But if this wine is any indication, Ruchè doesn’t need my pity. Or yours. It’s not a big wine in the conventional sense: ruby-colored, medium-bodied, with 13.5% alcohol stated on the bottle, the ‘Na Vota doesn’t exactly scream at you. But pay attention to the nose and the palate and there’s a lot going on, including dried herbs, dried orange peel and a whole lot of pepper. Like, a lot. There’s an underlying sharpness that reminds me of Cinsault, a French variety that’s commonly grown in the Languedoc. (Sorry, Italo-philes for the French connection…although there’s apparently a theory that Ruchè is descended from an unknown French import that was brought to Piedmont who knows when.)

I get some bitterness, too, beyond the regular astringency that comes with tannins. But there’s a chance that could just be my own prejudices talking. I believe that no one does bitter better than the Italians. There’s espresso, of course, as well as amari, the bitter digestivos that make the perfect end to an Italian feast. And do I even need to mention broccoli rabe, chicory, escarole, and any number of sharp, peppery greens?

I project this Italian=bitter theory on many Italian wines I taste. (I know, it’s patently ridiculous to generalize so broadly about a country’s wines, especially when that country has such a rich and varied winemaking tradition. It’s also ridiculous to spend $400 on a pair of shoes, root for the Mets, and enjoy the oeuvre of Mark Wahlberg, but that’s never stopped me from doing any of the above.) Of course, if I drank more Italian wines, I’m sure my thinking on the matter would be much more nuanced. But is it this perceived bitterness that keeps me from drinking more Italian wines? Hmm. A question to keep asking myself–and perhaps answer–as the week goes on.

Take, for example, Bonarda. Several different grape varieties are known by this name, but chances are if you see the word “Bonarda” on the label, you’re drinking a wine that’s not made from Bonarda at all.

I know. I know. Let me ‘splain: there’s “Bonarda” from Italy and “Bonarda” from Argentina. Three different grapes go by the name “Bonarda” in Italy. There’s the Bonarda that’s planted in north central Italy, particularly the Oltrepò Pavese and Colli Piacentini regions. That’s actually the Croatina grape. (If you see the word “Bonarda” on the label of an Italian wine, you’re likely drinking one of these wines.) Then there’s the Bonarda that’s planted in Piedmont, in northwest Italy, that’s really the Uva Rara variety. Finally, there’s the real, and very rare, McCoy: Bonarda Piemontese (also, somewhat obviously, from the Piedmont region). As you can probably guess, nomenclature in the wine world can be imprecise, and nowhere more so than in Italy.

Now for “Bonarda” from Argentina, which you’re much more likely to see at your local wine store. This is–surprise!–a completely different grape. It’s actually Charbono (also known as Corbeau in France, for those keeping score at home). Nonetheless, we’ll call it Bonarda here because, well, that’s what they call it in Argentina, where it’s the second-most-planted red variety after Malbec. And like its much more famous compatriot, Bonarda is a terrific value. I’ve never seen a Bonarda for more than $20, and they often come in around $15 or less. However, Bonarda provides a very different taste experience than Malbec, whose primary appeal is its deep, chocolate and plum flavors and soft, smooth texture. Bonarda, on the other hand, offers bright fruit, spice, and earth. What it lacks in body, it makes up for in acidity. Bonarda produces straightforward wines, meant to be drunk young. I can vouch from experience that Bonarda-and-burgers is a winning combo.

Paul and I enjoyed this Colonia las Liebres 2008 Bonarda along with some hamburgers straight from the grill. Made by Malbec mega-producer Altos los Hormigas, this Bonarda is a bit softer and rounder than most other versions I’ve tried. Still, the characteristic red fruit and spice flavors are there. It reminds me of one of my favorite quick desserts, strawberries macerated in some balsamic vinegar and topped with a few grindings of black pepper. If you were to distill the essence of that dish — fruity, tart, and peppery — you’d have this Bonarda. This is not a remotely complex wine, but it is a satisfying one. I found it at my local wine store for $12, but I’ve seen it online for as little as $9.99.

Well, as with so much in life, it all depends on one’s mother. Is she warm, fuzzy, and ebullient? A fan of chintz, cabbage roses and Joy perfume? Then I’d go for a Moscato d’Asti. These wines are easy to love. They hail from the Piedmont, in northwest Italy, and are  lightly fizzy and sweet, with aromas of honeysuckle, apricots, and peaches. They’re also low in alcohol, just north of 5%, making them an ideal drink for a Mother’s Day brunch. They go beautifully with fruit, cookies, or cheese. They’re also terrific values, usually coming in under $20. For more on one particular bottle I like, as well as some comic footage of our dog, check out this video on Moscato d’Asti on Food52, where I’m a contributor.

If your mom is on the earthier, intense side — the kind of woman who runs marathons, rescues abandoned dogs, and can still rock a strapless evening gown — then I’d recommend the 2000 Corison Cabernet Sauvignon. (I paid $40 for this wine at the Brooklyn Wine Exchange a few months ago, which looks to have been a major steal. You can purchase directly from the Corison Web site, or else check some of these retailers for the 2000 Corison Cabernet Sauvignon.)

Winemaker Cathy Corison (bonus Mother’s Day points for choosing a female winemaker) is a bit of a magician, creating a wine that’s somehow elegant and powerful at the same time. Napa Cabernets aren’t known for their subtlety, so her less-is-more approach truly stands out. There are no hard edges here. The oak and tannins are fully integrated into the wine, and there’s a sophisticated combination of plum, spice, earth and cassis in the glass. Like many of my favorite Cabernet-based wines, the Corison reminds me of Grether’s Blackcurrant Pastilles, which my mom always had in her purse when I was a kid. Corison also makes a single-vineyard Cabernet from Kronos Vineyard, which is supposed to be exceptional. The 2005 vintage of the Kronos comes in at $98, which means I’ll need to save up a little before this splurge. (Mom would want me to be responsible, after all.)

Happy Mother’s Day, all!