(The following is an adaptation of my first post on my first wine blog, Vino e Vita. It was originally written on September 11, 2007; I’ve brought it up to date below.)

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Julia and I are headed back east tomorrow, first for a weekend in Brooklyn with our brand-new baby niece, and then up to Connecticut to share the first night of Passover with my family.

Each year at about this time – and also in the fall, as we approach Rosh Hashonah – wine shops around the United State (or on the coasts, at least), set aside a bit of extra shelf space for products that have been certified Kosher. Perhaps in an attempt to balance out the ridiculous amount of bacon consumed by Jews in this country, many of us feel the need to “go Kosher” on the holidays.

For years my father and I would prepare ourselves for our twice annual pre-holiday showdown: do we drink my favorite Valpolicella, or the pasteurized Merlot that appeases his sense of guilt?

I always wondered – what is it that makes wine Kosher? I mean, we’re talking about an agricultural product here. Do you know many secular Jews who go out the week before Pesach on a quest to track down some Kosher OJ? (Tropicana is certified Kosher, incidentally, but I’ve never seen it marketed as such.) You mean to tell me that this bottle of USDA organic Mourvèdre somehow contains bacon bits? Were both milk and meat blended into that Friulano?

Although there was a time when bull’s blood was commonly used as a fining agent, these days none of the ingredients that go into winemaking are directly non Kosher, or even potentially so. So what gives?

Over the years of talking to winemakers – as well as to relatives who are more observant than Julia and I – I’ve picked up bits and pieces of information on the subject. While I’m certainly no student of religion and may be prone to over-generalization, I decided to look into the matter in an effort to end our family squabbles once and for all. I hope not to offend any who truly do observe the laws of Kashrut in their lives, but perhaps for some of the fence-sitters out there, this will set your minds at rest.

(Bibliographical note: what I didn’t already know here was mostly gleaned from Wikipedia and JewFAQ.org.)

As it turns out, grape products are unique in their place in the Kosher world: other than certain vegetables which require certification that they have been properly checked for insects, products made from grapes represent the ONE agricultural category that is not Kosher by default. Contrary to what one might assume, this has nothing to do with how they are made, and everything to do with who is making them – even who is serving them.

Despite the place that wine has in many Jewish observances (like the four cups that we’re each to consume at the Passover seder next week) the fact that it was also used for pagan rituals apparently made many of my ancestors deeply uncomfortable. In an effort to distinguish one kind of wine from the other, they decided that the simplest course was draw a line based on who picked the grapes and made the wine. Thus, Jewish-made vino was “Kosher” by default; that touched by pagan hands was as traif as pork.

Now, disregarding for a moment how little this distinction may be relevant in my modern American life, let’s assume for a moment that you more closely observe Kashrut and it’s more relevant in yours. So, to go one step further: what happens when a Kosher wine is opened and served by a non-Jewish sommelier? (And anyway, is this situation even remotely avoidable? Can’t a restaurant get sued for discrimination for hiring only Jews, even if they serve Kosher food?)

The answer presents a nice Catch 22 to Jewish wine lovers: unless it’s “Mevushal,” meaning it has been pasteurized, the wine in the above scenario becomes immediately un-Kosher. Sadly, pasteurizing wine generally makes it immediately un-delicious.

So I guess you’ll have to decide for yourself what your priorities are.

I’ve spent a lot of time recently playing around with the concept of “value”.

I don’t mean the word to be code for “discount,” the way many people do, or as a euphemism for “wine we’re really having trouble selling and would love for you to take off our hands.” I mean it in the literal sense: what is a given bottle of wine – or any consumer product, for that matter – actually worth to you? Is it worth the same amount to me? Does it matter?

Things began to fall into place a bit on Monday night, when I was spoiled by my friends at Protocol Wine Studio with the opportunity to share an awesome selection of Left Bank Bordeaux with some other San Diego wine professionals. The wines were donated by a private collector and I can honestly say that every single one was new to me. We tasted some outstanding wines, and learned a great deal of really interesting history from Eric’s presentation. But for better or worse, each time I’m lucky enough to partake in collectable wine, there is this voice in the back of my head that just won’t shut the fuck up, saying quietly “yes, Aaron, it’s very yummy, but would you be willing to actually pay for it?”

Honestly, more often than not, the answer is “hell no.” But then I’ll turn around and find myself spending way too much money on a bottle of wine that my wife won’t touch with a ten-foot pole. So it’s a sticky subject.

Many people like to compare wine to art – it’s so subjective, after all, and collectables of different sorts tend to appeal to the same audience. Because of this subjectivity, both industries rely on “experts” who will try to tell you what has value and what does not. Now this isn’t to say that vino lacks actual quantifiable value; it’s got plenty, and I believe that generally speaking you get what you pay for (to a point). It costs a lot of money to make wine (sometimes, to make good wine, a whole lot). All of the equipment is hugely expensive, and land ain’t cheap anywhere – neither are grapes, if you’re buying them. You need a significant amount of storage space both before and after the production process – for potentially a number of years, and that’s only the tip of the iceberg. Do you have any idea how much good glass bottles cost?

Of course you could try to make the same argument about quality canvas, but I’ve found that there’s just something different about wine. Sooner or later you’ll open that bottle and drink it – or at least that’s the idea. It’s made not to hang on the wall, but to be consumed, and it becomes part of you once you drink it. Eventually, if it does sit in a cellar for long enough, it will lose value of all kinds other than historic. I mean, I’d be super psyched to hold a bottle of wine cellared by Thomas Jefferson, or a first-growth Bordeaux bottled just after the 1855 classification, but at that point you’re talking about a proper museum piece. It’s not really about the flavors anymore – you might as well try to nosh on the US Constitution.

What I refer to above as “historic value” is not without significance – far from it. It’s one of many personal factors that add worth, and in terms of wine, I’ll always believe these factors to be more important than the more easily quantifiable direct costs. Maybe you’re absolutely history-obsessed and feel the need to actually drink that ancient bottle to feel a deeper connection to it; meanwhile your friends will look at you like a madman for even cutting the foil, as the only value it has to them is monetary. There is no simple equation of supply and demand that works when the demand is completely relative to each individual.

As I sat down to write this post I had a number of thoughts outlined in terms of “inherent value” and “implied value.” In the end, though, the more I’ve thought about it, the terms have lost meaning. With wine, the inherent value is often implied (and exaggerated by marketing), and the implied value becomes automatically inherent; if a bottle is worth the price to you – for whatever reason, and whatever the price – then it is worth it. Period, end of story.

You’ll never hear me talk about “value wine.” Only “wine that has value.”