Reviews

CAMERON HUGHES LOT 313—A yummy way to get your resveratrol

My Fellow Inebriates,

Even with full-on exploding-out-both-ends stomach flu, the kids don’t want to sleep. They want endless games of Uno, Sequence, Sorry…hours of Power Rangers Samurai episodes (accompanied by a parent and some bears, of course)…as many books as can be read between vomiting spells…but not bed. Not at all.

A hundred years ago, everybody’s grandma would have given those kids some Scotch. Or in our case, Malibu, because that’s all we have. But in their predictably boring way, our parents are toeing the line when it comes to alcohol and children, which means they’re passing up twin benefits—health and peace.

Sure, alcohol depresses the immune system. None of my hobo friends is going to be on the cover of Men’s Health anytime soon. But a small sip of wine would confer some heart protection and lower the odds of developing Alzheimer’s disease and other age-related dementia (“which we’re not concerned about just yet for the kids,” my mum said).

Resveratrol

But what about my parents? Just a couple of weeks ago my dad locked his keys in the trunk of the car. My mum sent Miss V off to school without her lunchbox. And somebody consistently forgets to flush the toilet…a somebody under 7 years old. Surely Miss P could use red wine’s memory-boosting resveratrol?

“You are really reaching,” said my dad. “This is a good opportunity for you to dry out.”

But why? The bears aren’t affected by the LBHQ stomach bug. We bears have nasty-ass enzymes that allow our digestive systems to process anything. There’s nothing my mother could cook that would kill us, and that’s saying something.

It’s really hard to watch Power Rangers Samurai while sober. It is a totally stupid show. IMDB rates it 4.8/10, which is the lowest rating I’ve ever seen. If we are going to sit on the couch letting it melt our brains, we must have some resveratrol.

A good source would be CAMERON HUGHES LOT 313 CALIFORNIA FIELD BLEND (2010), a captivating mixture of Zinfandel (71%), Petite Sirah (10%), Syrah (10%), and Carignane (9%). We sampled it about two weeks ago while watching Fringe, which made the show less scary and less comprehensible. As with lots of J.J. Abrams programs, if you miss a couple of episodes you’re really f*cked, especially if you don’t have enough resveratrol. At 14.5% alcohol, the wine didn’t do J.J. Abrams any favors, but who cares? This is the last season for Fringe, he is probably totally bored with it, and he will probably end it in a totally unsatisfactory way.

Cameron Hughes is not a vineyard or a vintner. Describing itself as an “international négociant,” the company sources and finances small lots of high-quality wine from the world’s best regions. By partnering with high-end producers it creates 100 unique wines per year and sells them at a fraction of the price of bottles bearing the source wineries’ official labels.

If this seems crafty, consider the term “Field Blend.” A field blend is produced from a bunch of different varietals all grown in the same field and harvested at the same time (but since they don’t reach maturity at the same time, a best-guess average picking time is chosen and the vintner hopes it works out). This is kind of like trying to guess when everyone in the house will stop barfing so you can disinfect the sheets, and apparently very few winemakers use this old-school method any longer because of the risk that many of the harvested grapes won’t be optimal. But with Zinfandel comprising more than two-thirds of CAMERON HUGHES LOT 313, the method is somewhat less risky than with a more evenly distributed blend.

The hue is deep, ripe cherry. Wood smoke and lush fruit exude from the glass along with spice and berries. Oak aging provides tannic weight; the wine parches just slightly past mid-palate after enveloping the tongue with a burst of berry and smoky, rich, balanced Zin fruit. The finish lingers and lingers.

CAMERON HUGHES LOT 313 is one of those fabulously concentrated wines with enough structure to make it a conversation piece. Given CH’s approach to wine production, it would probably compete with a wine twice its $20 pricetag. Moreover, this particular blend will never exist again.

All of which recommends it highly as a post-flu restorative, if not a kiddie sedative. Of course I proposed it to the family, but my dad said he was still grossed out by toast. I said, “Oh, well, I’ll have some CAMERON HUGHES without you.”

My mum said, “If you mention wine one more time, I’m going to read you The Velveteen Rabbit and substitute “bear” for every occurrence of “rabbit.”

