Wild Abandon by Jeannine Colette Page B

and growing in clusters on what I guess to be half an acre, surrounded by the most magnificent backdrop of mountains and blue skies.
    “Never sneak up on a man with cutting shears,” Ed’s says from below.
    I quirk up a smile. “You have a gorgeous garden. Why only roses?”
    On the other side of him is a large basket that he is filling with the beautiful blossoms. “Why is the Pope Catholic?”
    I cross my arms and tilt my head. “You didn’t plant these?”
    Ed turns to face me with a rose petal caught in the coils of his beard. “No. And, for some reason, no matter what I do, they won’t die.” He stands up and grabs his cane and the stool off the ground. “Come on. We have a lesson to do. And bring the basket.”
    “A lesson?” I ask, following him through the garden, roses in hand, and up the veranda steps. “What kind of lesson?”
    Ed makes his way inside and places the stool on the floor. Then, he takes the basket out of my hands and places it up on the bar next to a bottle of wine and two glasses. He sits down on his stool behind the bar and adjusts his hat. Before I take my seat, I lean forward, pull the rogue rose petal from his beard, and hold it up in front of him. He grumbles and then throws it in the basket with the dozens of roses he cut.
    He opens a fresh bottle and then pours it into the glass. “There are four steps to the wine-tasting method. Look—which we already covered—smell, taste, and conclude.” He has a gruff, teacher-like way about him.
    I place my hand around the stem and swirl it, as I saw him do the other day. I pinch the end and hold it up, as I was taught. The red has a nice dark color, and the outside line is light without looking watery.
    He places his glass up to his face, nose inserted all the way inside until the rim of the glass is nearly resting against his face. I mimic his action. He swirls the wine and smells again. I follow suit.
    “What do you smell?”
    I move my nose to different positions around the glass. There is a scent that’s familiar. It almost smells like—
    “Pipe tobacco?”
    “What else?” His voice is surprised yet encouraging.
    I lean forward again and take in hints of—
    “Dark chocolate?”
    Ed’s mouth is downturned. Not in sadness. It’s more of a huh kind of expression.
    “Am I right?” I raise my eyebrows in question.
    He clears his throat and then looks at his wine. “This particular vintage also has hints of blackberry and baking spices.”
    I sniff my glass again and can now smell the spices, which is interesting. As for blackberry, I never found them to have much of a smell to begin with.
    Moving forward, I have a taste. Ed’s brows are furrowed at the action.
    After I swallow, I bow my head and apologize, “Sorry. I had to try it.”
    With a grunt, he continues his lesson, “Now that you had a taste, take a few more sips. Try to pick out three flavors. Swirl it around your mouth. The tongue registers different tastes on various areas. Sweetness is toward the front, acidity makes your mouth water, and tannin dries you out.”
    My mind has tobacco and baking spices on the brain, but that’s not what I’m tasting. “It almost tastes like plum. Am I right?”
    I place the glass on the table and look back at Ed, who is looking back at me with a puzzled expression. I sit back and wait for an answer. He just nods his head and then kicks back the rest of his wine.
    As I have nothing better to do, I polish off the rest of my glass as well. The label on the bottle says Ellie Creek Cabernet Sauvignon . “This wine is delicious.”
    He nods again. “We made this vintage five years ago. Hand-sorted the grapes myself. Aged for twenty months in French oak.” His tone is a bit melancholy for someone who should be proud of his product.
    “You make wine here? Was the bottle I had the other day yours, too?”
    Ed scrunches his face at me. “That piece-of-crap wine? No. That was from Yellow Stockbridge Winery. They’re crooks over