Sonoma Wine Country - Chapter 2

"Turn right in 200 feet," said GARMIN in her cold, unforgiving airport terminal voice. I think she and the New York subway voice would get along just swell.

"We're almost there!" I yelled.

GARMIN was frustrating me with her last-second turning directions. I was uncomfortable with this new addition to the family. I doubted GARMIN's capabilities so I was in the backseat tracking our path with Google maps on my iPhone. I think she could sense it because she seemed to get considerably more and more pissed off as our journey progressed.

On my map, destination Sonoma Hotel, built in 1880, was just a few millimeters from our flashing blue circle. I couldn't wait to get out of the car, stretch out, breathe some fresh, country air and grab a bite to eat.

We pulled Great White (our Toyota 4-Runner) into a spot in front of the hotel and we burst out of the car with excitement. I think the car was still moving.

My dad barely got our name out at the front desk before I wanted to know about dining options. I had food on the brain followed by unloading.

The girl at the desk, Kirsten, was friendly and accommodating, and told us we'd never get into the restaurant next door at this hour so we'd have to go to Carneros a few blocks away.

We threw our luggage upstairs. Settling in was marred by a brief game of musical rooms -- my dad booked a parents' room and a kids' room and the one my brother and I mistook for ours ended up being the bigger and better of the two so we were forced out without argument.

The super-sized hallway on the second floor had glass cases filled with Sonoma relics. I felt like we were in a little western museum. The floors creaked, the doors squeaked and the walls were covered in old black and white photographs of how the corner of 1st Street West and West Spain Street had changed throughout the years. John Wayne would have loved this place. It was very old cowboy/saloon-ish and the rooms were simple, but perfect for our stay.

After about five minutes of getting acquainted with our rooms we loaded back into Great White for dinner.

The restaurant was nothing to blog home about. It was merely a place for us to sit, refuel and gear up for our big day of wine-tasting. My dad joked at the brie and mushroom pizza I ordered because it looked more like a salad with a side of pizza dough. The burgers my mom and brother ordered were so-so. We wouldn't hurry back, but at 9:30 on Christmas who were we to complain. A half hour after we'd signed the bill we were in our respective rooms, lights out and all of the sudden it was the day after Christmas.

I woke up close to eight and started getting dressed for a run. When I touched the windowpane I jumped from the cold. I did not have enough layers for this. I saw an evil eye squinting at me from my brother's bed. It was the sort of look Tucker the cat gave when we disturbed his slumber on our luggage.

"Whuhrudong?" A noise came from under the covers.

"Huh?"

"Whuhrdohn?"

"Dude. What are you saying?"

The sheets flew off, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

"Geez, I couldn't understand your mumbling. I'm going on a run."

"I'm coming."

I've been running consistently for the past 10 years, ever since I quit swimming competitively. My brother would sooner quit his job and go into the Army than exercise with me.

"What? I don't believe it."

He threw on his running clothes, we left a note for our parents and about two hours later we were warmed up, showered, fed and ready to start our vineyard-hopping.

"Turn left in 400 feet."

"Dad, I think we missed the ---," I glanced back to look at the street sign. "Yep! We missed it."

"Re-CALC-ulating."

It was too early for GARMIN's attitude, but then again she was probably just jealous she wasn't going wine-tasting with us.

Our first stop that morning was at Lambert Bridge.

"Ridge, Mom, or bridge?" I asked.

"Bridge, baby, bridge."

My mom had more scribbles and notes on Sonoma than a pre-med student had in orgo. She sat in the front seat of Great White with a tote filled with books -- paperbacks and hardbacks -- all about wine and Sonoma. I'd hijacked a couple of them so when I was drinking in front of the pros I wouldn't feel like an imbecile calling reds buttery and whites full-bodied. It helped a tremendous deal and I was reading random facts out loud in the car to anyone who would listen.

"The smell of young wine is called an 'aroma' while a more mature wine offers a more subtle 'bouquet.'"

