Tempranillo: how do I love you, let me count the ways
I recently had two widely different tempranillo experiences. The first was like really really bad sex. You keep telling yourself, "it's not that bad," as you go back for seconds, and then you smack yourself in the face and say "why the eff am I doing this, I know better!" It's that sweaty, fat man on top of you, and you think he's in but you really can't tell so you start counting the cracks in the ceiling to pass the time until its over. And then you sit, self-loathing, on the edge of the bed and really really hope he doesn't fall asleep because he needs to leave like RIGHT NOW and you smile awkwardly and say "Yeah, I'll totally call you," but you in fact, delete his number and remove your Tinder profile ASAP. Good tempranillo, on the other hand, is like falling into bed with Antonio Banderas with his sexy accent and smouldering eyes. It's sassafras and blackberries and passionate tumbles in the thickets and velvet restraints
