Drink Your Words

By Carolyn Dismuke

Living your dream takes many forms. Growing up in Silicon Valley, Carolyn Dismuke thought a high-tech career was her dream…then she discovered her passion…

 

A fulfilling career in the city and an active social life had convinced California native Carolyn Dismuke that she was living the dream, but her life changed when she drove by vineyards on back roads. She became a diligent student in a world-renowned wine studies program, where she mastered the classic regions. Eight chapters on France and seven on Italy left her salivating for more. Yet only one chapter on California compelled her to pack her wanderlust and set out to live in a different region every month to soak in all the juicy details.

 

Drink Your Words chronicles her journey through the Golden State's appellations, highlighting vineyard details and travel tips. As she encounters a growing number of creative winemaking characters who coax the velvet nectar into its richest potential, she sees reflected in them her own creativity, bubbling up inside her, struggling to be heard. It's an inspirational memoir for anyone dying to follow their passion. It's a helpful guide through California wine country for those who want to road-trip vicariously. It's for anyone who thinks a girl needs more than four pairs of shoes. Let Carolyn tell you how it's done!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carolyn Dismuke
• Release date: Feb 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798985044515

Carolyn Dismuke

Carolyn Dismuke is a California native raised in a family that spent most summers road tripping from their home in Silicon Valley. After earning a WSET Level 3 Award in Wines, Carolyn explored the Golden State's hidden gems, a journey that transformed her into a California travel aficionado and was recognized by the Next Generation Indie Book Awards. Drink Your Words is full of her appellation adventures and the life lessons of a solo traveler.

Book preview

1 Own A Pair

The suitcase of a vagabond has no room for vanity. From my South of Market studio apartment, I packed the roadster for my longest journey, wondering whether a year-long tour of California wine regions would be too much for even a seasoned wayfarer like me. I had to cast those doubts away and remember what brought me here.

My initial sips of wine were hardly noteworthy. My mom would buy jugs of red wine at the supermarket and offer me a taste when she added some to pots of sauces or stews. It tasted like grape juice on fire. I didn’t appreciate wine until my college years, when a friend invited me over after volunteering at a local art and wine festival to try the half-empty, leftover bottles. Some of the wines were as thin as juice, while others reached deep into the pockets of my cheeks, beneath my tongue, and all the way to the back of my mouth. I became fascinated that grape juice could end up tasting like so many different fruits at once. One white wine tasted like an early apricot with unripe banana and lemon curd. One red had mellifluous layers of cherry, blackberry, and plum. The experience filled me with euphoria, and sparked my love of California wines.

Surrounded by so many wine regions, I chose to go to college in San Francisco, and I made it my home base when I started a career. San Francisco also determined the cars I drove—always convertible roadsters for their agility at zooming around narrow city streets. Why would anyone buy a car that didn’t convert?! It cured those days my long, silky hair needed air rolling through it and my head wanted nothing but the big sky above. My affection for the city made it heartbreaking to leave, but road trips had always revived my spirit as naturally as food nourished my body. So I traveled whenever the urge to be someplace new came over me. Often.

I’d road-tripped to Napa, Sonoma, and Healdsburg any time I could afford it. I took wine-discovery vacations through Chile, Tuscany, and France. In Italy, I noticed that restaurant patrons didn’t pour wine until the food arrived at their tables. California wines were more like cocktails—drinkable with or without food. After I became a seasoned globetrotter, though, all roads led me back to the Golden State. I’d cultivated a driving thirst to learn how California wines developed such concentrated characteristics. I adored their rich colors and intense flavors.

As I packed, I listened to the road-tripping expert in me. I reminded myself I’d never needed more than four pairs of shoes. Boots were hard to pack but went with skirts, dresses, jeans, and shorts, so I selected one plain pair of cowboy boots. Next, a pair of running shoes that also worked for hikes, a must when eating out a lot. Next, flip-flops for walking on dirty floors and showering in unfamiliar bathrooms. And finally, a pair of comfortable canvas shoes without laces that slipped on and off with ease—ideal for long days of driving. My pale-pink Converse All Stars always traveled with me because they went with everything and didn’t have laces to tie me down.

