On Belonging

“The things that matter most in our lives are not fantastic or grand.”
- Jack Kornfield, The Wise Heart

There is a stretch of road west of Healdsburg I have driven more times than I can count.

Whenever I could, I took the stick shift.

Westside Road seemed made for it.

It winds past vineyards and old trees thick with moss and lichen, following the Russian River toward Guerneville. Eventually, the vineyards give way to redwoods.

Keep going and you reach the coast.

I always preferred it in winter.

January and February, when the tasting rooms were quiet and the hills were at their greenest.

The smell I remember most is eucalyptus.

Years later, I would recognize that same note in the Cabernet grown nearby.

The idea of home as a place has always been a little strange to me.

Sri Lanka. Kenya. Washington, D.C. Baltimore.

California came later.

It was the first place I chose.

Napa, certainly.

But more often Sonoma.

Eastside Road.

Westside Road.

The Russian River.

Eventually farther north, toward Anderson Valley.

The tasting rooms felt less polished then.

Sometimes the person pouring had made the wine. Sometimes they had spent the morning in the vineyard.

A question about what was in the glass might become a family story. An origin story. A year when nothing went right.

Every so often another bottle appeared from beneath the counter.

Someone simply thought I should taste it.

I went for the wine.

I remember the stories.

Zinfandel was one of the first California wines I fell for.

In my mind, it was uniquely Californian.

Generous.

Ripe.

A little unruly.

Sometimes too much of all three.

Then I found Ridge.

Geyserville was different.

There was plenty of fruit, but it never seemed to be the point.

And the wines got better with time.

2018 Ridge Geyserville

68% Zinfandel
20% Carignane
10% Petite Sirah
2% Alicante Bouschet
14.7% ABV
Alexander Valley

Calling Geyserville a Zinfandel doesn't quite tell the story.

The oldest vines are more than 130 years old, planted as a field blend.

Zinfandel grows alongside Carignane, Petite Sirah, Alicante Bouschet, and smaller amounts of other varieties scattered through the vineyard.

The proportions change.

The wine remains Geyserville.

Ridge first made it in 1966 and has returned to the vineyard every year since.

The perfume first.

Black and red fruit. Bramble. Something earthy underneath.

At 14.7% alcohol, this isn't a small wine. There is fruit, weight, and intensity without any one of them taking over.

With some years in bottle, try this from a wider glass. A Burgundy bowl works beautifully.

Recent Geyserville vintages generally sit around $40–60, and older bottles appear with some regularity.

If you've only known Zinfandel as big, ripe, and alcoholic, start here.

Open one.

Put the other away.

Check Wine-Searcher for current availability pricing.

I found myself drinking more Pinot Noir.

Eventually, Champagne.

Different grapes. Different places.

I kept looking for the same thing.

At some point, tasting rooms stopped being about what I could taste.

I had enough wine.

More than enough, really.

The better my access became, the less access mattered.

But I kept going back.

Over the years, the passenger seat filled with friends, coworkers, my parents, my brother and sister, nieces and nephews.

Eventually, my wife.

A magnum of 2013 Geyserville sat on our wedding table.

Later, our children.

I've been thinking about what happens when a wine tradition takes root somewhere new.

What gets carried with it, and what changes along the way.

My wife and children have roots in California.

Mine had to be planted.

I still prefer Westside Road in winter.

I still want the stick shift.

I know where the road goes.

Past the vineyards.

Along the river.

Through the redwoods.

Eventually, the coast.

Maybe all I had to do was stay on these roads.

Until the next bottle,
Manj

P.S. Is there a road, neighborhood, or place that tells you you're home? Hit reply and tell me about it. I read every email.

Short Champagne notes on Instagram: @le_dosage