"Honey, do we know where we're going?"

"Yes, dear, if you'd just let me listen to GARMIN."

"Red wines are red because fermentation extracts color from the grape skins. White wines are not fermented with the skins present."

"What, Mona?"

We eventually pulled into a driveway and before I could ask "Where are we?" I noticed the adorable old pick-up truck with barrels on its back.



Let the games begin.

We walked inside and I noticed one thing and one alone.

"OH. MY. GOD."


A St. Bernard the size of a full-grown tiger lay sprawled out in the middle of the floor. She took up the entire space between Lambert's perfectly-lit Christmas tree and fireplace and was gnawing on a chew toy.

"Forget about the wines, I'm taking home this puppy!" I blurted out, much to the un-amusement of her owner. A man in his jeans and layers of Lambert Bridge attire looked at me with a stern face, no smile and said, "No, you won't."

I don't hide my disgust very well so I'm sure I made a face at him for his lack of friendliness and joy in my immediate liking to his dog. I grumbled something under my breath, while asking in a faux-polite voice, "What's his or her name?"

"Bernadette," he said, again in a belligerent tone.

I continued to walk to the counter following my dad, who knew better than to get involved with this guy or his dog.

3...2...1...

"OH. MY. GOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

In walked my mom.

It was all over. All hopes of making it from the doorway to the wine counter were out the window. She proceeded to get down on the floor and give Bernadette all the love and attention she'd probably been deprived of these past 14 months.

My dad and I started looking at the different options -- you could taste in the room we'd walked into or you could join the barrels in the reserve room and get a selection of their limited production wines. We opted for the reserve room and once mom could part with Bernadette we made our way inside.

Chris was our man that morning. He was a big, burly dude -- the kind you wouldn't want to get in a bar fight with. He looked like a football player in stature, but acted like a Wall Street financier when it came to discussing his wines. My mom and dad were a little intimidated by him, but my brother and I thoroughly enjoyed his knowledge and even appreciated his arrogance. He knew his stuff and as far as I was concerned, he was a bad-ass.

Much like my tendency shopping, I was magnetically drawn to the most expensive item on the tasting menu -- the 2006 Crane Creek Cuvee. It was $95 a bottle and my dad laughed when I said, "How about I get a case of this shipped to New York?"

The tasting started with a 2007 Zinfandel -- a wine I would have never given a second chance to before this trip -- followed by a 2006 Petite Syrah. Chris advised the Petite Syrah was for the "patient collector." I guess you don't want to drink a 2009 bottle of Petite Syrah. We then gravitated to the Cuvee, a Cab Franc and a Cabernet Sauvignon. The whites here were unimpressive, but the reds were probably among my favorite of the entire trip.

Mom and Dad signed up for the wine club (one of several they'd fall for), Chris carried our first case out to the car and it was onward and upward, once we'd spent ample time saying goodbye to Bernadette, of course.

Next stop? Ferrari-Carano.

The grounds of Ferrari-Carano were spectacular. Had it not been raining and misting the entire day we would have walked off some of Lambert's wine. Instead we paused at the big iron boar for a family photo op and headed inside.

My gut reaction, after the intimacy and refinement of Lambert Bridge, was, "Oh, cheezy." There were tons of tourists milling about, stacking up on Ferrari T-shirts, sweatshirts and golf jackets. My brother and I snickered like snobs at each other wishing we were back at Lambert Bridge. Meanwhile Mom was in heaven carousing in the gift shop.


My dad and I approached the bench and asked about the tasting options. We could stay upstairs and pay $5 for four selections, or we could go downstairs for the "limited release" tasting and spend $15 on four.

We snagged my mom glancing at another wine book and told her we were heading downstairs. Tasting round two was about to commence.

The downstairs was where it was at at Ferrari. There were marble pillars and the room was dimly lit. We were separated from an Olympic pool-sized wine cellar by some window panes and the entrance into the dark cavernous bar area was a wrought-iron gate.