So long, vanity! I’d trust my inner beauty. As a single woman, I knew the importance of always looking my best— you never knew who you might meet. But I could still rock a pair of hot jeans with a tank top to save space and reduce laundry. Jewelry didn’t make the cut. Even though it didn’t take up much space, it weighed me down. I only packed makeup if it protected against sun damage and maintained healthy skin. I traveled with a tinted moisturizer, sunscreen lotion, and vitamin E oil. An eye pencil and lip balm were tiny enough to sneak in. Mascara, eye shadow, and blush were too bulky and required too many brushes, so they stayed in storage. I might not look fancy, but I could still be beautiful. I was sure.

Why all the traveling? I grew up in the San Francisco suburbs, where my dad was an elementary school teacher who filled summer breaks with experiences that instilled a sense of wonder. I fell in love with the city over the many day trips my family took to the zoo, aquarium, and Stow Lake, where we rented boats and floated aimlessly. In the car, my brother, sister, and I would beg my mother to retell her stories about growing up in the city. Her childhood visits to Fisherman’s Wharf stirred my imagination to envision the lights shining from the tiny windows at Alcatraz. Memories like the picnic in Golden Gate Park where a goose attacked my mother’s bright yellow pants remain vivid in my mind.

But whatever the adventure, it came to a tasty finale at Ghirardelli Square, where we’d slurp warm, silky, dark chocolate-sauce dripping over rich ice cream and forget about all the city noise. My mother had the demure, slender elegance of a budding calla lily until dessert, when chocolate would resurrect the Catholic schoolgirl in her and she’d devour the darkness with reckless eagerness. Whenever we’d hear, Hey kids, do you want to go to San Francisco? I’d anticipate a new adventure through the roller-coaster streets, knowing the highlight would be the black magic potion that made every hedonist happy. Similar day trips to Monterey and Santa Cruz were fun, but I didn’t cherish them. My heart belonged to SF long before I discovered nude beaches, Giants baseball, or my beloved wine.

For this particular trip, I packed the roadster so full that I couldn’t close the trunk. When I shoved bags into the left corner, the right popped out. When I pushed items into the right side, the left would fall out. I’d have better luck trying to keep two puppies in a tub! I had to take a step back to decide which items were absolutely necessary. I chose to remove a small bag of extra underwear and put it in long-term storage. I’d have to learn to go alfresco. Look out, California, here comes wino goin’ commando!

When I could shut the trunk, I started the roadster and turned out of the garage. I admired the prominent South Beach architecture, a staple of modernism with a twist of aquatic art deco. I stopped the car for a moment to imagine what my neighborhood would be like when I returned in a year. I knew that nothing was more important than my passion to learn more about California wines, but as I drove on, I committed glimpses of the expansive Embarcadero to memory. My seemingly ordinary commute strolling up the Embarcadero to work had been one of the most blissful. The water lapping against the pier and the sprawling view of Treasure Island took away any sense of humdrumness. Otters and seals in the water often followed me up to the Ferry Building. Watching them made me feel like I glided along. So breathtaking—I’d often be bummed after finishing the eleven-minute trek for that morning. I knew if I ever lived anywhere else, I’d miss those moments. As I drove along, I reminded myself of another moment that had convinced me I could and should embark on this road trip.

The workday had begun over a quick check in with Rohit, one of my smartest teammates. Originally from India, he always seemed interested in hearing about my travels, although work prevented him from doing much of his own. How was your weekend? I asked.

Long. My daughter convinced me to give up smoking. He sounded as though he already missed it.

What a cool dad! I’m so proud of you! Typically, he walked around with the unmistakable scent of his relentless addiction. The deep dank smoke would linger long after he left. If I smelled it in the elevator, I could tell he’d arrived at the office before me.

I’ll do anything for that kid. What about you? he asked.

Went to a festival in wine country, did some tastings, saw live music . . . I said as though it were a typical weekend.

Oh yeah? Sonoma?

No.

Napa? he asked.

Gawd, no.

What else is there? he asked, to my surprise.

Ever been to Tahoe or Yosemite? I assumed they were familiar reference points, even for foreigners. You’ve probably passed through Sutter Creek, Amador, or Calaveras County.

