It's no secret I enjoy a glass of wine with dinner. Oftentimes, two. Mostly weekends, when I spend an hour or more fixing a nice dinner. Pairing wine to the meal is beyond me, though, so I drink only reds, which contain healthy flavanoids. Wine enhances the meal, is good for the heart, and draws out the dining experience (like a cigarette used to) so I can linger at the table.
     I used to worry that more than an occasional glass of wine was too much until a neurologist told me he recommends two glasses of red wine a night because of the health benefits. That would be too often for me, I told him, but I wondered what constituted a glass in his book. Four ounces, he said. I'd heard four and a half or five, but he sounded pretty certain. This doctor's recommendation is indicative of wine's new-found status in our culture.
     When I was growing up, people who drank wine were called winos. My parents never touched it. They had cocktails. When some of the neighborhood bad boys offered me a swig from the bottle of Ripple in the crumpled brown paper bag they passed around at the park on a Saturday night, I declined. I was no wino.
     Wine is respectable now and out in the open. Local wineries offer weekend wine tastings. My husband and I spent a recent November Saturday with friends, visiting a vineyard outside Stillwater. We sipped reds and whites from tiny plastic thimbles, even though the temperature in the unheated wood building was more conducive to a mug of hot chocolate or a steamy latté. I made a snap decision to purchase a bottle labeled Frontenac—the name of the town where I attended high school—and suggested we head for a coffee shop.
     I know nothing about bouquet or body. Wine lists puzzle me. When we go out to dinner, I usually steer towards the middle of the price range, figuring an eight dollar glass has to be better than one priced at six. Right?
     My brother, who has traveled extensively, is a wine aficionado. At a family dinner in a restaurant last year, he and my cousin were in a world of their own as they perused the wine offerings. After much discussion in the vernacular of the grape (oaky, fruity, tannin), they selected a bottle for the table. I abstained and ordered my old standby, a never-fails-me glass of Merlot. As I dropped an ice cube in the room temperature liquid, my sister-in-law jokingly held her menu in front of my brother's face, pretending to shield him from my faux pas. My husband ordered a Miller Lite. He'd ordered roasted chicken and that goes nicely with a brewski, doesn't it?
     My brother could educate me in the science of wine, but it would be hopeless. I flipped through an issue of Wine Spectator magazine once, but it confused me. Wine-speak is a language I just don't understand. (Besides, if I really got into this, I know it would lead to the latest in home improvement projects, a costly wine cellar.) I've reduced it to this: if it goes down nicely and is reasonably priced, it's good enough for me.
     To tell you the truth: if they hadn't banned TaB because it was artificially sweetened with cyclamates, it would still be my drink of choice. How I loved the metallic taste of that diet cola in the hot pink can. But that's another column.
     Cheers!