Food: Wine Basics

Learning Wine

Wine is fermented juice, usually grapes. Other fruit wines are made from apples, and elderberries. The oldest wine production comes from 6000 BC, in Georgia. There are many kinds of wine, some white, some red, with a variety of flavours, based on the kinds of grapes used, the quality of a vintage, and the fermentation process. The longer a wine ferments, the drier and more bitter it becomes. These factors determine whether a wine is sweet or dry (bitter). While some wines from a good vintage can age a long time, most wines turn bad after about 8-10 years.

The three main factors that can ruin a wine are heat, oxygen, and sunlight. The perfect storage temperature is 12.7° C. To keep oxygen out, you should store wine on its side (or at a diagonal to keep sediments at the bottom). This keeps the cork wet, so it won’t shrink, letting in air. If you go to a wine shop and see every bottle standing on shelves, that tells you how little the owner knows about wine.

Wine Varieties

When a wine has 75% or more of one kind of grape, it’s called a varietal wine. Otherwise, it’s called a blended wine. Wine labeled Bordeaux is usually a blended wine. Both varietal and blended wines can be very fine quality and expensive. There are many species of grapes, including:

Neutral Whites: Chardonnay (Everywhere, started in Burgundy)

Neutral Reds: Tempranillo (Spain)

Bitter Reds: Cabernet Sauvignon (Everywhere, started in Bordeaux), Merlot (Everywhere, started in Bordeaux)

Fruitier Reds: Pinot noir (Burgundy), Gamay Noir (Loire Valley)

Sweet Wines

They’re not so popular, which is good because there’s less of it. It’s harder to make – for example, waiting till grapes are overripe and/or crushing frozen grapes before dawn, before they thaw. Or, you can turn grapes to raisins first. These processes make much less wine than a normal process, making them more expensive.

Hungarian Tokaji Eszencia is one of the sweetest wines in the world, taking years to ferment. Other sweet wines include Sherries, Vin de Paille in France, Comandaria in Cyprus, and Vin Santo wines in Tuscany. Portuguese Port adds brandy to stop the fermentation process, making the wine sweeter and with more alcohol, about 20%. Madeira wine is similar, but then it’s heated to 130° F – a stronger wine you can open and keep for months, or cellar it for centuries. Some Madeiras are over 300 years old, and still drinkable.

Shel Silverstein "Sick"

"I cannot go to school today,"
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
"I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I'm going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I've counted sixteen chicken pox
And there's one more––that's seventeen,
And don't you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut, my eyes are blue––
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I'm sure that my left leg is broke––
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button's caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,
My 'pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb,
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is––what?
What's that? What's that you say?
You say today is . . . Saturday?
G'bye, I'm going out to play!"

I am a Front Desk Agent

I'm not sure who wrote this. It's been spreading virally on Facebook. Have some sympathy for your hotel receptionists:

I am a Front Desk Agent

I have advanced degrees in Accounting, Public Relations, Marketing, Business, Computer Science, Civil Engineering, and Swahili. I can also read minds.

Of course I have the reservation that you booked six years ago even though you don't have the confirmation number and you think it was made under a name that starts with "S".

It is completely my fault that the blizzard shut down the airport and you have to sleep in a warm king-size bed while 5000 of your co-travellers are sleeping in benches at the airport. I am sorry.

It is not a problem for me to give you seven connecting, non-smoking, poolside suites with two king beds in each, four rollaways, 3 cribs, and yes, I can install a wet bar. I know it is my fault that we do not have a helicopter landing pad.

I am a Front Desk Agent. I am expected to speak all languages fluently. It is obvious to me that when you booked your reservation for Friday on the weekend we're sold out that you really meant Saturday. My company has entrusted me with all financial information and decisions, and yes, I am lying to you when I say we have no more rooms available. It is not a problem for me to quickly construct several more guest rooms. THIS time I will not forget the helicopter landing pad. And it is my fault that everyone wanted to stay here. I should have known you were coming in, even though you had no reservation. After all, you stay at our brand of hotel all the time, 300 nights a year, and this is only the first time you've ever been to our city.

I am a front desk agent. I am quite capable of checking three people in, two people out, taking five reservations, answering fifteen incoming calls, delivering six bath towels to room 625, plunging the toilet in room 101, and restocking the supply of pool towels, all at the same time. Yes, I will be glad to call the van driver and tell him to drive over all the cars stuck in traffic because you've been waiting at the airport for 15 minutes and you've got jet lag.

