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Wine
Hearth in a Bottle Big reds in winter. Let it snow.

Hearth in a Bottle
Big reds in winter. Let it snow.
BY LANCE SPARKS

I confess, I want my winter white, not in the Trent Lott/Republikkkan sense, but I need at least one monster blizzard, desire fed by three parts nostalgia, one part memory:

I was 12 and our ragged family — mother, step-father, three sisters (all younger), me — had just moved from Brooklyn, across the George Washington Bridge, to the burgeoning hamlet of Ho-Ho-Kus, New Jersey, bedroom 'burb to the City. We settled into a spanking-new, three-bedroom split-level, surrounded by cookie-cutter duplicates set in a sea of bare-earth "lawns," freshly rolled and seeded, not a blade of grass showing, all bordered by new sidewalks and streets. Here and there remained remnants of the pine forest that had been bulldozed only months before; some were old giants, thick-based, stately sentinels standing in soft topsoil, mostly mud (in a few months, almost all would topple in hurricane winds, crushing split-levels right and left). After life in the City, this felt barren, listless. Having my own room with shiny pine floors was no substitute for city streets teeming with chattering kids and clattering traffic, air redolent of spicy foods and tangy diesel fumes.

One January morning, a schoolday, I snapped awake to deafening silence: quiet, way too quiet, even for Dullsville. Threw off the covers, leapt to the window — snow, BIG snow, HUGE snow, streets gone, walks gone, houses like packing-crate igloos. Dashed downstairs, yanked open front door, wall of snow, maybe two feet of gray light at the top. Tore through house, gleeful maniac hawking headlines: no school, no books, no nasty looks!

Uh-uh, no way, not my mom. While step-dad punched a path from door to street, Mom, tight-lipped and stern, packed me in about 18 layers of socks, pants, sweaters, boots, coats, scarves, hat, gloves; only my eyes were exposed through a narrow slit of wool. I felt like Tin Man. She hung my bookbag over my bent back, launched me into the Arctic Tundra, surely to die, ripped by wolves or buried under an avalanche.

Snow up to mid-thighs, I trudged heroically, one stomping step at a time, across silent emptiness, had forged maybe a hundred yards, with 'bout a hundred miles yet to go, eyes watering, cheeks cracking, nearing exhaustion, heard: "Little boy! Little boy!" What little boy? Only me out here, and the looming specter of White Death. "Little boy, don't you know there's no school today?"

Saved! Turned, ran, flew, Silver Surfer, boots never broke the crust, covered distance home in world record time, threw bookbag behind sofa, yelled, "Noschooltoday! Imoutside'bye!" Day filled with epic snowball battles, Olympic-level sledding, steaming bowl of tomato soup with saltines and hot chocolate gooey with marshmallows. Frostbite bliss.

Winter? Bringiton. But now with steaming stews, hot root vegetables, cassoulets, thick soups and BIG, hearth-glowing, heart-warming red wines:

World wine prices are tumbling, making many fine bottlings again accessible to folks with moderate incomes. Glaring case in point: Frederic Magnin Morey St.-Denis 2000 Les Blanchard, a first-growth red Burgundy (pinot noir) with great character, a big wine, rich, complex in aromas and flavors, was priced over 50 bux, now $25.95, still spendy for most folks but great value for special occasions, probably wonderful with a couple years' bottle age (stash a bottle).

Some wines, pop the top, quaff 'em, they're yummy, case closed. Some have issues of time, like Duas Quintas 1999 Douro ($9.50), a Portuguese red that packs surprises. First tasted, it seemed OK, kinda simple, no stars, put the cork back in; came back next day: Boom! — flavors like blackberry/cherry jam, hints of chocolate, smoky, delish. Decant this baby, let it sit some hours, be happy.

Winemakers have stampeded to make syrah, the great red grape of France's Rhone Valley; some have scored bigtime. Snoqualmie 2000 Syrah ($9) from the Columbia Valley is a bargain for a wine of inky darkness, deep fruit flavors, zippy spice. Serve with a peppery stew, enjoy.

Soft, but firm and fully packed with flavor on a hefty frame (14.8 percent alcohol), a wine to cuddle with while toasting your tootsies: Duck Pond 1999 Merlot, Fries' Desert Wind Vineyard ($8.50).

Ah, the Piedmont, northern Italy's foothills of eternal fogs, home of Cascina Castle't 1998 Barbera d'Asti Superiore ($15), so pretty, a hearth in a bottle.

Flora Springs 1999 Estate Merlot ($22) is profound, hits the palate with a pretty entry of fresh fruit, keeps developing until it fills all the nooks and crannies with lush fruit flavors that linger like a catchy melody.

Find a bottle of Bergstrom 2001 Pinot Noir, Willamette Valley, find a very dear friend, huddle in front of glowing wood stove, cup big-bowl glasses in your palms, swirl, sniff, sip, don't hurry. The price ($18) might seem steep, but this is value, a slice of warm cherry pie with a toasty oak crust for a frosty eve.

More of these next month (winter has just begun), but we hope, for now, that these will toast your chestnuts while winds howl and snow drifts up your door.