I've just returned from visiting family in Nashville. To most, it's known as the "Music City", but to select, more discerning foodistas, it's a true culinary crossroads. Indeed, the capital of the great state of Tennessee is one of the few major American metropolises where both Krystal and White Castle coexist. While I've yet to consume the two side-by-side, I can say with all confidence (prepared for the imminent ire of staunch zealots on each side of the steamed bun) that the difference is... mustard. Krystals have it; White Castles do not. This is the kind of hard-hitting research I'm bringing to the table in 2011.

Granted, a sackful of those gut bombs isn't part of the eventually-fleeting deal I'm made with myself concerning New Year's Resolutions. If I'm to lose 30 pounds, grease-soaked bread slathered with cheese and 60/40 ground beef is what we would call an "onion in the ointment". Needless to say, it's not a good start, but I've always been of the philosophy that the first couple days don't count. If there are bowl games on, then it's still the holidays...

...probably why I weigh the same I weighed last January.

Having little hope for personal improvement, what is to come of this low-rent parcel of cyberspace? Should "blog-related resolutions" even exist? They have before. Flash back just about 365 days from this point, and you'd find me pecking away at my keyboard, full of hope and change for the Suburban Wino brand. 'Twas as if a crowd of Barack Obama/Jehovah's Witness/Lou Holtz/Tony Robbins chimaeras- sporting foam domes loaded with '47 Cheval Blanc and chanting excerpts from Robinson's Oxford Companion to Wine- descended upon me and pummeled my usual pragmatic cynicism into oblivion. I would surely be writing every day, educating the brutish, Yellow Tail-slugging masses, and finally taking my rightful place in the pantheon of internet wine sensations. Oh yeah...January 1, 2010: enter the Year of the Purple Beard.

After reading that post in a moment of reflection, I wasn't surprised to see few of my edicts come to fruition. Truth is, I can't allow this blog to be a chore. I want it to be fun. If everything is put into a box and on a schedule, then yours truly will probably freak out and relegate this hobby to the realm of "work", and the quality will suffer (provided there is initial quality, which is debatable). In 2010, I stuck to few plans, and that haphazard approach resulted in more readers, access to some incredible food and wine, fostering of some legitimate friendships, unprecedented wine country travel, and an increased knowledge-base and appreciation for all things wine (and for that matter, life).

So, when someone asks, "what are your plans for the blog in 2011?", I'll gladly offer the same nebulous stare you get from the pimply kid at White Castle after requesting he add mustard to the burgers (as to make them more like Krystals, of course). Then, I'll give a confident "dunno," which won't be entirely true, because 2011 will- without a doubt- be another year of incredible food and wine, and none of it will be taken seriously enough.

Let's get weird...

But back to "auld lang syne". It actually comes from a traditional Scottish poem by Robert Burns, and loosely translates to "for old time's sake"; the lyrics, furthermore, a plea to not forget old friends. With that in mind, here's a tip of the cap to everyone who made the masochistic chore of blogging actually a lot of fun in 2010. To the toasting:

- More than anyone else, to everyone who stops by here and reads my drivel. Without you, it really is a thankless chore. But, knowing that I may have entertained someone, or at least made the work day a little more tolerable- well- that makes all the late nights of hunting-and-pecking extraordinarily rewarding.

- To my magnificent wife, Heather, who allows me to be anti-social after not seeing her all day, lets me spend a king's ransom on liquid "research and education", and even insisted I travel to Walla Walla when our first child was 2 weeks old. You're too supportive and too wonderful.

-To my beautiful, incredible, miracle daughter, Olivia: I'm sorry this blog hasn't made me rich yet so that I can buy you a pony. And I hope that when you dust off these ancient posts when you're twenty-one, none of them warp your mind or set a bad example, despite what grandma may think (kidding, Ma!). You inspire me more than you could know.

-On that note, to my loving parents: thank you for the sense of humor (I think that's what it is). I knew full-well going into this whole opus that your role in life wouldn't allow you to approve of everything that goes on here. The chance to write and the opportunity to (hopefully) make a few folks laugh is of great value to me. No matter what, I appreciate your (at times reluctant) support of my hobby and all you have taught me. I love you!

- To (mostly former) Atlanta wine bloggers Ed, Kevin, Matt Mauldin, Dennis, Cecilia, and Elizabeth: great to know you folks. We've shared some good times (or will someday). I hope you all find the time to keep writing, and I wish everyone best of luck in your new endeavors and change of scenery. Fast Eddie, go get 'em out in California.

-To the gilded palates of the Atlanta food and wine rascals, especially Rowdy, Jimmy, Broderick, Falcon, and Biskuit: thanks for sharing some or your incredible food and bottles with me. You've helped me learn, taste what I wouldn't otherwise, and made me realize how stupid it was to buy a house way the hell up in Woodstock. Someday, I'll bring aged Burgundy to dinner as well. Looking forward to some good times in MMXI.

-To the Bat Hunter: finding the perfect Albariño has become my White Whale.

-To Thea the Wine Brat: thanks for helping get me out to Walla Walla. You're aces, kid.

-To the online blogger crowd of Ed Thralls (& Jonjie), Benito Carter, Samantha Dugan, Hardy/Dirty, Ben Simons, Amanda Maynard, Steve Paulo, Josh Wade, Drew Lazorchak, Sam Klingberg, Tamara Belgard, Brian Wing, The Beecham Boys, Steve Washuta, Joe Roberts, Matt Browne, Ron HMW, Constance C, Matthew Horbund, all the great folks on Twitter, and anyone else that I absolutely (and embarrassingly) left out: thank you for the friendship, inspiration, support, retweets, encouragement, guest posts, shameless promotion, top-offs, comments n' criticisms, bottle recommendations, didjeridoo advice, shipments o' wine, inside jokes, couches to crash upon, graphic design, and lots of laughs.

(I'm pretty sure that's a toast...I'm not fluent in Burns' old Scot. I'll just stick with Gaelic and say Sláinte! See you next year.)

All a recipe for a quiet evening on New Year's Eve. Maybe a sip of Champagne, a kiss at midnight, and in the bed soon after.

Okay...harmless enough. Started the evening with dessert: a Murphy's Irish Stout float, with a scoop of vanila ice cream dropped into the murky delight. I'd seen this in the past, on the menu at a local pub (The Grange Public House), and most recently HERE on Dale Cruse's tidy Boston Wine/Food/What-Have-You blog, Drinks Are On Me. I challenged the notion of ruining a perfectly good stout with ice cream, but at prodding from multiple sources, I went for it. The verdict? Didn't like it, but not for the reason you may think. I can totally see the appeal. But, if you have a colorful history of college nights soaked with Irish Car Bombs, this tastes exactly like sipping something that you're predisposed to slamming down your gullet as quickly as possible. If you haven't burnt yourself out on the boilermaker of the green-eyed and red-bearded, then you will probably be all over this. I'd like to try it again with a chocolate or oatmeal stout.

No big deal. One drink. I'll be up at 6 AM doing jumping jacks-

-phone rings. "C'mon over! Casino games," say the neighbors. Okay, maybe 7 AM jumping jacks.

Whether oinkin' or hissin', I hope all of you have a very safe and Happy New Year! See you in 2010 (if I'm not killed by a flying cork)!

Oh, and Cheers, Sláinte, L'Chaim, Salud, Prost, Skål, Konbe, Kampai, and Laissez les bon temps rouler!