For the past few mornings, I’ve woken up to temperatures in the 20s. My backyard, covered in frost. I don’t particularly enjoy 20 degrees any time of year, but I feel especially inhospitable toward it when my calendar says April.
That said . . . we had a very mild March (a freakishly mild March) here in the Nation’s Capital. In fact, it was the 4th warmest March on record in Washington (the warmest was 2012, followed by 1945 and 1921, in case you’re curious). Everything is blooming and everyone is sneezing. And warm & blooming is usually the trigger for the annual spate of posts about the arrival of Rosé Season.
Why must rosé be relegated to a season? I’ll admit I drink more rosé in the spring and summer, but I certainly don’t limit myself to a season. Rosé tastes just as good in January as it does in July. Sometimes better.
Novelist Jay McInerney has some pretty great words about rosé in his book, Bacchus & Me. Here, he’s talking about the beautiful simplicity of rosé — a wine you’re not supposed to fuss over:
Since I am safe in a locked office at this moment, though, let me propose a few guidelines. A good rosé should be drier than Kool-Aid and sweeter than Amstel Light. It should be enlivened by a thin wire of acidity, to zap the taste buds, and it should have a middle core of fruit that is just pronounced enough to suggest the grape varietal (or varietals) from which it was made.
I heart rosé. At all times and in all places. I love its modesty and unassuming personality. I love that I don’t have to think about it too much (and from now on, I will not think out loud about rosé in public — I don’t like to swim). I love that rosé goes with just about anything (except Oreos, yuuuuuck). And finally, I love that rosé can punctuate the good and banish the bad . . . like when Mother Nature goes off her meds and gives us a string of 20 degree April mornings.