From left to right we lined up like dutiful drinkers: T-, moi, Dad and Mom. Candace, a ragged looking middle-aged blond woman, introduced herself to us and took decent care of us for the next 30 minutes.

T- and I missed Chris, though my mom and dad were enjoying Candace's casual and unassuming manner. She didn't offer that much information if you didn't pry it out of her with a question. T- and I just kept moving along with our wine choices. Candace recommended going from top to bottom of her list, but T- and I messed this up fairly early on, which in turn seemed to mess up Candace's nerves.

Ferrari-Carano's 2007 Chardonnay was the runaway favorite for me. I also tried three reds: a 2006 Tresor blend, a 2005 PreVail West Face (65% Cab, 35% Syrah) and a 2005 PreVail Back Forty (Cabernet). This was my favorite red of theirs. It was full-bodied and creamy with lots of berries. Again, this was the most expensive at $85 per bottle. Everyone loved this one. At the end of our tasting Candace threw in the dessert wine for me to try -- a 2007 Eldorado Gold (90% Semillon, 10% Sauvignon Blanc). It was pure gold and I normally don't like sweet whites, but it would pair perfectly with some vanilla ice cream, cheese or a fruit crumble.

T- and I headed back to the car in the cold and wet and Mom and Dad weren't too far behind us with their wine purchases. It was about four o'clock. We made phone calls to a few wineries (some were closed until the first week in January) to see which would be open for an ample amount of time for us to relax over wine without being hurried. Our final destination that day would be Passalacqua.

Neither GARMIN nor myself could say or comprehend this one.

"Massapequa?"

"Passalacqua."

"Chappaqua?"

"Passalacqua. P-A-S-S..."

And so began our induction to the Passalacqua fan club.

Passalacqua was just what I'd hoped the tasting experience would be like in Sonoma. I expected it to feel like I was tasting wines in someone's home, rather than at a factory. Passalacqua was small, they only had room for about six people to be tasting at a time and the owner Jason was milling about in his big workman's boots and roughed up jeans, talking to his adorable daughter and yellow lab about the possibility of an afternoon walk. I almost felt like an intruder.


Kathy Mooney was our guide that day at the wine counter. She had short brown hair, glasses, a huge smile and an even bigger laugh. I give her last name here because she was as warm as her Irish name would suggest. (I've since e-mailed with her and exchanged photos of us at Il Fornaio in Carmel drinking her wine.)

Passalacqua made me want to drink Zinfandel again. Wow. I never thought it could happen. I tried their 2007 Dry Creek Valley Estate Zin, their 2007 Dry Creek Valley Maple Vineyard Zin, a 2007 Russian River Valley Zin and a 2005 Dry Creek Valley Cabernet Sauvignon. The Russian River Valley was my favorite. It had a peppery kick to it with some blackberries and just the right amount of tannins.

How was I going to set up a wine club with my parents and somehow redirect a couple of my favorite bottles to Manhattan?

We had dinner reservations that night at the girl and the fig at 8:30. There was no way we were making it back to the hotel and keeping our hunger appeased for three hours. Mom read us something in her book and we stopped at the Dry Creek General Store -- probably one of my favorite spots of the entire trip.

They had everything from books, gifts and moose heads to cheese and fresh homemade potato chips. I had an incredible red hummus dip that would hold me over until dinnertime.

After our late afternoon snack binge, I sat outside on the store's patio and soaked it all in, or the wine soaked me in. I could feel its warmth coursing through my veins. In front of me stood acres and acres of grids of vines that I wanted to get to know and understand better -- like an old, distant relative. Each had a distinct story to tell and I wanted to listen. There were so many more vineyards out there for me to explore. Even with another day of non-stop tasting, we would barely put a dent in all Sonoma Valley has to offer.

