"Cracklin' Rosie, make me smile!"

I learned the words to Neil Diamond's 1970s hit long before I realized it was a love song to a bottle of wine. The reason is that the intended paramour, or Rosie, was a somewhat rumpled rose at that time.

In my life, cracklin' Rosie meant Baby Duck, an awful concoction produced in Canada that coupled cloying sweetness with annoying effervescence. But Baby Duck was my first introduction to wine.

Like many North American families of the '50s and '60s ours was not a wine family. But at Christmas and Thanksgiving my dad would bring home a bottle Baby Duck. Dad sold farm equipment for a living which explains the good Canadian product. No way would he allow foreign plonk to adulterate our festive table. We boys would be allowed a glass of the bubbly pink stuff mixed, of all things, with Ginger Ale. Yuck! But when you're 12 the effect was quite addictive. I was hooked, both to wine, and the pink stuff.

In college it was Portuguese and Spanish concoctions with names such as Mateus and Casal Mendes. They were definitely a step up from Baby Duck, but still pretty sweet. Not the stuff the connaisseurs would crow about.

The final nail in the coffin of rosŽ on this continent was the strangely named "White Zinfandel" out of California. It became the patio drink of choice all over North America in the 1980s and '90s with its sickly-sweet flavour and soft texture. From that time no wine geek would ever say they enjoyed rose. Strictly for Philistines.

Meanwhile folks in Europe have been enjoying crisp, dry roses for centuries. And finally the word seems to be drifting across the Atlantic. Roses can be enjoyed without a brown paper bag. But only the right kind of rose.

Basically there are three types of rose. "Saignee" literally "bleeding" in French, is made by actually bleeding off some of the juice from a red wine early in the process as the grape skins are in contact with the skins but before they get too deep red. This process makes the red wine more concentrated by increasing the ratio of the skins to juice. It also makes a delightful rose.

The second is known as "blanc-de-noir." This is literally "white from red," and it is essentially treating red grapes as if they were white, minimizing juice-skin contact time and turning out a pink-hued white wine.

The final and least distinguished way is simply blending white and red wines together. The French, of course, look down their noses at this method, and it probably produces the coarsest rose because red wines usually have higher tannin levels, not a trait of noteworthy white wines. Sometimes the bottle will tell you what method is used, sometimes not. Often there is no way of telling because the different methods produce very similar wines.

However no wine drinker's repertoire would be complete without a few roses. Rich in crushed strawberries, cranberries and rhubarb, dry roses are a fabulous alternative to crisp dry whites, especially as cold as possibly on the deck with a big plate of antipasti. Rose is the epitome of summer.

But to my mind rose comes into its own at those festive events where I first met Cracklin' Rose--Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, or whevever the family meets around a roast turkey, ham or goose. With the berry-and-cranberry flavour profile they certainly enhance the flavours of the feast.

For me rose is all about colour. With candlelight glinting through the crystal against white tablecloths, rose is positively festive. It elevates the moment into something special, somewhat the way Champagne does. If fact a bubbly rose is a wonderful way to enjoy the pink drink.

So next time you are puzzled about what to take home, wander over to the French or Spanish section and choose yourself a dry (ie. not sweet) crisp rose, chill it down as cold as possible, plunk it in your ice bucket, and enjoy one of the wine world's hidden treats. It may even make you feel, as Neil sings, "Like a guitar hummin'!"

Cheers!

Keith

Keith Watt is owner and winemaker at Morning Bay Vineyard on Pender Island, BC