I am a front desk agent, an operator, a bellhop, houseman, guest service representative, housekeeper, sales coordinator, information specialist, entertainment critic, restauranteur, stock broker, referee, janitor, computer technician, plumber, ice-breaker, postman, babysitter, dispatcher, laundry cleaner, lifeguard, electrician, ambassador, personal fitness trainer, fax expert, human jukebox, domestic abuse counselor, and verbal punching bag. Yes, I know room 112 is not answering their phone. And of course I have their travel itinerary so I know exactly where they went when they left here 9 hours ago, and what their cell phone number is.

I always know where to find the best vegetarian-kosher-Mongolian-barbecue restaurants. I know exactly what to see and do in this city in fifteen minutes without spending any money and without getting caught in traffic. I take personal blame for airline food, traffic jams, rental car flat tires, and the nation's economy.

I realize that you meant to book your reservation here. People often confuse us with the Galaxy Delight Motel, Antarctica. Of course I can "fit you in" and yes, you may have the special $1 rate because you are affiliated with the Hoboken Accounting and Bagel Club.

I am expected to smile, empathize, sympathize, console, condole, upsell, downsell (and know when to do which), perform, sing, dance, fix the printer, and tell your friends that you're here. And I know exactly where 613 Possum Trot Lane is in the Way Out There subdivision that they just built last week.

After all, I AM a Front Desk Agent!

Socially Awkward Penguin

As young people begin to mature, they learn valuable social lessons about how to be accepted - which behaviour is normal, and which is annoying to others. Some people have a hard time learning the basics, worrying too much about some things, while not even realizing their most embarrassing habits. This leads to awkward moments, where you feel foolish. This is normal, and happens to everybody, even adults, right? Right?

Here to explain further, the delightful Awkward Penguin:

 

 

 

 

 

America: Well, You Gotta Live Somewhere, by George Carlin

(The following excerpt is posted for non-commercial, educational purposes. I will remove it if requested. No lawsuits are necessary. Some words were censored to make it age appropriate.)

Well, Ya Gotta Live Someplace

by George Carlin

            I grew up in New York City and lived there until I was thirty.

            At the time, I decided I’d had enough of life in a dynamic, sophisticated city, so I moved to Los Angeles. Actually, I moved there because of the time difference. I was behind in my work, and wanted to pick up the extra three hours. Technically, for the last thirty years I’ve been living in my own past.

            I knew I didn’t want to move to the Midwest. I could never live in a place where the outstanding geographic feature is the horizon. The Midwest seems like a nice place to catch up on your sleep.

            Another reason I could never live in the Midwest is that it gets really cold there. You’ve heard of hypothermia and exposure? I could never be comfortable in a place where you can die simply by going out to the mailbox. Living in an area where an open window can cause death seems foolish to me.

            Of course, living in the South was never an option – the main problem being they have too much respect for authority; they’re soldier-sniffers and cop lovers. I don’t respect that, and I could never live with it. There’s also way too much religion in the South to be consistent with good mental health.

            Still, I love traveling down there, especially when I’m in the mood for a quick trip to the thirteenth century. I’m not someone who buys all that “New South” #*$@ you hear; I judge a place by the number of lynchings they’ve had, over-all. Atlanta even found it necessary to come up with an apologetic civic slogan: Atlanta: The City Too Busy to Hate. I think they’re trying to tell us something.

            There’s also the communications problem. I have trouble understanding Southerners. Some of them sound like they’re chewing on a *@#!. And I really have nothing against them individually; one by one they can be quite charming. But when you take them as a whole, there is some really dangerous genetic material floating around down there.

            So, I live in Los Angeles, and it’s kind of a goofy place. They have an airport named after John Wayne. That oughtta explain it. It has a charming kind of superstitious innocence.

            But if you really want to understand life in California, forget the grief clinics and yogaholics. Forget biofeedback, Feldenkrais, neurolinguistic programming, and the Alexander technique.

            Disregard spirit guides, centering groups, dream workshops, bioenergetics, pyramid energy, and primal therapy.

            Ignore centering, fasting, Rolfing, grounding, channeling, rebirthing, nurturing, self-parenting, and colon cleansing.

            And don’t even think about polarity work, inversion swings, flower essences, guided synchronicity, harmonic brain wave synergy, and psychocalisthenics.

            You also need pay no attention to nude volleyball, spinach therapy, white wine hot tubs, jogging on hot coals, and the people who sing Christmas carols to zoo animals.

            Forget all that. The only thing you have to know about California is this: They have traffic school for chocoholics.

            Okay?

            California is the only place where you might hear someone say, “Jason can’t come to the phone, he’s taking his wind lesson.”

            The problem most New Yorkers have with Los Angeles is that it is fragmented and lacks a vital center. The people have no common experience. Instead, they exude a kind of bemused detachment that renders them intensely uninteresting. The West Coast experience is soft and peripheral, New York is hard and concentrated. California is a small woman saying, “Fuck me.” New York is a large man saying, “Fuck you!”

