By Dave McIntyre, Washington Post

The white in my glass is the color of straw: raw material ready to be transformed. As I swirl the glass, light flashes through the wine, and I sense a fleeting image of a happy young girl as her blond hair catches the sun. She smells of flowers and grass, and of potential.

The red in my other glass is translucent, a vibrant cherry color that seems to filter light and reality. Yes, it’s pinot noir.

Dave McIntyre is the wine columnist for The Washington Post. He also blogs at dmwineline.com. View Archive
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Part of wine’s charm is that it conjures fancy. Wine is difficult to describe, once you’ve gone beyond the concept of mere fermented grape juice. That’s why you’ll read over-the-top descriptions of “gobs of fruit” and “lashings of oak.” (Wine should be aged in barrels, not flogged by them, though I once met a winemaker in Tuscany who said he used small barrels to “spank” wines that weren’t behaving.)

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