Tomorrow I was excited for my family to embrace new flavors and aromas. But today Chris shared with us his fierce love and passion for grapes at Lambert, Ferrari-Carano stunned me with its idyllic setting and I felt like I was part of the family at Passalacqua. Today would be hard to beat.

*Sonoma Hotel

110 West Spain Street

Sonoma, CA 95476

(707) 996-2996

*Carneros

1325 Broadway

Sonoma, CA

(707) 931-2042

*Lambert Bridge Winery

4085 West Dry Creek Road

Healdsburg, CA 95448

(800) 975-0555

*Ferrari-Carano

8761 Dry Creek Road

Healdsburg, CA 95448

(707) 433-6700

*Passalacqua Winery

3805 Lambert Bridge Rd

Healdsburg, CA 95448

(707) 433-5550

*Dry Creek General Store

3495 Dry Creek Road

Healdsburg, CA 95448-9712

(707) 433-4171

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Sonoma Wine Country - Chapter 1

"Make sure you drunk dial me from the road!" I yelled from a busy corner in Manhattan sometime in late August. I could hear my mom's excitement through the phone. She, my dad and two of their closest friends from living in Tokyo, where they stayed out dancing and singing Beatles karaoke until three in the morning, were headed to Napa Valley.

As a born and quasi-raised California girl, it's an embarrassment I have never been.

"Where was 'Sideways' filmed again?"

"I think somewhere south. Maybe Paso Robles?"

"Aaaaah. Where's that?" Asks the girl who thought Los Angeles was a mere hop, skip and jump from Carmel when, in fact, it's about seven hours (hat tip MaineMan).

Mom and dad didn't drunk dial me from their wine-venture, which was probably for the best. Instead I drunk dialed them from a cab in New York to hear how the party was going. They had such a grand time with their friends, my dad organized a family road trip over the Christmas holidays. Only we were headed to Sonoma.

I had recently gone to a wine event with my friend and co-worker SirDatesaLot and I'd met with a few of Sonoma's proudest. I bragged of my upcoming trip, but as none of them were from wineries -- they were more on the marketing side -- I knew their business cards would only help me so much.

"So...when should we go, Mona?" Dad asked me on the phone. He knew we were having a dinner with my boyfriends' parents, and that they were staying in Monterey County for a few days, so the last thing we wanted was to tell them, "Oh, sorry! Wine calls. We'll have to do it another time."

"How about Christmas? Christmas night is always sort of anti-climactic. Why don't we head out of town later in the afternoon after opening presents?" I suggested.

"Great idea," said Dad.

The holidays at 93921 made the families in "Home Alone" look organized and put together. Let's just say we ate my dad's wonderful Christmas Eve dinner at eight o'clock (about five hours behind the rest of Christian America), we didn't convene as a family on Christmas until one-ish (my brother, per routine, had to work at the Carmel Drug Store that morning) and we opened the last present sometime around 4:45 p.m.

"MAWWW-UMMM!!! OPEN YOUR PRESENTS!"

"T-, what's that over there? Give that to Dad."

"Mom, SIT DOWN and open YOUR presents!"

"Mona, go grab that big green one. It's for T-."

"Mom. I'm serious. Stop getting up!"

"I can't seem to find..."

"MOM!"

It's like you're telling an unruly puppy in puppy school what to do. You say stay, they go. You say go, they stay. Don't even attempt to say "heal."

Mom has this thing on Christmas where she can't physically open presents. The unofficial mayor of both Carmel and the Monterey Sports Center, who has more energy to socialize than a flutter of butterflies, can't stand sitting on the couch and opening presents from first piece of tape to last piece of bubble. The process takes about an hour per gift. It's a test of character and patience to sit and watch the ordeal. Next year I'm ordering seatbelts or, better yet, handcuffs.

"Honey, what time is it?" She asked my dad, mid-opening one of her last gifts.

"It's almost five o'clock, HUH-NEE," said my dad.

