AS FIREWORKS light the horizon tonight, somewhere in the world, somebody just like me will be opening a bottle of Chardonnay to say goodbye to the passing year. He will air it a bit, shake a little, sniff a little, and then bribe it with recurring promises he can never keep. But tonight is unlike any other nights. He will find his year-capper slightly different than he is accustomed to – its complex properties a little rough in the mouth, slightly harder to swallow like a year of dwindling friends, missed opportunities and loved ones lost. He will wonder why he had chosen white instead of red or why lives turn around on a dime for better or for worse while wines change only so slightly despite years of neglect. I have asked these questions myself time and time again and the answer will always remain the same. People are not meant to sit on a shelf.
But there is not a loss so great that could deeply alter our taste for wine, because time heals wounds and wines flourish in wait in hidden compartments, year after year, sweetening with age, waiting to be poured in the spirit of forthcoming celebration, like the bottle of Chardonnay I will later hold in my hand.
(know that you are not alone)