No, we never get to travel, he said sadly.

Aw, it keeps me going, I said. If I could, I’d live in a different wine region every month, and it’d take years to run out of places to explore.

Here in the US?

In California!

He gave me an irreverent pfft and said, I’d last longer without nicotine.

You don’t think I could work remotely and live in a new spot each month? I asked, ready to defend any argument from him.

Life lesson—never tell a Sagittarius they cannot do something. We live on an anything’s-possible cloud. I’d let my world fall apart proving you wrong.

Nah, you’re a city girl. You wouldn’t be able to get your whisky cocktail after work.

Rye.

Or go shoe shopping on your lunch break.

Shoe shopping is everywhere. Now I wondered who I was trying to convince.

What about the Giants? he asked. You wouldn’t be able to walk down the street, sneak into the back of the stadium, and watch the thirteenth inning of a tied game. Giants games are televised. Mostly, I said, even though nothing could compare to the smell of stadium dogs and garlic fries.

Oh, so you’ll give up all this to live in small towns? In his smoke-free haze, he clearly made sense. The words give up hung in the air as my response exited my mouth before I had a chance to think about it. Leaving all the conveniences of the big city would be tough, but the education I’d get along the way would be priceless. My parents had taught me that.

Still, he made a good point. Every time I had a few days off work, I looked forward to visiting the undiscovered wine pockets of this state and rarely missed the city while surrounded by beautiful scenery, sunshine, and succulent farm-to-table food. Yet those visits were mere vacations. I learned as much as I could while visiting, but I wanted to learn more.

Later, Rohit came by my desk and stood for a few moments looking pensive, arms akimbo. I looked up to listen with raised eyebrows that showed my interest in whatever he had to say. I could tell it was important because he took a few moments before he spoke. A man of brevity, I knew his words would be powerful.

You know what? You should go, he started. Then he took a longing look out the window and turned back to me with serious eyes. You should follow this passion and be glad you have one. Me, I’m a grown man, and I don’t even know what my passion is. His words filled me with a sense of purpose. If I was able to do this, and I thought I was, I should—for everyone who couldn’t. But I wondered if I could be the girl who gave up a solid career for an impassioned instinct. I made a quick list of all the jobs I’d had before becoming a tech consultant. I had marketable skills, a tenacious work ethic, an aptitude for interviewing well—the list was long. Then I made a list of anything I was ever this passionate about before.

Passion won.

I researched the most well-known wine studies programs. I checked out how much they cost and how I might be able to fit one into my schedule. Brimming with excitement, I was eager to learn more and be part of a structured wine program—after all, my interest in wine had already become more than a hobby. But in order to dedicate myself, I’d have to give up a good job, the security of a consistent paycheck, and a career I loved. I doubted a job would be waiting for me when I finished the program.

As I turned the roadster away from the Embarcadero, I glanced over at the air bed I’d borrowed for the unfurnished apartment I’d just rented in Healdsburg. An ideal place to start my trip of about a dozen destinations, Healdsburg wasn’t too far from home should I forget anything. I’d approach this transient life in baby steps.

The rolled-up deflated air mattress mocked me. I thought how crazy it must seem that I’d leave the comforts of my cozy bed to sleep on the floor. As the roadster entered the Bay Bridge, I took a deep breath and inserted a calming James Taylor CD. My purpose was important and my plan was simple, I thought. I reminded myself I had left other comforts before and everything had worked out.

As I’d prepared for the trip, I discovered that most of my respected colleagues considered the career change crazy. Since my typical uniform had been a tank top and jeans, their parting gift to me had been a white tank top with the word Bullshit under a red circle with a slash through it—a twist on the company logo. Co-workers seated near my desk recalled how frequently I’d say, This is bullshit, man. The same sentiment must’ve been on everyone’s mind when marketing repeatedly changed the name of a feature a day before releasing it, forcing teams to work all night updating every mention of it. But most everything on my mind was instantly on my lips. It’s what people loved about me. It’s what they hated.