            Still, I live in California. But I’m not “laid-back,” and I’m certainly not “mellow.” I associate those qualities with the comatose. The solar system wasn’t formed because matter was laid-back; life didn’t arise from the oceans and humans descend from the trees because DNA was mellow. It happened because of something called energy.

            New York has energy, and all I can say is this: If you can’t handle it, stay the #*$@ out. Living in New York is a character-builder; you must know who you are, what you’re doing, where you’re going, and how to get there. No b.s. tolerated! New York people are tough and resilient. All the rest of you are varying degrees of soft.

            Most outsiders can’t handle New York, so they wind up back in Big Loins Arkansas, badmouthing The City for the rest of their lives. Actually, most of the people who run New York down have never been there. And if they ever went, we would destroy them in nine minutes. People hate New York, because that’s where the action is, and they know it’s passing them by. Most of the decisions that control people’s lives are made in New York City. Not in Washington, not on Pennsylvania Avenue. In New York City! Madison Avenue and Wall Street. People can’t handle that. Pisses ’em off. #*$@ ’em!

            And I’m really glad the Yankees humiliated the Braves in the World Series. I’m glad the gritty, tough, Third-World, streetwise New York culture triumphed over the soft, suburban, wholesome, white-Christian, tacky mall culture of Atlanta. Overgrown small towns like Atlanta have no business in the major leagues in the first place.

            Concerning L.A. versus New York: I have now lived half my life in each of America’s two most hated, feared, and envied cities, and you want to know something? There’s no comparison. New York even has a better class of assholes. Even the lames in New York have a certain appealing, dangerous quality.

            As an example of how hopeless California is, when I first got there, a policeman gave me a ticket for jaywalking. You have to understand the kind of people who live in California. They are willing to stand, passive and inert, on a curb, when absolutely no traffic is coming, or maybe just a little traffic that could easily be dodged. They simply stand there obediently and wait for an electric light to give them permission to proceed. I couldn’t believe this cop. I laughed at him. The ticket cost me about twenty dollars in 1966. Since that time, I figure I have jaywalked an additional thousand times or so without being caught. #*$@ that lame-ass cop! I’ve managed to prorate that ticket down to about two cents a jaywalk.

            One thing I find appealing in California is the emphasis on driving. I like to drive, I’m skillful at it, and I do it aggressively. And I don’t mean I scream at people or flash them the finger. I simply go about my passage swiftly and silently, with a certain deliberate, dark efficiency. In the land of the unassertive, the aggressive man is king.

            Of course, in Los Angeles, everything is based on driving, even the killings. In New York, most people don’t have cars, so if you want to kill a person, you have to take the subway to their house. And sometimes on the way, the train is delayed and you get impatient, so you have to kill someone on the subway. That’s why there are so many subway murders; no one has a car. Basically, if more people in New York had cars, the subways would be a lot safer.

            I hope you can tell, the Apple is still number one in my heart. I’m so chauvinistic, I even root for New York to raise more money than Los Angeles on the Arthritis Telethon. And we usually do.

            California: bordering always on the Pacific and sometimes on the ridiculous. So, why do I live there?

            Because the sun goes down a block from my house.

Mass Media: Turn Down the Radio! by George Carlin

(The following excerpt is posted for non-commercial, educational purposes. I will remove it if requested. No lawsuits are necessary.)

Turn Down the Radio!
by George Carlin

Does anyone really listen to that crappy music they play on the radio? FM radio music? What’s it called” Adult contemporary? Classic rock? Urban rhythm and blues? You know what the official business name for that crap is? “Corporate standardized programming.” Just what an art form needs: corporate standardized programming. Derived from “scientific” surveys conducted by soulless businessmen.

            Here’s how bad it is: One nationwide chain that owns over a thousand radio stations conducts weekly telephone polls, asking listeners their opinions on twenty-five to thirty song “hooks” they play over the phone; hooks that the radio people have already selected. (Hooks are the short, repeated parts of pop songs that people remember easily.) Depending on these polls, the radio chain decides which songs to place on their stations’ playlists.

            Weeks later, they record the hooks of all the songs they’re currently playing on their stations across the country, label them by title and artist and sell that information to record companies to help create more of the same bad music. They also sell the information to competing radio stations that want to play what the big chain is playing. All of this is done to prevent the possibility of original thinking somehow creeping into the system.

            Lemme tell you something: In the first place, listening to music that someone else has picked out is not my idea of a good time. Second, and more important, the fact that a lot of people in America actually like the music automatically means it sucks. Especially since the people who like it have been told in advance by businessmen what it is they’re supposed to like. Please. Save me from people who’ve been told what to like and then like it.

