She put here mouth to the glass, and than pulled back. Sensing the wine, and capturing all of it's flavors and essences before ever tasting it was simply crucial. Not only to the connoisseur but to the poet; and while she was no wine expert she did know a thing or two about prose.
Finally she sipped, a teeny, bit, than some more, and finally nearly a full mouthful. It was good, she wasn't even sure what it was, but it was good, she knew that. Was that a hint of ...raspberry? Startled she looked down into the glass as if it held the answer for her. Turning around she went to search for the bottle, she had to see the label. There it was, over there on the wooden table. Before she could reach it though, Tomaso, stepped out onto the terrace.
"No need. Along your tongue to figure it out, let it explore the sensations, allow your tastebuds to work and to grow in learning subtle textures. You do not need to be an expert, you simply need to fully understand your taste range."
She wanted to say "yes but, I was only trying to figure out what was in it. Saying this however seemed trite, perhaps stale, or even under ripe. So she simply turned to Tomaso with the snack board in hand and gesturing her head toward it's little delectables said to him: "Olive?"
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