I know, I never drink Zin. But I am tonight. One from Seghesio. Can’t remember vintage. Bottle’s n the kitchen. And I’m in office, last productive must of the day. Zinfandel tell me to not just judge it anymore, which I’m entirely guilty. Jammy, hate that word. This offering is something with unusual and surprising, loving composition. The wine says what it wants, and I follow. I’m caught in a strange way though, with what’s in this bottle. Maybe it’s late, and I’m talking a bit loopy, so I’ve had a glass past the line… that line a writer should know when NOT to write past. I’m here, note, and I’m in my reactive go.