Later at my farewell party, bubbles rose in our glasses, as did questions about my plans and the opportunities available. I told them about the many wine studies programs, with two standing out for their international recognition. The Master Sommelier program was well known in the hospitality industry. But the Wine and Spirits Education Trust (WSET) gave a broad education on wine regions, climates, soils, and history, which I preferred learning. My colleagues were supportive, but the phrase career suicide hung in the air as they suggested I sign a job offer before pursuing any wine studies. I knew people would kill for my job, so I respected their advice— but I didn’t take it. I needed to dedicate myself and didn’t want any job or offers on my dashboard, distracting me.

After passing the first few WSET levels, I had friends over for wine-tasting Wednesday to do a horizontal tasting of California syrahs. Each person brought a bottle of syrah produced in the same year from a different California region. They were like fun study groups. Tasting them side by side made it easier to detect how the characteristics of the syrah grape were different in cooler coastal climates than in warmer inland valleys. Cooler-climate syrahs had bright vibrant cranberry and pomegranate acidity, while syrahs from hot valleys had the ripe plum and blackberry blue-fruit flavors with balanced acidity, tannins, and structure.

Friends were inquisitive about my wine studies because they were anxious to call me a sommelier. I explained that sommelier is a job title instead of a level in any program. They seemed eager to see my efforts in wine studies result in some end goal like a job or career. But my purpose was learning and sharing. And tasting, of course. They could taste my enthusiasm when I described how the next level would go deeper into other regions, climates, and soils, with a blind tasting final exam.

Walking into that exam, I felt prepared yet slightly nervous despite studying thoroughly. I remembered my dad’s advice from when I had taken my grad school oral exams. He suggested that I admit to being nervous to relieve some of the tension. So, when I walked into the oral exam and sat down in front of my advisors to defend my thesis, I answered honestly when they asked if I was ready. Yes, I’m just a little nervous, I said, taking a deep breath.

One of the advisors leaned in and said, You’re nervous because you care. Those words still reverberate when feelings get in the way, reminding me of the strength in harnessing vulnerability.

At the wine exam, naturally embracing nervousness, I turned tension into strength. When the instructor set up the bottles for the blind tasting, I felt empowered. The other test takers were still anxiously studying while I sat ready, focused.

Immediately following the exam, I ran to a wine event at a custom crush facility in San Francisco. When I arrived, my friend Gabby had made fast friends with a tall guy wearing loafers, and the duo had apparently spent the first hour of the tasting selecting nicknames. They seemed delighted to proclaim that he was Too Tall and she was Too Loose. They covered me with red-stained kisses and hugs. Questions about the exam followed, and I assured them I felt confident about the blind tasting and many of the essay questions, except for one or two. But overall, I’d done my best.

We celebrated, but they couldn’t resist asking what my next wine venture would be. I’d been working at a winery in Sonoma on the weekends, but I told them I wanted to live in a different wine region of California every month for a year to learn about all the regions the program had skipped. Obviously, the stranger in tight shiny loafers was a businessman. I expected he’d have many financial and logistical questions for my oddball idea. He did not disappoint.

What would you do with your place? he asked.

Rent it out, I said. Not sure it could be that simple, I withheld belief momentarily. But clarity came quickly.

Plenty of city dwellers were looking for places like mine.

What about all your stuff? he asked.

Storage. My heart broke a little when I put treasured possessions in storage, but releasing them felt liberating.

What about mail? he asked.

Email.

Email saves paper, Gabby chimed in.

Could you still work? he asked.

Yep, anywhere there’s Wi-Fi. Now he seemed stumped as he nodded and paused.

Do you have any pets? he asked.

Nope, I said. Gabby nodded her head, prodding him to continue.

What does your boyfriend think? he asked, obviously sure he’d found a flaw in my plan.

I’m currently in between boyfriends, I replied, batting my eyelashes.

Who needs ’em! Gabby said, now turning into a backup singer, swinging her hips like Aretha Franklin.

Well, Loafers admitted, if you can work from anywhere, why live in the most expensive city in the country?

That’s right! Gabby quipped, waving her finger at him. She ain’t got no man, no kids, no pets. She could lift right outta here like Tinkerbell.

It felt freeing to finally know the trip laid out before me was fate—my path to take. As for Loafers, wearing a white collared shirt to a wine event wasn’t his only bad decision. He admitted this was the only thing he’d done besides work all month. His job made people money, yet it didn’t make them happy.