            In my opinion, if you’re over six years of age, and you’re still getting your music from the radio, something is desperately wrong with you. I can only hope that somehow MP3 players and file sharing will destroy FM radio the way they’re destroying record companies. Then, even though the air will probably never be safe to breathe again, maybe it will be safer to listen to.

Mass Media: Anything But the Present, by George Carlin

(The following excerpt is posted for non-commercial, educational purposes. I will remove it if requested. No lawsuits are necessary. Some words were censored to make it age appropriate.)

Anything But The Present

by George Carlin

 

America has no now. We’re reluctant to acknowledge the present. It’s too embarrassing.

Instead, we reach into the past. Our culture is composed of sequels, reruns, remakes, revivals, reissues, re-releases, re-creations, re-enactments, adaptations, anniversaries, memorabilia, oldies radio, and nostalgia record collections. World War II has been refought on television so many times, the Germans and Japanese are now drawing residuals.

Of course, being essentially full of shit, we sometimes feel the need to dress up this past-preoccupation, as with pathetic references to reruns as “encore presentations.”

Even instant replay is a form of token nostalgia: a brief visit to the immediate past for reexamination, before slapping it onto a highlight video for further review and re-review on into the indefinite future.

Our “yestermania” includes fantasy baseball camps, where aging sad sacks pay money to catch baseballs thrown by men who were once their heroes. It is part of the fascination with sports memorabilia, a “memory industry” so lucrative it has attracted counterfeiters.

In this, the Age of Hyphens, we are truly retro-Americans.

And our television newscasts not only reflect this condition, they feed it. Everything they report is twisted into some reference to the past. If there’s to be a summit meeting, you’ll be told all about the last six summits; if there’s a big earthquake, they’ll do a story about big earthquakes of the past; if there’s a mine disaster, you will hear about every mine disaster since the inception of mining. They’re obsessed with looking back. I swear I actually heard this during a newscast, as the anchorman went to a commercial break: he said, “Still ahead, a look back.” Honest.

“A look back: Hurricane Hugo, one year later.” Why? The anniversary of the Exxon Valdez oil spill. For what reason? The anniversary of the Bay of Pigs, Pan Am Flight 103, the hostages in Iran, the fall of the Berlin Wall, V-J Day, V-E Day, Vietnam. Who gives a fuck?

Bugs Bunny’s 50^th birthday, Lassie’s 55^th, the Golden Jubilee of Gone With the Wind, the start of the Korean War, Barbie celebrates her 35^th, the 25^th anniversary of the New York blackout, Bambi turns 50. Shit, I didn’t even like Bambi when I was supposed to, how much do I care now?

There’s really no harm reviewing the past from time to time; knowing where you’ve been is part of knowing where you are, and all that happy horseshit. But the American media have an absolute fixation on this. They rob us of the present by insisting on the past. If they were able, I’m sure they would pay equal attention to the future. Trouble is, they don’t have any film on it.

And so, on television news there is, oddly, very little emphasis on the present; on today’s actual news. The present exists only in thirty-second stories built around eight-second sound bites. Remember, “sound bite” is their phrase. That’s what they give you. Just a bite. No chewing, no digestion, no nourishment. Malnutrition.

Another way they avoid the present moment is to look ahead on their own schedules. The television news industry seems to revolve around what’s coming next. “Still to come,” “Just ahead,” “Up next,” “Coming up this half-hour,” “More to come,” “Stay with us,” “Still ahead,” “Also, later . . .”

They even preview what’s going to happen as little as one hour later:  During the “Five O’Clock News”, the empty-headed prick who does the “Five O’Clock News” will suddenly say, “Here’s a look at what’s coming up on the ‘Six O’Clock News.” Then the empty-headed prick who does the “Six O’Clock News” will appear in shirtsleeves in the newsroom (to create the illusion of actual work) and tell you about several stories that the empty-headed prick who does the “Five O’Clock News” should already have told you about if he were really a newsman.

And so it goes, around the clock:  on the “Five O’Clock News,” they tell you about the “Six O’Clock News”; at six O’Clock, they tell you about eleven; at eleven, they plug the morning news; the morning man promos the noontime lady, and, sure enough, a little after noon, here comes that empty-headed prick from the “Five O’Clock News” to tell you what he’s going to do . . . on the “Five O’Clock News.”

You know, if a guy were paranoid, he might not be blamed for thinking that the people who run things don’t want you dwelling too much on the present.

Because, keep in mind, the news media are not independent; they are a sort of bulletin board and public relations firm for the ruling class – the people who run things. Those who decided what news you will or will not hear are paid by, and tolerated purely at the whim of, those who hold economic power. If the parent corporation doesn’t want you to know something, it won’t be on the news. Period. Or, at the very least, it will be slanted to suit them, and then barely followed up.

Enjoy your snooze.