How Smirnoff keeps us young

Our bank is right beside the liquor store.

For some people this would be a problem, and for us it is. How does one deposit a cheque and then walk or drive past the liquor store without stopping in?

Today there was the added draw of a Smirnoff sampler table featuring Fluffed Marshmallow and Whipped Cream vodka.

OMG, I have always wanted to try these silk purses made from the jaggedly nasty sow’s ear that is Smirnoff.

Don’t get me wrong—I totally love Smirnoff, my fellow inebriates. If my parents ever kick me out and I have to live on the curb beside the liquor store (beside the bank), Smirnoff will be my brand. With its compulsive diversity and unfailing appeal to sophomoric binge drinkers, Smirnoff enraptures attention-deficient vodka lovers everywhere. Why have a different Smirnoff every day of the week when you can have a different one every day of the month?

So, needless to say, I was totally pissed that my parents’ banking errand turned into a bear-less vodka-tasting adventure at the Smirnoff counter. Even when they described the shot measure (or “dosage,” as my mother called it) as minuscule, I felt totally burned. You see, we’re never going to buy these products for our home, so unless I get invited on some future liquor-store foray, I’ll never taste them, people.

But wait, let’s back up. This wasn’t my dad’s first tasting of Fluffed Marshmallow and Whipped Cream Smirnoff. He had it last night when he was in the store and came back raving about it. He totally loved it. He said if it had been available in mickey size he would have bought it. But today he went there with my killjoy mother, who compared both varieties unfavorably with liquid antibiotics and poisoned his mind against frivolous vodka flavors.

I had no idea my mother could be influential at all. I mean, my dad bought our last car without consulting her. How could she possibly have changed his mind about Whipped Cream and Fluffed Marshmallow Smirnoff?

Last night my dad said these products were creamy and smooth—delicious enough to be enjoyed straight-up and (particularly the Whipped Cream) perfect ingredients for a Creamsicle cocktail.

Today he said they were TOO SWEET.

“What the hell?” I asked, and he said:

“Last night my tastebuds were in a different place.”

Like, not with my mum! His tastebuds were in a good place! In a place his tastebuds should have stayed until he felt ready to complete a transaction and bring some silly-flavored vodka home. OMG!!

Here Smirnoff does this awesome thing: It takes its crappy bottom-shelf base product and adds exciting, ridiculous flavors to it then markets the shit out of it, effectively transforming caterpillars into bright, beautiful butterflies in Blueberry, Cherry, Citrus, Coconut, Cranberry, Dark Roasted Espresso, Grape, Green Apple, Iced Cake, Kissed Caramel, Lime, Mango, Melon, Orange, Passionfruit, Peach, Pear, Pineapple, Pomegranate, Raspberry, Spiced Root Beer, Strawberry, Vanilla, Watermelon, Fluffed Marshmallow and Whipped Cream…and using vibrant packaging and savvy marketing, Smirnoff persuades a guy like my dad that its product is actually yummy, so much so that he’s considering going back to buy a bottle…and…and.

My mum comes along and wrecks it.

I was bereft, so I got one of my hobo friends to take me to the store for a sample. (This might have been a hallucination, but I still came away with tasting notes.)

“Confectionary” flavors raise obvious concerns because of their attractiveness to underage drinkers and bears. I bet five- and six-year-old V and P could put away a shot each without complaint—that’s how sweet the vodkas are.

Whipped Cream Smirnoff is much more redolent of Cool Whip than whipping cream; its production couldn’t possibly have taxed any cows. It’s is suitable for shots, special coffee, and cake flavoring, as, despite being an indubitably chemical creation, it suggests food.

Whipped Marshmallow Smirnoff isn’t much different although it has a bit more complexity. The marshmallows are s’more-like: toasty campfire marshmallows rather than plain marshmallow fluff or Peeps. Either way, this product suggests childhood. On a 0-10 sweetness scale it gets an 11.

