Putumayo: Chenin Branco

Round and ripe as one of her father's peaches and dripping juice and dew on the fertile soil. Pointed on one side, but not as in a cone. Creatively flavored with passionberry seed, the coarseness of the sugar is excused by the long time coming on the outside. Drops of honey lime splash the most superficial ocean layers. Complete without having a point, fun without making something good, eating without getting paid, but not stealing, you wouldn't say stealing exactly, not with the twin pillars of green basil and folderol keeping the acidic roof up with surreal zaftig grace.
Exceptionally full bodied, even rubenesque with gutter trash and cheap painted women. An overwhelming front of tangled thornbushes advances, spinning and ripping from out of the dark places in the gun shot. Can not be as god has made it, not if it hopes to remain. There's not much chance of a fair fight at this point, nothing to hang on our side of the balance. Historic but not epic. Finished but not beautiful. Varnished in thick clear sap. Spread out over your denim, what's left of your denim.
Some of the happiest parts of the trip overseas had unpronounceable names, probably lies anyway, hadn't showered, hadn't done anything to deserve it, lived in dark and dingy pensions, spun warm fresh bullshit and had no ethics about what kind of nonsense to claim about their homes.
Let's be straight, the wine is overweight. The few bright notes of citrus vent and radicchio nearly get it off the ground, but the heart is too slow to stand up, bored and lazy, spoiled. Thinks its above it all, or maybe just nervous. There are shortcuts here, grapes that should never have been picked or were picked too soon, vintners without purity of heart. A diet of fast food, arguments with the television, even the most nugatory pettiness in the vintner's spirit will uselessify the casks.
Crocodiles dance with hippos. Yang dances with HEMI yang. Rice & lentils dances with rice & beans. Blueberry dances by itself in the heavy corner of the darkening thickets of the king's woods. Dirty campfire faces and songs. Stolen sleeping bags, passports, maps, innocence, telephones, identity, vital organs, credit cards, ideas, cameras, scruffiness, ipods, flava, laptops, bohemianity. The best thing about tripping abroad was finding out that even though we're all different? We're all the same. Notes of that.
The complaints are well founded and are probably pretty smart to boot, but not the kind of business we do here. A spring dusk that is november in every way but actually. It is impossible to taste these oak trees and not think they've only just lost their leaves this week. There's no hint that a long dark winter sat on top of them first, but there's a hint of a hint in the nosing. You may even detect acorns under foot but this is a false sense, as opposed to the songs of chicken pot and pumpkin pies, which are real. Winds of canned cranberry sauce gelatinize lovingly across the palate but die out into stagnant bitter almond. Starts out running but it hits a wall and doesn't have the strength to get up and take another shot.

Varietal: Chenin Blanc
Food Pairing: Fusion fusion fusion!