"OH mah-yeeee GAHW-uhd! I had no idea it was this LAY-eeet!"

"Umm, yeah. Let's get a move on it!"

My brother and I, rolling our eyes, just kept looking around for all of our presents and opened them at a good clip. Paper, tape and ribbons flew everywhere. Razors and scissors were at the ready for any unruly or stubborn packaging.

I have never been so prepared for Christmas in my life. I had presents piling up in Carmel weeks before I got there. My only concern was that my overzealous, giddy dad, who loves receiving presents (and shaking them and trying to guess what they are) as much as he did as a kid I'm sure, would open them early. I bought cards more than a week ahead of time and actually filled them out two days prior to Christmas Eve. It was my own Christmas miracle. And what did I get for it? The same hysteria I'd grown accustomed to over the past 10 years. My brother and I exchanged cards, but my parents would open the ones I'd written for them days later (it's a mystery if they've even opened them today). I still haven't seen any from my parents. Que sera... At least I have more of an argument going into this year if I fall behind on a Father's Day, anniversary or birthday card.

After my mom opened her (and the family's) final present, a hurricane blew threw the house worse than Ida. At one point, even laidback Tucker left his perch on the microwave and hid under my brother's bed upstairs to escape the calamity.

Plastic bags filled with wrapping and tissue paper floated around the room like helium, boxes were stacked haphazardly in and around our sofas and chairs for my mom's recycling (or reusing), one of us tripped over said boxes at least twice, each corner had a pile of gifts and if you reached around to touch someone else's gift you got a big fly swat to the hand.

"Don't touch that!"

PITTER PATTER! on the staircase.

THUD! on the wooden floors.

CLANG! went the Champagne glasses on the kitchen counter.

CLAP! in the doorway.

RING DING DING! of bells as Tucker leaped up and down the stairs, on and around the microwave, in and out of torn ribbons and paper in the living room.

No amount of mimosas prepared me for that afternoon of CHA-OS.

"Don't let Tucker eat that piece of - !!!!"

"Does this go in the car?"

"Who spilled this orange juice on the counter?"

"Are you bringing this bag of shoes?"

"Who took my sneaker box?"

"Is this hat yours? Is it coming with us?"

"Who messed up the carpet?"

"Where's Tucker?"

"Whose luggage is this?"

We were only going away for two nights and it was as if we were flying to Africa for two months.

When we'd finally gotten about five minutes up Highway 1 in the car, my mom realized we hadn't put the garbage out.

"Keep going!" yelled my brother.

"We're not seriously stopping, are we?" I said, meanwhile all sorts of expletives were ringing in my head.

"Honey," my mom looked at my dad, "If we don't put the garbage bins on the street we'll have animals..."

My dad made an abrupt U-turn and back to Carmel we went.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. "Anti-climactic" indeed...

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FAIL Whale

Orcas from my whale-watching adventure in Monterey, Calif.

Carebear: I have been checking your blog more than religiously hoping to hear some update from you...

Malibu: MONA! TIME FOR A NEW POST!? how are you?

Fashionista: i need a mona's apple update! my work reading material is hurting.

Ladies (and any gents, if you're reading), the updates are coming. I'm rededicating myself to the blog and keeping it more updated than ever (famous last words).

In the meantime, so you don't have to stare at my dated Christmas pictures anymore, enjoy some shots from sunny Carmel, Calif. More so than any other year, it was awfully tough for me to come home to New York. I don't feel like I have ever worn my puffy red coat or my rabbit fur hat as often as I have this dreadful, Siberian winter.


Meet Bernadette, the lovely mascot of Lambert Bridge Winery in Sonoma Valley.



Then there's me just being silly at Ferrari-Carano Vineyard in Sonoma.


A hilly, beachside hike through Point Lobos, Carmel, Calif. with otters and seals at every turn.

Say hello to Sammy getting some rays.

No wonder Carmel is my mom's "happy place."

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