Barnyard

I went to a dinner party with my husband last weekend at a friend's house. Everyone brought several bottles of wine with them, more than enough for twice as many people, but really, you never can be too careful. For God's sake, what if we ran out?? So as we plowed our way through them during the course of the evening, I enjoyed the mutiple tastes and finishes as each bottle was different, though all red.

I am no wine snob, mind you. I don't ever try to be something I am not, and I am decidedly uncouth. I am a Bud girl, and proud of it. Therefore, although I regularly drink and enjoy wine, I am not particularly knowledgeable on the subject. That being said, I know what I like. My one requirement out of my wine is that it be GOOD. I realize taste in wine is wholly subjective. I also realize that what I like someone else with more knowledge and experience may think tastes like dishwater (this most often applies to my taste in beer; see above).

At some point later in the evening after many bottles of red wine had been consumed and enjoyed, I poured myself a glass of a notably French wine. I did, in fact, read the label but do not remember the name of the wine. I do remember as I lifted the glass to my nose and took a deep whiff (which is always the most satisfying part of wine drinking to me - save for the taste and intoxication part), there was a deep and unwavering stench of...poo. Really, poop. Manure to be exact. I quickly glanced across the table at those who had already poured a glass of this wine for themselves and were proceeding to sip away. I waited for mouthfuls to be spat across the table, wine glasses flung into the wall, exclamations of expletives to dispell henceforth. But, instead, nothing. I took another sip. This time without smelling it first, and again, the unforgiving odor and taste of poop. I sat for a moment and made the decision to take a stand and pour the putrid stuff down the sink, damn it. I stood up as nonchalantly as possible, turned around and quickly and quietly dumped the malodorous waste into the sink drain. I actually felt bad for the sink.

I rinsed my glass out and returned to my seat. As I poured another glass of wine from a different bottle, it took me a few moments to collect my thoughts. I was still watching the others, my friends as they sat and drank something that so obviously tasted of poo. Were my taste buds so damaged from smoking two cigarettes throughout the course of the evening that it was causing a side-effect of poo-mouth? Did my breath stink from a dinner of butternut squash soup and garlicky sopranos spaghetti (both delicious)? If that were the case wouldn't the others have suffered the same ill-effects? Why just me?

As I dipped into my fresh new glass of beautiful red wine, I suddenly didn't care. I simply made a mental note to steer clear of that particular bottle. And so, having survived an isolated incident with the poop wine, I filed it away as a fluke, an anomoly, something that I would never have to suffer again. I felt a sense of grand relief in that from this point forward, no matter how putrid, how terrible, how vinegary a wine tasted, it mattered none. I had been to the depths of wine-hell, and nothing would ever taste as bad, in comparison. Or so I thought.

A few nights later, I decided to accompany a friend to a wine tasting. I had been to one with her previously and enjoyed learning about the different wines, and really, just getting a nice buzz for a nice price, thank you. The collection of people was small, and it was nice to have such an intimate group gathered around the table. The sommelier first served up a deliciously light and fizzy champagne, of which I can't remember the name. (My memory is for shit. I try to commit information to memory and I inevitably forget. My husband remembers more about my childhood than I do, and he wasn't even there.)

Next, we tried a rose, and upon the first sip, I blurted out, "I taste grapefruit!!!!!" It was almost like a first orgasm, a joyful, knee-jerk reaction. I really, truly did taste grapefruit. I fully realize I came off as a complete redneck, but I could not stop myself. I was assured by those around me saying, "Yes, yes, I taste it, too! You are right," much like someone would acknowledge a child who has gone pee-pee in the potty. Coming off of the deliciously grapfruity wine, I anxiously awaited the next pour. As I eagerly raised the glass to my lips, however, the corners of my mouth quickly fell and my nose impulsively crinkled. "Ugh! Poo! I smell it!! This is the poop wine!! I've had this poo-wine! It's terrible! It tastes like poop!!!!"

I had gleefully announced early in the evening that I would not be needing the dump bucket. My friend and I assured everyone around us that if they did not care for a particular wine, dump it in our glasses! We would be the dump bucket! After all, why waste a perfectly good glass of wine? What were they afraid of? Getting drunk? Wasn't that the point?

My announcement, I now knew, had been made prematurely. "Where's the damn dump bucket?" I snarled. After dumping the contents of my glass, I grabbed the bottle of poop-wine and took it over to the table where my friends sat. Their mouths were agape. They had heard my tirade from across the room.

"Here. Smell this. It's the poop wine I told you about. Try it," I snapped. My friends stared at me with wide eyes blinking, clearly thinking why in the world they should try a wine that tastes like poop. I think they were willing to take my word for it, but I was determined to see if they would smell and taste it the same as I had, when my friends at the dinner party had seemed so oblivious, like those who were in approval of the emporer's new clothes.

"Give me that bottle," one of my brave friends huffed as she yanked the bottle out of my hand. She poured a splash for herself and smelled it. "It smells like poop!" she proclaimed to me, eyebrows raised, lips curled in disgust. She took a sip. "It tastes like poop, too!!" The others at the table too took tiny whiffs and tastes. "Oh, that IS terrible." Everyone agreed. I felt fully vindicated.

One of the sommeliers who is also a friend approached the table. "Actually, it's called a 'barnyard' wine. Grapes absorb the essence in the soil, and these are grown in the soil near a farm. What you are tasting is actually manure. I like it. I find it very earthy."

Earthy? Are you fucking kidding me? There is a distinct difference between earth and fucking manure. I know this for a fact because I have eaten dirt, and though as a child I distinctly remember hoping that it would taste like it looked, like rich dark chocolate, and it did not, it did taste clean, and sweet, and earthy, but it most definitely did not taste like shit!

My friend, the sommelier, continued sipping the poo-swill as we all watched, aghast.

"Some people like it. I guess it's an acquired taste. I like it." I was not convinced. I will consume most anything. I love to eat, drink, and cook. I will eat almost anything that is prepared and put in front of me, as I know and appreciate the hard work that goes into the preparation, even if it's just a can of beans, I appreciate not having to open the damn can myself. I'm actually the only person in existence who enjoys airplane and hospital food. I will not, however, eat fois gras. I find it disgusting. I don't get the allure. That was the only thing on my list of dislikes. Until now. I am adding poop wine to my list.

Call me uncouth. Call me sheltered. Call me unwordly. Call me low-class. But do not call me the next time you are going to some fancy-pants wine-tasting where they serve wine that tastes like shit on purpose. I was not raised in a barn, nor would I like to taste one, thank you very much.