Pour yourself a glass of imagination

The white in my wineglass is the color of straw: raw material ready to be transformed. As I swirl the glass, light flashes through the wine, and I sense a fleeting image of a happy young girl as her blond hair catches the sun. She smells of flowers and grass, and of potential.

The red in my other glass is translucent, a vibrant cherry color that seems to filter light and reality. Yes, it's pinot noir.

Part of wine's charm is that it conjures fancy. Wine is difficult to describe, once you've gone beyond the concept of mere fermented grape juice. That's why you'll read over-the-top descriptions of "gobs of fruit" and "lashings of oak." (Wine should be aged in barrels, not flogged by them, though I once met a winemaker in Tuscany who said he used small barrels to "spank" wines that weren't behaving.)

It's why we have romantic grape names, such as Sangiovese, "blood of Jove." And it's why a mere sip can transport us in memory to a vintage year when a child was born or a love was lost.

We taste first with our eyes. Wine's hue gives us clues to its character and identity. That white in my glass is pale, not golden, suggesting freshness and all but ruling out chardonnay as its grape; chardonnay suggests sunflowers rather than straw. It is the Domaine de BelAir 2013 Pouilly Fume, from the Loire Valley in France. It's sauvignon blanc, which explains the aroma of grass. That minerality - those wet stones - comes from the chalky limestone soils in the vineyard and careful winemaking in the cellar that doesn't get in the way of the wine's expression of terroir.

Pinot noir might be the only red wine that's possible to identify by sight alone. Not every pinot, mind you. Certain clones are dark in color, and some winemakers use techniques to extract deeper color from the skins or even blend in darker grapes, under the misconception that an opaque wine is a high-quality wine. But the Banshee 2012 Pinot Noir from Sonoma County is unmistakably pinot. The color suggests cherry with a splash of orange, especially toward the edge when you lay the glass, with just a bit of wine inside, sideways and roll it back and forth. Yes, wine fiends will do that.

The Banshee also smells light, as though its aromas float forward rather than force us to coax them out. Raspberry, a hint of blood orange and a tinge of iodine. Ripe, sweet fruit followed by a refreshing bitterness to ready the palate for the next sip.

People often ask me how to learn more about wine. They expect me to say, "Drink a lot," which of course is an important part of the answer. There's no substitute for experience. I advise them to visit wineries and talk to the people who grow the grapes, make the wine and sell it. At many local wineries it's still possible to meet the winemaker or owner (often the same person) in the tasting room. Listen to what they have to say. Soon you'll be able to tell who's merely reciting a marketing spiel. Odds are, those most interesting to talk to also make the better wines.

But there's one important element we can't get from any book: Imagination. Those memories of a special vintage, the connection to a particular wine or place, the forgotten romance: They're what we bring to the experience.