The There There Letter: Heat, Ham-Fisted, and Herbaceousness
Three things from DAH.
DAH is me, David Anthony Hance. I pen, promote, and make change (not the coin kind).
First up this week, Heat …
It's milder this week but last week was hot. Summer hot. And it's only mid-May. I know summer doesn't "really" begin until June 20 but as Memorial Day (end of May) approaches in the USA, my Sacramento-Valley-child-mind begins to summon forward the hot days ahead. Mid-May is usually time for the Linden Cherry Festival. Linden, a small town in rural San Joaquin County, California, is famous for cherries. It's festival sort of presages summer heat for me. Sadly, the Cherry Festival was canceled in 2020 and 2021 (COVID-19), so I'm on my own watching for warm weather warnings. A friend brought us a cherry dessert last Sunday and I thought about the warm days, when we're closer to the sun, and the cherries get ripe. I do know that it isn't closeness to the sun that makes summer hot, it's the tilt of the earth. How about we make a pact, together, that when it gets too hot we'll all lean the other way at the same time, perhaps to temper the tilt and the temperature of really blazing summer days … are you in?
Why is hot in summer and cold in winter?
Second up this week, Ham-Fisted …
Some days I'm clumsy. Some days my thinking is blunt. Some days I'm extreme, or wish to be. "If you can't go over the top why go anywhere?" I say when it's pointed out that I might have gone a bit too far. "The biggest advantage of extremism is that it makes you feel good because it provides you with enemies … you can pretend that all the badness in the whole world is in your enemies and all the goodness in the whole world is in you." John Cleese shared that notion three decades ago. Some days I'm tempted to be so ham-fisted (or is it ham-handed?). Then I recall my Mum encouraging kindness and empathy: "Put yourself in their shoes." She spoiled extremism for me. I miss her.
Ham-Handed vs Ham-Fisted
Third up this week, Herbaceousness …
Merriam-Webster doesn't recognize "herbacousness" as a word. Yet it's a neologism used often in describing wine. Confusingly, herbaceousness can be a good thing in wine, unless there's too much of it, then it's bad. Although New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc often shows rather a lot of herbaceousness, and it's quite popular. Cool-climate grown Cabernet Franc and Sauvignon Blanc (and their offspring: Cabernet Sauvignon) can veer towards green-ness and over-herbaceousness. But, too hot a climate and all three varietals (most all varietals, really) end up sort of overripe and flat tasting. Winegrowers at times have ham-fisted (ham-handed?) their vinous efforts to both extremes. We tilt one way, then the other. The popular flavor preference pendulum swings and seasons change and the Goldilocks moments of balance are easily missed.
What is Herbaceousness in Wine?
And a bit more.
The Woman Who Turned Down a Date with a Cherry Farmer
by Aimee Nezhukumatathil (author of the lovely book World of Wonders)
Of course I regret it. I mean there I was under umbrellas of fruit
so red they had to be borne of Summer, and no other season.
Flip-flops and fishhooks. Ice cubes made of lemonade and sprigs
of mint to slip in blue glasses of tea. I was dusty, my ponytail
all askew and the tips of my fingers ran, of course, red
from the fruitwounds of cherries I plunked into my bucket
and still—he must have seen some small bit of loveliness
in walking his orchard with me. He pointed out which trees
were sweetest, which ones bore double seeds—puffing out
the flesh and oh the surprise on your tongue with two tiny stones
(a twin spit), making a small gun of your mouth. Did I mention
my favorite color is red? His jeans were worn and twisty
around the tops of his boot; his hands thick but careful,
nimble enough to pull fruit from his trees without tearing
the thin skin; the cherry dust and fingerprints on his eyeglasses.
I just know when he stuffed his hands in his pockets, said
Okay. Couldn't hurt to try? and shuffled back to his roadside stand
to arrange his jelly jars and stacks of buckets, I had made
a terrible mistake. I just know my summer would've been
full of pies, tartlets, turnovers—so much jubilee.
And that's all for this week.
