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I have a confession.

Red wines and I have rarely gotten along.

With the exception of the Chilean Carménère, reds generally feel I’ve been pouring scarlet poison down my gullet, burning and tearing the esophageal lining on the way down to my stomach, into a slow boil, scalding and churning with fury.

Dear crimson nectar, you’re all hot and alluring dressed in your tannins, but I cannot have you any more. The subsequent days of post-red churning-gut syndrome are over. I’ve left you for the clean, smooth, sharp, sexy blondes, because frankly, I’m having a lot more fun with the whites. I admit I’ll occasionally stray to the familiar Carménère, but I will always bring white wine back home.

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