
This is stupid
Let’s be friends again and laugh
Just like old times
For old times’ sake
Let’s raise our glasses
I’m so glad for you
I’m so glad for me
But I’d be lying if I said
It was easy
Being with you
Was cautious madness
Heady confusion
Like loss
Or maybe something like love
I’ll have another Jameson on the rocks
Make that a double
But still
We must be pragmatic about these things
And we are.

I was pleased with the result, although it did confirm that penning cheerful verses is not one of my great talents. Love is a fickle, messy topic, and that’s probably why I write about wine and sake instead. They fill your glass with goodness and don’t leave you feeling sad when they’re gone. The relationships are far less equivocal.

This thought occurred to me as I sipped on one of my new favorite summer whites, Sattlerhof Steirische Klassik ’07 Sauvignon Blanc from Austria.


While I hesitate to use the word “love,” I have discovered a fondness for Austrian wines recently. Sorry, Claire. These light and easy-drinking gems are helping me survive this painfully hot summer. The Sattlerhof was pert and refreshing, brimming with aromas of grapefruit, passion fruit, and verbena. Striking a fine balance between the (at times) aggressively fruity pep of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc and the austerity of white Bordeaux, it had bracing acidity that softened toward the finish and a lovely resonance.

We drank this with a dish of tender squid, green beans, and broccoli sautéed with garlic, parsley, and a splash of white wine. As I’d expected, the pairing was fantastic, harmonious and uncomplicated, the way that love should be but usually isn’t.

Uncovering Sake's Hidden Stories

I like secrets as much as, if not slightly more than, the next guy, so it didn’t take much convincing to get me to read John Gauntner’s new e-book, Sake’s Hidden Stories. Although it wasn’t the juicy, tell-all memoir I hope he’ll pen one day, this collection of essays offers a glimpse of a world that is closed to most of us, particularly non-speakers of Japanese. It tells stories of strong wills, iconoclasts, and errant sons who return home to carry on the work of generations. In our fast-paced modern society, where individualism reigns supreme, the words honor, duty, and tradition seem like anachronistic concepts; yet, these are the very forces that have kept the sake industry alive.

Part of what attracted me, and my fellow nihon-shu bloggers Tim, Etsuko, and Robert-Gilles; to sake was the spirit and enthusiasm of the folks who make it. However, much of the sake literature out there – at least in English – focuses mainly on the products themselves. It’s refreshing to finally find a book that introduces the people behind the brand. A sake insider for more than a decade, Mr. Gauntner is the perfect man for the job. He takes us with him up the gravelly roads and through the cool, dark rooms of centuries-old buildings. Some of the anecdotes describe his first meetings with the brewery owners and staff, and readers feel his surprise and, in many cases, awe.

After meeting the former president of Tairin Brewery in Gifu, Gauntner asks how he was able to control the milling of the rice, which was done at that time on a primitive machine.

The older gentleman answered very simply and humbly, "Well, I listen to it." You listen to it? Huh?

He walked over to one end of the small machine and lifted up – of all things – a stethoscope that hung neatly over a pipe. "Well, Yeah. I use this, and I listen to it. I have been doing this in this way for so many years that I can easily tell by the sound of the rice spinning inside how much has been milled away."

Amazing. Most modern seimaiki are automated so the operator has to do nothing, just put in the rice, set the controls, and wait. But for decades this gentleman has been listening to the sound of the rice as it rolled around inside the cylindrical drum, and by using only his senses, polished with years of experience, he can be so accurate that they could make the fine sake Tairin is known for. By using a stethoscope. Simply wild.

The book contains a fair amount of technical information, and, although the first section is devoted to sake basics, true novices may find it difficult to take everything in. The author was a former engineer and his fascination with machinery is evident. For those with a firm foundation of sake knowledge, however, the book is a terrific resource providing in-depth details of production.

Still, everyone can relate to he characters themselves (and, in the sake world, there are plenty of them). When he meets the purple-track-suit-wearing Nakao-san, president and toji of Tsuyu Masamune in Osaka, Gauntner wonders how he learned to make sake.

"Ah, but that's another long story," he begins, raising his teacup as if toasting the idea for emphasis. He sets it down on the low table between us before continuing. "You see, I never wanted to be in this business. Originally I was not going to take over the brewery here. I wanted to be a phys ed instructor."

That’s not the only surprise the kuramoto has in store for him.

In another departure from precedent, Nakao-san has begun to hold the occasional rap concert inside his brewery for the local community rap fans. "It's kind of tight, but we have barely enough space. The band is down there, people dance up there, on that platform, just in front of the tanks. It's kinda cool, actually.

These kinds of delightful details make Sake’s Hidden Stories a lot of fun to read, and you’ll definitely feel like an insider by the end of the book. In fact, you may end up itching to take to the sake road yourself. I certainly did!

Back on that Horse

Well, friends, I gave it a shot but didn't manage to land the Murphy Goode dream job. Drat. Can't win 'em all. But thanks thanks thanks to everyone out there who showed their support! My video got hundreds of votes, and I really felt the love.

Sorry I've been so quiet recently. Between the mad scramble to get my application in to Murphy Goode and some new projects at work, I just haven't been able to keep up. I even forgot to celebrate my blog's 3rd birthday. Can you believe it? How times flies. We made a belated toast with a glass of Ducastaing Armagnac given to us by our favorite Italian chef for JP's birthday. Please note the diverting bottle.


I should mention that, once you get over the hilarity of pouring a drink from a condom-shaped baby bottle (talk about Freudian overtones), the Armagnac is quite good. Very grapey and rich.

Ain't none of us gettin' any younger, but at least we can make an ironic return to childhood.

Cheers and check back soon for more adventures in sake and wine!