From Mary Oliver’s poem "Sometimes" …
DAH is me, David Anthony Hance. I pen, promote, and make change (not the coin kind).
First up this week, Heat …
It's milder this week but last week was hot. Summer hot. And it's only mid-May. I know summer doesn't "really" begin until June 20 but as Memorial Day (end of May) approaches in the USA, my Sacramento-Valley-child-mind begins to summon forward the hot days ahead. Mid-May is usually time for the Linden Cherry Festival. Linden, a small town in rural San Joaquin County, California, is famous for cherries. It's festival sort of presages summer heat for me. Sadly, the Cherry Festival was canceled in 2020 and 2021 (COVID-19), so I'm on my own watching for warm weather warnings. A friend brought us a cherry dessert last Sunday and I thought about the warm days, when we're closer to the sun, and the cherries get ripe. I do know that it isn't closeness to the sun that makes summer hot, it's the tilt of the earth. How about we make a pact, together, that when it gets too hot we'll all lean the other way at the same time, perhaps to temper the tilt and the temperature of really blazing summer days … are you in?
Why is hot in summer and cold in winter?
Second up this week, Ham-Fisted …
Some days I'm clumsy. Some days my thinking is blunt. Some days I'm extreme, or wish to be. "If you can't go over the top why go anywhere?" I say when it's pointed out that I might have gone a bit too far. "The biggest advantage of extremism is that it makes you feel good because it provides you with enemies … you can pretend that all the badness in the whole world is in your enemies and all the goodness in the whole world is in you." John Cleese shared that notion three decades ago. Some days I'm tempted to be so ham-fisted (or is it ham-handed?). Then I recall my Mum encouraging kindness and empathy: "Put yourself in their shoes." She spoiled extremism for me. I miss her.
Ham-Handed vs Ham-Fisted
Third up this week, Herbaceousness …
Merriam-Webster doesn't recognize "herbacousness" as a word. Yet it's a neologism used often in describing wine. Confusingly, herbaceousness can be a good thing in wine, unless there's too much of it, then it's bad. Although New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc often shows rather a lot of herbaceousness, and it's quite popular. Cool-climate grown Cabernet Franc and Sauvignon Blanc (and their offspring: Cabernet Sauvignon) can veer towards green-ness and over-herbaceousness. But, too hot a climate and all three varietals (most all varietals, really) end up sort of overripe and flat tasting. Winegrowers at times have ham-fisted (ham-handed?) their vinous efforts to both extremes. We tilt one way, then the other. The popular flavor preference pendulum swings and seasons change and the Goldilocks moments of balance are easily missed.
What is Herbaceousness in Wine?
And a bit more.
The Woman Who Turned Down a Date with a Cherry Farmer
by Aimee Nezhukumatathil (author of the lovely book World of Wonders)
Of course I regret it. I mean there I was under umbrellas of fruit
so red they had to be borne of Summer, and no other season.
Flip-flops and fishhooks. Ice cubes made of lemonade and sprigs
of mint to slip in blue glasses of tea. I was dusty, my ponytail
all askew and the tips of my fingers ran, of course, red
from the fruitwounds of cherries I plunked into my bucket
and still—he must have seen some small bit of loveliness
in walking his orchard with me. He pointed out which trees
were sweetest, which ones bore double seeds—puffing out
the flesh and oh the surprise on your tongue with two tiny stones
(a twin spit), making a small gun of your mouth. Did I mention
my favorite color is red? His jeans were worn and twisty
around the tops of his boot; his hands thick but careful,
nimble enough to pull fruit from his trees without tearing
the thin skin; the cherry dust and fingerprints on his eyeglasses.
I just know when he stuffed his hands in his pockets, said
Okay. Couldn't hurt to try? and shuffled back to his roadside stand
to arrange his jelly jars and stacks of buckets, I had made
a terrible mistake. I just know my summer would've been
full of pies, tartlets, turnovers—so much jubilee.
And that's all for this week.
From Mary Oliver’s poem "Sometimes" …
Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.
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