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JTLANKSTERS

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Randy Goodall
Randy Goodall

Ladies Who Shoot Their Lunch Wine Where To Buy


This wine is inspired by Matt Fowles' passion for hunting. Ladies who shoot their lunch wines have been made to support the flavors of wild game.Wild yeast is used, which gives the wine an unpredictable nature. In addition, a portion of this wine is aged in old and new oak, some others in stainless still tanks. This is a vibrant Shiraz from Victoria, Australia with classic aromas of dark berry and pepper and flavors of chocolate and spice. The oak does its job balancing all of the wine qualities together. Silky tannins and a long finish are noticeable and pleasant on the palate.I would pair this wine with any kind of meat but mostly with game and lamb.




ladies who shoot their lunch wine where to buy



Ladies Who Shoot Their Lunch, Wild Ferment Chardonnay 2009At only 12.5% the restraint is stated from the outset in a Chardonnay where a small proportion of Gewürztraminer is added to the blend. Sam says the winemaking intention is not to challenge the meat, and it has a lovely nose, with nutty, oatmeally character and nice toast with a citrus core of lemon and orange. The palate has a wonderfully tight concentration, with a great swirling texture and lovely layering. The palate is beautifully pitched, with a certain waxiness and body, that Brazil nut fatness and slippery texture adding up to a complex, quite voluptuous mouthful of wine, yet crisp and tight through the finish. Delightful stuff. 92/100. 500 cases produced.


We talked as Andy finished making dinner. Kate got home tired and seemed to remember I was coming to dinner when she saw me. She was only three years older than Andy but had a motherly demeanor and wore her hair like ladies did in the UK to look more like Princess Di. Andy fussed over her, took her coat, gave her a peck, and offered her a glass of wine. He put on some music and insisted on giving me the tour with her present. In addition to the living room, where the dinner table had been set up, and the long narrow kitchen, there was an upstairs with two small bedrooms. One was so full of stuff and boxes that Andy had trouble getting the door open and shut.


The food was good, osso buco as I remember, but the table was small for three and overset with multiple glasses and layers of plates and silverware. We talked and ate as the Wolfhounds wrestled among our legs and knocked their giant skulls against the underside of the table. The silverware and plates jumped and clattered, and we grabbed at our wine glasses. The Beaujolais Nouveau will be in soon, Andy was saying. Oh, really? I said. One of the dogs nosed aside the tablecloth and got its bear-like head into my lap. I looked down at its feminine eye and playful fangs and molars, and its tongue lolled wetly onto my pants. I had no choice but to pet it, which I knew would encourage more bad behavior.


She wakes in winter to the scrape of iron in the stove, her mother bringing embers back to life from their night's dying. She watches later through frosted panes her father and brother lean into darkened snow, each with his own tin bucket, the two like cutouts of each other, one smaller but with the same stooped back. Their lanterns swing into dark. In April, when the mornings warm, she blankets the pony and trails them from a distance downhollow, all the way where the Lick Creek Road meets the Two Mile Road. She paces the pony so they won't see her behind, and she watches them descend the talus toward the coal camp, and there she'll wait in a copse of poplars, looking down at the rows of homes with men filing from them. She tries to keep track of her father and brother, but they become lost with other lanterns, flitting and wheeling through trees, like a procession of pilgrims carrying candles toward the mouth of the mine.


She watches him say this and knows he's picked it up from some old miner he's overheard and is trying it out on her like a new pair of trousers. Still, she is jealous. She imagines the kettle bottoms, the crosshatchings and tunnels, the ribbing of poplar buttresses, the headway and gob pile where the miners meet for lunch. Each face like a room in a palace, this place underground where they sit and work, the earth with chambers of its own no one but the miners know.


Delmar is learning to shoot coal from his father. He must learn about the cleat of the coal, how to blast it so the seam breaks evenly and will be easy to work afterward. He must decide where to drill his holes for the blasting and how deep and at what angle. If he uses too little powder, the coal will break too big and he'll have to hammer it afterward by hand. If he pours too much, the seam will blow to slack and dust and will be worthless.


Behind him Val Jenkins's breath is labored, like that of a man twice his age, and the creases on his forehead are a script of fine soot. He nods approvingly at his son, and Delmar snakes a piece of waxed string into the hole and lets it hang by a few inches. A blast goes off in another section, a muffled pop, the pressure in their ears changing by the slightest percentage. Delmar looks at his dad again, who waits, sniffs the air, then gestures Delmar back to the fuse. They can hear the faint scratching of rats now out by their lunch buckets. Val Jenkins leans on his shovel, watching his son, then nods him to go ahead.


Emily's mother, Ada, had a way of knowing things before they happened. People said she had a gift. They'd go to her when they misplaced a pearl hatpin or a suitcase key. They'd make their way up Lick Creek Road and climb to the clapboard house with the Norway spruce spread in front and sit on the blistered porch swing and sip sassafras tea. Eventually they'd come around to the topic at hand. A lost photograph. A ten-dollar bill. A tuning fork. They'd consult her, and that night she'd dream the lost thing into finding. Wherever she saw it in her sleep was where it would be. She was rarely wrong.


Emily thought it was the cows bolting and she looked back, but they hadn't moved, only their heads were lifted now, testing the air. Then she turned toward her mother who was already hurrying back to the house, running through the pasture, her sack on the hillside where she'd dropped it, the clover spilled on the pasture like seed.


By the next night the first bodies came out without arms, or legs, their faces grotesque with gas. They were carried on bare pine planks and tied with baling wire, some carbonized to husks. Others were already bloated and puffed with gas, their clothes popped where the flesh had risen.


The procession swung into the drive, thirty of them, the men in long black coats and vests and the caps of their country, the women in silk head scarves, their candles guttered beneath faces. Gianni's mother stood in the middle of them, supported by two women, one at each side. They made their way to the front of the group and reached the flagging; the women left Gianni's mother alone, and she climbed the porch steps, where Ada nodded, and she walked past and sat beside Emily in the swing. She was wearing a lace veil, a piece of Venetian point lowered over her eyes, pinned in place with a hawthorn clasp. She held four gardenias in her hand.


We packed the lunch and two bottles of wine in the rucksack, and Bill put it on. I carried the rod-case and the landing-nets slung over my back. We started up the road and then went across a meadow and found a path that crossed the fields and went toward the woods on the slope of the first hill. We walked across the fields on the sandy path. The fields were rolling and grassy and the grass was short from the sheep grazing. The cattle were up in the hills. We heard their bells in the woods.


I walked up the road and got out the two bottles of wine. They were cold. Moisture beaded on the bottles as I walked back to the trees. I spread the lunch on a newspaper, and uncorked one of the bottles and leaned the other against a tree. Bill came up drying his hands, his bag plump with ferns.


They met under the bleachers on the football field at her high school. Iris had taken to eating her lunch there. It was quiet and there was shade and she liked the feel of the dry grass bristling under her, etching patterns into the backs of her thighs. Sometimes it was too hot, but anything was better than the cafeteria, its stink of heating lamps and tinfoil, its bright cruel sea of faces and voices. She had never been a pretty girl, not even before the accident, but the scar seemed to give the others too much fuel. She liked it better out here, alone, nothing but stripes of shadow and light, dirt, crushed soda cans, a wobbly trail of ants that she watched as she chewed. She always forgot about ants until this time of year, when they emerged from nowhere to feed on any stray trickle of moisture. A scene from years ago: her mother soaking paper towels in boiling water, mopping up the ants that plagued their kitchen each September. 041b061a72


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