idiot’s guide to wine — 1 investigation

the idiot’s guide to wine on my bookshelf is a paperback, spine cracked, second edition, with a price sticker from a chain that no longer exists. mom called sunday and asked if i was reading anything. dave laughed before i could answer. the cold pizza on the counter said yes, breakfast, again, which was not the question.

i am writing this from the desk where the corridor noise reaches me one second after it starts. carla is upstairs in an annual planning meeting about something that will be re-planned in two weeks, which gives me roughly fifty minutes before the floor refills.

the kitchen at home is where the bookshelf is, which is one shelf, which is mostly the manual. brenda the dead plant audits from the windowsill. the microwave (the seventh, since you are keeping count whether you mean to or not) hums on the half-hour for reasons it does not share.

1. the idiot’s guide to wine, the bookshelf entry

the manual sits at home, third shelf from the bottom, between a cookbook i have never opened and a paperback about chess i did not finish. it is, by my own taxonomy, the bookshelf entry — meaning the one book i can point to and say “yes, i have a wine book, in the kitchen, on the shelf, look”.

i bought the paperback in 2019. i bought the kindle version in 2021, because i could not find the paperback, which was on the shelf the entire time. then i bought the kindle version again in 2023, because the first kindle version was on a different account that mom set up for me in 2017 and that i can no longer log into. this is, in my view, three purchases of one book, and three is a number a real reader would respect.

this is the longer thread of idiot reclamation i keep returning to: the object on the shelf is not the proof of reading. the proof of reading is the kindle file i open at 3:47pm on the train, which is at home and not on the train, because i do not commute, and the kindle is on the kitchen counter next to the microwave. the manual on the shelf is a museum. the kindle is the working library.

stefan, the man who corrects you at parties about regions, would say none of these count. stefan would say only the paperback counts, and only if it is the first edition, and only if you have annotated it with a fountain pen. stefan, with respect, has not opened a wine bottle in the kitchen at 11pm on a wednesday with cold pizza in his other hand. i have. so i’m going with my taxonomy.

2. eight reasons reading on a kindle counts, also for an idiot’s guide to wine

this is the defense. reading on a kindle is the same as reading. i’ll prove it eight ways. the manual on the shelf is the control variable. the kindle file is the experiment. the experiment wins. let me walk you through it.

1. the words are the same words. the kindle version of the idiot’s guide to wine has the exact same chapter on tannins, the exact same sidebar about pinot noir, the exact same wheel of flavors with words like “jammy” and “flinty”. the words do not know what surface they are printed on. the words do not care. neither should you.

2. the eyes do the same work. i tracked it. left to right, top to bottom, page break or screen tap. the eye muscle does not file a complaint when the page is glass. the eye muscle does not get a bonus when the page is paper. the eye muscle just works.

3. the brain stores it the same. i remember chapter three (food pairings) the same whether i read it on the kindle in the kitchen or on the paperback on the couch. i tested this on dave, who quizzed me, then laughed, which is also how dave grades. for the screen-vs-paper debate from people who have actually thought about it, see the wine movie that did more than any manual, where the protagonist quotes paperback prose from a kindle in the rental car.

4. the cost is the same or worse. i paid for the kindle version twice, as established. the paperback was three dollars used. by accountancy, i have invested more in the kindle version, which by the logic of any man who has ever walked into a casino is the more serious medium.

5. the highlight feature is real reading. i highlight passages on the kindle. i underlined passages in the paperback. mom did the same, in a copy of a different book, in 1987, with a green pen. mom calls that reading. i call this reading. mom and i are, on this point, in agreement, although she does not know it yet.

6. the bookshelf is a museum, the kindle is a kitchen. the manual on the shelf has been opened forty-one times. the kindle file has been opened sixty-eight times. dave keeps the list, mostly without my consent. by usage, the kindle is the more functional manual. the paperback is decoration with a barcode.

7. the third yoga mat is still under the couch. this is unrelated, but relevant. an object on a shelf is not a use. the third yoga mat under the couch is not a yoga practice. the paperback on the shelf is not a wine education. the kindle, opened, is the use. the action is the proof. the surface is irrelevant.

8. mom called sunday. she asked what i was reading. i said the wine book. she said “on the shelf or on the kindle”. i said the kindle. she said “that’s not reading”. i said it is. she said it isn’t. dave, on speakerphone in the background, laughed for nine straight minutes. i timed it. mom hung up unconvinced. the case is open, with me arguing both sides, which is how i prefer it.

3. mom called and dave laughed, in that order

mom called sunday at 9:08am, which is mom’s window. mom calls before i am ready and after the coffee is cold. she knew, without asking, that i was on the couch, that the kindle was open, and that the paperback was on the shelf. mothers know. it’s their power. it cannot be defeated, only delayed.

dave was on the line because mom had three-wayed him in for a separate insurance question, which is how mom does logistics — bundle the calls, save the minutes, make the audit cleaner. dave heard the kindle defense. dave laughed for nine minutes, his standard unit. mom waited the laugh out and then said “if you bought the paperback, read the paperback”. this is mom’s position. she is, in many ways, a worse liar than i am, because she will not even pretend her position is up for discussion. for the longer thread on that habit, see how a liar holds a line — mom and the dedicated liar share a tactic, which is repeating the assertion until the room agrees.

(i should note: mom is not, in any meaningful sense, a liar. the comparison is structural, not moral. mom believes what she says. the liar does too. that is the overlap.)

4. closing pulpit, i rest my case