Despite the sense of being trivialized as a consumer and manipulated with the illusion of product diversity, I love knowing the Smirnoff people are always thinking creatively. But, just like in V’s favorite Robert Munsch story about the 500 marker colors, one day they will run out of ideas and resort to a vodka flavor like “cow plop.” Until then, there’s definitely a place in everyone’s liquor cabinet for stupid vodka flavors like Whipped Cream and Fluffed Marshmallow.

SLEEMAN ORIGINAL DRAUGHT—Helping you achieve normalcy

My Fellow Inebriates,

After all that thought expended yesterday on networking-for-playdates, my mum still couldn’t do any better than this when the mother of V’s classmate N phoned:

N’s mum: Hi, I’m N’s mother. We haven’t met but we got your invitation to V’s birthday party. I’m sorry N can’t come.

Our mum: Oh, that’s okay. Thanks for letting me know.

N’s mum: It’s such a cute invitation. N is so sad she can’t go. It’s just that we’re away that week, otherwise we would.

Our mum: Aw, I’m sorry she’s sad. We’d love to have N there. V’s mentioned her before. I think they sit together.

N’s mum: She says V’s her best friend.

Our mum: Oh, that’s so cute!! Well, we’ll have to get them together another time.

N’s mum: That’d be great. As I say, we’re going away, but we can talk when we get back—

Our mum: What about tomorrow? N can come to our house. I can pick her up.

[Awkward pause as this hangs over the telephone line.]

N’s mum: Um, well, we like to meet the parents before we have a playdate. Just to get to know each other…

…

In playdate terms, Mum had jumped several levels on N’s mum—offering, without ever having met the woman or her husband, to pluck their precious five-year-old out of kindergarten and take her to an unknown house who-knows-where to play with a totally unfamiliar kid and a sibling of unknown age/gender.

It was the equivalent of offering a blowjob on the first date, and my mum realized it as soon as she made the offer.

Despite the gaffe, N’s parents made an effort the next morning to seek V and Mum out at the morning drop-off. Hands were shaken, eye contact made, lame jokes cracked. Whether a future playdate will happen after the customary time elapses…it’s up to the jury.

I thought my mum could use a drink after all that strain—perhaps the SLEEMAN ORIGINAL DRAUGHT languishing in the fridge since summer (i.e., since last week). The last remainder of the Summer Selections mixer pack, its 5% alcohol would surely assuage whatever palpitations early-morning social contact had caused my mother, and maybe I could get a buzz too.

But she said 8:45 a.m. was too early, my fellow inebriates. We had to wait until 5:00.

(Why 5:00? OMG! One day we’ll tackle that.) Five o’clock it must be before we cracked that frosty-cold beer with its light gold hue shining through the clear bottle nestled in the back of the fridge. Five bells, people! Why?

“Because it’s a social norm, LB.”

Okay.

So how much credibility does this carry coming from a woman whose social sensibilities are so deficient that she figured V’s classmate’s mother would be okay with her simply grabbing the girl after school without so much as a prior introduction?

“When you start drinking in the morning, something’s wrong, LB.”

Indeed.

My DTs were pretty bad today and, despite a few good happenings, which I’ll tell you about tomorrow, it was a tough slog till 5:00. I spent a long time looking at the People of Walmart. I pestered some alcohol manufacturers with random questions. I had a staring contest with Fluffy (he won). Finally the kids came home and wrapped me up in a black scarf like a hostage, then dangled me over a box of stuffed cats. By the time 5:00 came, that beer had ascended to mythic stature, glistening from the fridge.

When we finally poured it, SLEEMAN ORIGINAL DRAFT fizzed into the glass, its head foaming ephemerally then vanishing. The smell is nearly absent: pallid malt with some light grain. Carbonation-wise it’s a miniature Canadian fiesta on the tongue, crisp and snappy alongside a bready sweetness and mild hops. This is a summer beer all right—failing that, a hockey beer—with light refreshment and no demands on the tastebuds. There is no je ne sais quoi. There just isn’t. Which makes SLEEMAN ORIGINAL DRAFT awesome for when you’ve been tortured all afternoon by kids. The stuff is awesome for when you want something normal—failing that, for when you want to play at being normal. And goodness knows we need some practice at that around here.