More Than Wine
Marciano wine was offered to us in small sips, poured into tall glasses. The selection was exactly what one would expect at a high end meeting with a sommelier.
I consider myself a low end wine connoisseur, but I enjoy wine tasting tremendously. The reason is simple. My imagination of aroma and taste is always generous, always positive.
One of the experts handed me the third glass and asked me to bring my nose as close as possible to the rim. In a soft voice, he said,
“Deep chocolate and raspberry bouquet, does it reach you?”
“Oh yes,” I answered,
“And I discover a hint of citrus as well.”
“Bravo.”
I felt so proud of myself. In truth, I did sense something sweet and pleasant, but had that gentle voice not whispered those notes into my ear, I am not sure I would have distinguished raspberry from citrus.
Still, I do know when a wine tastes good. Of that, I am certain.
And I feel that we Jews, and I in particular, have come a long way with wine.
When I was growing up in Vienna, all I knew was Moishe’s concoction, which my father brought home for Shabbos and for Yom Tov. We would take a polite sip of this homemade brew and leave the rest for our Papa, not fully understanding the importance of wine.
That changed when a rather large store opened in the center of town, selling Carmel wine imported from our newly established Jewish State. Suddenly, wine carried meaning. It had a story.
Today, we are told that if the budget allows, after purchasing the finest meats, oyster steak, prime rib, duck, veal, we should also buy the finest of wines.
Because on the night of Pesach, wine is not merely a drink, but a mitzvah, a symbol of freedom and dignity, accompanying us through the four cups that mark our journey from slavery to redemption.
And now we have choices, endless, almost overwhelming choices.
Wines from Israel, from France, from California. Deep reds, crisp whites, bold blends, delicate notes. Bottles with stories, labels with prestige, prices that range from simple to extravagant. What was once scarce has become abundant beyond imagination.
We always end up with wine from Israel, at least for Shabbat and Yom Tov.
And somehow, that same world of refined taste, of careful selection, finds its way into our own home.
The sommelier, usually our oldest son, stands at the table with confidence, guiding us through the choices, as if this Seder too is a tasting, created with love.
After the first cup on Seder night, I may finish half a cup, and before I realize it, the second cup is poured.
What if I want to taste the wine my son is drinking? Do I finish my cup? Do I set it aside? Do I need four separate cups, like at a tasting?
It becomes confusing.
The truth is, after my second cup, I can no longer distinguish the differences. My taste buds are as tired as my body, worn from preparing for this most important Yom Tov.
And yet, I know this.
When I visit a winery in Israel, or attend a tasting of Marciano wine in our shul, I focus on the wine.
But when I sit at the Seder table, surrounded by our grandchildren in their finest clothes, reading from their own carefully prepared Haggadahs, something within me softens.
The wine may fill the cup,
but it is their voices that fill the room.
And in that moment, I understand.
This is the true taste of freedom.
Not what rests in the glass,
but what lives on around the table.