The roadster came to a halt on the bridge while traffic thickened. I doubted I’d miss the congestion of cars, but as I sat in traffic, my mind raced to things I would miss. The roof deck overlooking the Ferry Building, the expanse of the Bay Bridge, and the beautiful water lapping in a cascade of blue and green that made me feel I could reach the clouds. I chose that meeting spot to tell my most supportive former colleague that I’d received notice—I had passed the exam.

We should be celebrating with wine, Chris said, in the middle of a Wednesday.

Oh, wait, I said when he reached for one of the sandwiches I had made. Are you allergic to nuts?

No, I own a pair.

Okay, good. I laughed. Because the curry chicken salad sandwich has pistachios.

Ooh, yum! He grabbed that one.

Don’t you want to know what’s in the other sandwich? I grinned.

Of course.

The other one is a blackened chicken Caesar salad sandwich with a thin layer of avocado and pickled shallots.

"I don’t know what shallots are, but you had me at blackened," he said.

I smiled. Shallots are like the love child of garlic and onion.

As we ate our sandwiches, he asked, So, what’s next after Level Three?

Well, there’s a diploma, but I won’t continue with the program, I said, realizing I’d outgrown it right as the words came out.

You sounded deeply into it. He noted all my gatherings of people for tastings.

I certainly applied myself.

Why quit now?

Oh, I’ll never quit studying wine, but the program didn’t teach me what I wanted to learn. They had eight chapters on France, seven on Italy, and only one chapter on California, Oregon, and Washington. I could feel myself getting more irritated as I talked.

Did you say it was offered by a European organization? he asked.

Yes, so it’s no surprise the curriculum focused on classic regions.

And you wanted to learn about those regions.

Indeed, but I also wanted to get the same depth of information about my favorite California wine regions.

Oh, like Sonoma? he guessed, knowing I’d taken a weekend job at a winery there.

I shook my head no.

Healdsburg? he asked, because of all my visits to the Russian River Valley.

No, I said.

Napa? he continued, reaching for anywhere.

No, Napa’s for tourists. How could a local miss that?

What else is there? he asked.

Tired of hearing that same question from other native Californians, I admonished him. I’m going to make you drink your words!

Okay, I’ll drink anything, he chuckled.

Didn’t you go to college in Santa Barbara? I asked.

Indeed, but I never met Barbara.

"Certainly you’ve heard of Los Olivos, Santa Ynez, or

Solvang."

Oh, the little Dutch village? he said.

Danish.

They grow grapes there too? he said, now sort of laughing at himself. I think I saw that while, um, studying.

Grapes grow in almost every microclimate of this state, I said, getting wound up. He appeared interested, so I went on. Vines grow in the extremely dry heat of Paso Robles without any irrigation. They grow in the Sierra foothills where they’re covered in snow part of the year.

That’s so cool! How?

Precisely what I’d hoped to learn! I said, wishing someone shared my curiosity. Then I realized my frustration could be my destiny. Writing about wine studies through California regional road trips felt so natural, I wondered why I hadn’t thought of it before. Instead of Eurocentric, my wine writing would be Calicentric. In the age of Yelp, when everyone and their dog had a blog, I wondered if I’d find an audience of wine geeks like me. I raced home to see if drinkyourwords.com was available. It felt like fate. Now my madly migrant plan was complete—it had a purpose. A deliverable. Something that would endure.

The roadster emerged from the darkness of the Bay Bridge’s lower deck, and I saw sunshine ahead, making me more excited about putting my vine education to use. I turned the car north, and passing the sluggish traffic going the other direction, I knew there was no going back. I kept my eyes on the road as I reflected on the plan for the trip.

I had chosen a Giants game on a sunny spring day to tell my numbers-oriented, results-driven friend about my far-out plan. That way, she would be calmed by a sudsy beer and too entertained to think it was a bad idea. A Rambo of sales bulldogs, she would not hold back if she considered it foolish. As I’d hoped, she went right to the meat—the financials of the idea.

Can your place pay for itself in rent? Kimbo asked. My property manager says it can,