Eugene Weekly : Wine : 07.06.06

Happy Hampers

Light libations for picnic pleasures

BY LANCE SPARKS

Late in spring term, one of my best and brightest students sidled up, asking how I was doing, the usual pleasantries. I asked about her summer plans. Her body stiffened and her eyes narrowed, intense. Her voice dropped to near-whisper: "I'm getting out of the United States, and you should, too. That fence they're building across the Mexican border, all that military? That's not to keep people out. It's to keep us in." She launched into a litany of neo-con political actions that, to her mind, evoked Germany in the early days of fascism. I couldn't counter her facts — they warrant concern, no doubt — but I couldn't accept her solution.

America's been here before, actually many times in its brief history, starting in its infancy as a nation. David McCullough's fine biography of John Adams documents clearly how close Alexander Hamilton may have come to establishing a military dictatorship with himself at its head, perhaps as future king. I also just finished reading Sarah Bird's novel, The Yokota Officers Club, and I recall my own military-brat childhood, especially the period in the '50s, the McCarthy era, when paranoia gripped the country and a right-wing coup seemed imminent. And anybody who paints the history of the Sixties in America as a time of love fests and Flower Power didn't live through the same time I did; most of us who were politically active then lived in daily fear, witnesses to assassinations of our leaders, massive police intrusions in our lives, the ominous shadow of nuclear war. In retrospect, the worst of the Bush/Cheney era is just more of the same, leaving people who love America and the dream of its democracy with the constant task of preserving its promises. But that's not to deny the darkness,

When my thoughts turn somber, I take a drive. One of the compelling charms of Eugene is that ten minutes in any direction will bring us into close contact with some of the most beautiful land and waters on Earth. I rolled east, through Springfield, up the McKenzie River, through Walterville and Vida. In summer's early morning sunrise, light danced on the water and painted rainbows in the mist. The air was scented with resins and a tang of river rocks, ferns and mushrooms. I hung my arm out the window and let the scene wash my eyes and clear my head.

Mole had called. He had a problem: Molly wanted to picnic and he wanted confirmation on wines. Should mention that a Molly picnic doesn't involve dogs and burgers or chips and dips with pops and punch; in fact, a Molly outing is a Production.

I wheeled into the gravel driveway, crunched to a stop amid a dazzling profusion of roses, dahlias, crocosmia, pansies and petunias. When I stepped out of the rig, the dense vanilla scent of heliotrope was thick enough to spoon. I staggered to the door, swept open by the rose-cheeked Molly, beaming: "Oh, Sleuth, you're just in time. Would you please help Anthony? He's in such a dither about the wines." Anthony? Ah, Mole's home-name. I forget.

I passed through Molly's kitchen, noting slabs of smoked salmon, roast beef, sliced turkey, a half-dozen exotic cheeses, baguettes, three containers of salads, enough food for a hungry platoon of Marines. "Molly," I asked, "how many on the picnic?" "Oh, just our few friends, and you of course," she beamed. I rubbed my forehead, ambled on, found Mole with about fourteen wines lined up on a counter above the cooler. He was frantically facing labels, touching caps, rubbing his hands.

"Sleut', ya made it! Ya gots to help me decide. Molly'll skin me if da wines is wrong."

"No worries, pal," I responded. "We've been here. Let's check the lab report, see which ones made the cut." We went to work.

Bubbles: You might not think it, but a great picnic, like a great dinner, opens with a lovely glow when good bubbles launch the feasting. And we had found a beauty: Louis Bouillot Rosé Brut is marked as a Crémant de Bourgogne. "Crémant" means that the wine is under slightly less pressure than usual, hence has a "creamy" mouthfeel; the "Bourgogne" on the label indicates its origin in France's Burgundy region, which signifies that the grapes are predominantly pinot noir, which means depth of flavor and satisfyingly complex finish. The punch-out is the sticker: $15. Da-yum!

Rosé: One word: gottahavit. Viento 2005 Sangiovese Rosé ($14) from Hood River is about as pretty a rosie as anyone could want. The Sangiovese grape is the main juice in Chianti, so it has the charm of spicy cherry flavors and enough acidity, especially in a dry vinification like this, to stand up to creamy/oily foods. And it's a screwcap.

Shocker: Chehalem INOX 2005 Chardonnay ($20) might be a bit pricey, but it's among the best chardonnays I've tasted, certainly among Oregon origins. It's not saturated in oak so true chard flavors burst through, a complex medley of apples, tropical fruit, touch of citrus and crisp acidity. Also screwcap: brilliant.

Topper: Red on a picnic? Yup, this one: Mystic Wines 2003 Barbera ($27), another Italian grape given Oregon (Salem, grapes from the Columbia Valley) terroir, so it's round and opulent, again with food-friendly acidity, superb.

Pack your hampers, friends, and soothe your minds in Oregon summer sweetness. Mole capped it: "Good grub and good pals, wit' swell wines and a river. Ain't life sweet?"